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A Poem With My Name Honey slipping from the comb, a sip of mead, a bit of rusk: my senses stirring at the taste as they quicken when I read poetry. For me, a poem is best digested if dripping metaphors like the juice of ripe berries bursting in my mouth. A sweet, succulent crush. A poem of dulcet harmony woven from sounds and its melody marimba-ed to my ears, reminding of the feel of wood, the timbre of my old dulcimer. From my window, aromas tease from a frenzy of honeysuckle in the lea and above, hawks glide and ride air currents. A poem waiting to be penned. Mellifluous gifts for my spirit, expanded and lifted by mellow moments of life and by poets who relate their meliorism. |
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