Tag Archives: The Red Wheelbarrow

I am this (and all) poem(s).

.. I am Orion’s belt, loosed. The lightning in your eyes. I am the plums. (Forgive me.) I am all thumbs, and nonesuch things hitchhiking on dragon kite strings. I am your heart, carried in mine. I am the snowy … Continue reading

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On Wheelbarrows and Plums

… A wheelbarrow may be some -thing upon which much(ness) depends, but it is not my nom de plume, not that last plum you ate that was so cold. It has but one wheel, and a tendency for tipping over, … Continue reading

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Seeing Red (Dear William)

.. I may (or may not) still be (so much) glazed with anger. it all depends. .. prompted by poetic asides, and in response to:  

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this isn’t your standard red wheelbarrow

.. this poem is pure gold, spun just for fun and singed with fire. it desires to be un -subpar, a star in a sea of ebony, a trembling treble clef deaf to all too noisy instruments of glazed in … Continue reading

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The poem’s the thing.

.. The thing has wheels, a bar -row. It’s red, and it matters. We don’t know why. It’s raining. There are chickens. (Whether or not they have yet crossed the road is open to interpretation.) They are white. (Lest ye … Continue reading

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why she didn’t get mad that misty may morning

(with nod to William Carlos Williams)   .. it’s hard to see red when so much depends upon the quiet white rain.   .. PAD, day 24.

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