Is It Poetry
A spell, a well soaked rag
sits well and nearly out of reach unless.
A spell is when it's open dirty, but is closed.
Oil soaked around the bend the elbow is.
The smell around the bushes how they do.
A little stunted here and there you know because.
Oil-soaked, where gas is sold, soaked coal oil rags.
Patches on the asfhalt black translucency.
Pumping, pumping, pump the moving evening dress.
One cut above the knee becomes her considerably.
The motel in the lobby by the pump the awning shows.
A woman pumping gass beneeth the moon it's light.
The window shows her face, it really can not be it is.
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Comments about this poem ( Filling Station by Is It Poetry )
(March 26, 1874 – January 29, 1963)
Harivansh Rai Bachchan
(27 November 1907 – 18 January 2003)
(12 July 1904 – 23 September 1973)
(4 April 1928 - 28 May 2014)
(28 November 1757 – 12 August 1827)
(27 October 1914 – 9 November 1953)
Edgar Allan Poe
(19 January 1809 - 7 October 1849)
Mewlana Jalaluddin Rumi
(1207 - 1273)
(20 October 1854 – 10 November 1891)
- A Child's Christmas in Wales, Dylan Thomas
- The Road Not Taken, Robert Frost
- Daffodils, William Wordsworth
- Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening, Robert Frost
- Still I Rise, Maya Angelou
- Fire and Ice, Robert Frost
- Invictus, William Ernest Henley
- If You Forget Me, Pablo Neruda
- The Tiger, William Blake
- The Solitary Reaper, William Wordsworth
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