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    poetry


    dots Submission Name: The last few linesdots
    --------------------------------------------------------





    Author: Glen Bowman
    ASL Info:    70 m Oz
    Elite Ratio:    8 - 1140/307/186
    Words: 217
    Class/Type: Misc/Misc
    Total Views: 672
    Average Vote:    No vote yet.
    Bytes: 1472



    Description:
       I'm making some poems about getting older, which is what each of us is most experienced at, I guess? Being somehow less yet somehow more than one used to be is my definition of weird and wonderful! As a hasbeen one astonishes oneself and as a wannabe one scares oneself (especially at age 69) ... if the addictive fantasy of wisdom, friendship and grace is no divine spirit, then how on this planet could our challenged species ever have conceived of it?


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    dotsThe last few linesdots
    -------------------------------------------


    That little boy, me,
    often got into trouble
    by fascinating little girls
    with stories I made up
    which were of course called lies.

    So I gave up talking to girls,
    or anyone else
    who didn't know
    that reality really needs improving on,

    Until one day walking home from school
    I made up a story about a kid in a story and thus
    met Rose, dark-haired gypsy minx,
    green and white party dress, bare feet,
    who could talk herself right into my stories,
    a merry master of truth's trickery,
    what a friend!
    I hadn't known people could be like that.
    Well I guess they can't, eh?
    this side of the world-mirror?

    She had no name for some years,
    until I realized it must be Rose
    and when we grew to puberty,
    that is another sort of verse.

    Sex? Hey. She sang me real songs
    in my sleeping dreams some nights,
    about herself
    although about me
    and yet about what Nature
    means Itself to be,
    but the last few lines
    She would laugh and leave out:
    her usual girlish challenge.

    The moment we die,
    maybe
    this amazing old lady
    will judge I deserved her acquaintance -
    but certainly sometimes, Rose,
    you elusive flamboyance of grace,
    you're sharp with your truths.




    Submitted on 2012-07-25 22:22:33     Terms of Service / Copyright Rules
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    ||| Comments |||
      Your last comment to me said you admire or were envious of my passion. Well I am envious of your charm. After reading this piece, I want to say, if you were telling stories that would cause a gypsy Rose/minx to insert herself into your stories, then you certainly were the type to hold her attention for enough time to make some lifelong memories. I am as casual as a Russian alcoholic novelist...passionate, sure. Able to have a fun flirty time...rarely. Good piece.
    | Posted on 2013-10-14 00:00:00 | by nolram | [ Reply to This ]
      I know I may be completely off base but this reminds me of how I feel about my muse. Although I don't really think of her as an individual with independent life, it was my creativity that brought her to life. The atmosphere my creations caused took on a life of their own. Sometimes this "elusive flamboyance" of a gypsy definitely seems to have a life of her own. Maybe there's something to be said for vicarious recalcitrance having a life of its own. I don't know if this has anything to do with your meaning here, but I also hope she feels I deserved her effort....in the end!

    Bruce
    | Posted on 2013-02-26 00:00:00 | by monad | [ Reply to This ]
      I don't have a concrete comment but I wanted to let you know I enjoyed your poem.
    | Posted on 2012-07-26 00:00:00 | by Katrinagolden | [ Reply to This ]
      i think it is ironic...when we are younger we make up stories because we have none...when we get older, we wish we didn't have so many to tell...experience is good and bad...
    good in that there is the life we learn from...bad because there is the life we live with after that...and we inevitably become cynical in some respects.

    jacob
    | Posted on 2012-07-26 00:00:00 | by jacoberin | [ Reply to This ]


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