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Why future is always late for poets?

Why future is always late for poets? Why future is always late for poets? Why future is always late for poets? Why future is always late for poets? Why future is always late for poets? Why future is always late for poets? Why future is always late for poets? Why future is always late for poets? Why future is always late for poets? Why future is always late for poets? Why future is always late for poets? Why future is always late for poets? Why future is always late for poets? Why future is always late for poets? Why future is always late for poets?
Why future is always late for poets? Why future is always late for poets? Why future is always late for poets? Why future is always late for poets? Why future is always late for poets? Why future is always late for poets? Why future is always late for poets? Why future is always late for poets? Why future is always late for poets? Why future is always late for poets? Why future is always late for poets? Why future is always late for poets?

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Face to Face with future on a late night train.

Caught an image of my future
one dead sky night.
It was fading before me
folding itself back into
its whip mark wrinkles-
compliments of unforgiving time.
Its life flowed in full view
watery red flowing through clear blue.
A river coming to its end.
Ancient banks crumblings into littered rivers.

skull stretching through paper thin skin
reaching out to me
No fresh grass finding sun here.

Future's fragile told me its eyes
Circled cinema screens
From black and white to colour
From daughter to mother
from one life to another.
Dignity neither seen nor felt
yet yearned for.

Future mocks old poems
as the past persues them,
and the present pens them.
Future sees death and smiles
Forever hungry
Thirsty for the fountains of youth.
It pains me to look at her
for her face reveals the truth.

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Future Plans

(Keith Urban)
It's six Monday morning, she's back into her routine
Kicks off the covers and thinks about last night's dream
Shower and coffee, she heads for the train
Thinkin' how every day's the same
There's gotta be more than life of her own
All that she wants is a man to come home too
CHORUS:
She's lookin' for someone to love her
And stay forever true
Just somebody who she can believe in
And say they need her too
She's lookin' for somebody to hold her
Until the light of day
Someone she can make future plans with
And know he's here to stay
Late in the evening she is dreamin' in black and white
An old love story she wishes portrayed her life
No one would know what goes on her mind
Thinkin' it's only a matter of time
Till someday she finds what she's lookin' for
And her ship'll come sailin' into her shore
REPEAT CHORUS 2x

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The Doubt of Future Foes

The doubt of future foes exiles my present joy,
And wit me warns to shun such snares as threaten mine annoy;
For falsehood now doth flow, and subjects' faith doth ebb,
Which should not be if reason ruled or wisdom weaved the web.
But clouds of joys untried do cloak aspiring minds,
Which turn to rain of late repent by changed course of winds.
The top of hope supposed the root upreared shall be,
And fruitless all their grafted guile, as shortly ye shall see.
The dazzled eyes with pride, which great ambition blinds,
Shall be unsealed by worthy wights whose foresight falsehood finds.
The daughter of debate that discord aye doth sow
Shall reap no gain where former rule still peace hath taught to know.
No foreign banished wight shall anchor in this port;
Our realm brooks not seditious sects, let them elsewhere resort.
My rusty sword through rest shall first his edge employ
To poll their tops that seek such change or gape for future joy.

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Remembering the future

The Greeks said, those great Muses
who civilise us, grace our dance of life,
were once, before they were nine,
just three; and before that,
only one was named: and she was, Memory.

Does that make poets just regurgitators
of what’s already been oft said -
and better, too, some would aver…?

No, it’s more subtle than that; ask a poet:
a poem that comes warm, hot, from the human heart
demands a summary birth; won’t hang around
while you go out to buy more toys and frills
to hang around the cot…

it is indeed, more like remembering:
as if you step into a timeless place
where all that’s needful is to remember
what the future poem shall, will, have said..

write it down; and maybe sleep on it;
when you wake, you may remember
two lines somewhere which you’d forgotten,
but know exactly where that is

That Muse of memory will then decide
whether a poem that has a timeless birth,
may have a timeless life... or not...

How can a poet claim a poem as his, or hers,
when such a Muse? and yet, so close at hand?

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Future in the past? for MY Wife

I dreamt that she and I had met
when we were young and fancy free.
It is a dream I shan’t forget
but will remember happily.

We fell in love and we were wed
together raised a family.
I see the pictures in my head.
My dream was Oh so right to me.

It was a dream that could not be.
We did not meet we did not wed
but yet I hold the memory.
Perhaps allowed to look ahead

See what in time would come to be.
She married but she was betrayed
I wed and raised a brood of three.
A sad mistake which fate had made.

When we were old and fancy free.
We met as we were meant to do
The fates had reversed their decree.
Brought us together and we knew.

That you were meant to be with me
and I was meant to be with you.
Too late to have a family
I am content just finding you.

Perhaps it’s possible to see
some things which haven’t happened yet
That in due course will come to be.
A vivid dream you can’t forget.

Some sort of future memory.
I only know my dream came true
when you agreed to marry me
I had to wait so long for you.
24-Jun-07

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The Future

Give me back my broken night
My secret room, my secret life
Its lonely here
Theres no one left to torture
Give me absolute control
Over every living soul
And lie beside me, baby
Thats an order!
Give me crack and anal sex
Take the only tree thats left
And stuff it up the hole
In your culture
Give back the berlin wall
Give me stalin and st. paul
Ive seen the future, brother
It is murder
Chorus
Things are going to slide in all directions
Wont be nothing
Nothing you can measure anymore
The blizzard of the world
Has crossed the threshold
And it has overturned
The order of the soul
When they said repent
I wonder what they meant
When they said repent
I wonder what they meant
When they said repent
I wonder what they meant
You dont know me from the wind
You never will, you never did
Im the little jew
Who wrote the bible
Ive seen nations rise and fall
Ive heard their stories, heard them all
But loves the only engine of survival
Your servant here, he has been told
To say it clear, to say it cold
Its over, it aint going
Any further
And now the wheels of heaven stop
You feel the devils riding crop
Get ready for the future
It is murder
Chorus
Therell be the breaking of the ancient
Western code
Your private life will suddenly explode
Therell be phantoms
Therell be fires in the road
And the white man dancing
Youll see the woman
Hanging upside down
Her features covered by her fallen gown
And all the lousy little poets
Coming round
Trying to sound like charlie manson
Give me back the berlin wall
Give me stalin and st. paul
Give me christ
Or give me hiroshima
Destroy another fetus now
We dont like children anyhow
Ive seen the future, baby
It is murder
Chorus

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Between Dark Past and Future Flight

Between dark past and future flight
Effect and Cause we question quite,
rhyme time between midnight and noon
to read, mark, learn, digest this tune.
Soul travels far, ka’s second sight
scouts out from dune to blue lagoon -
with moral codes plays fey buffoon.

Between dark past and future flight
the butterfly finds wings for flight
although, in silk spin knit cocoon,
it knows not dawn from afternoon.
Mind mirage magic may excite
confusing notions – far and soon
merge premonition’s present boon.

Between dark past and future flight
trace space, expand and pace delight ~
from morn till midnight one should learn
to seed born insight, harvest earn,
bend to contentment very soon
ends, means, all harmonies attune
heart, soul, which whole from parts return.


Between dark past and future flight
now ‘stalac_might’ checks stalag tight
mankind evolved from the baboon
to trace his race pace picayune.
between the darkness and the light
most squander chances opportune
dreams rose themed spurned, they haste to tomb.
Vague contexts blurred, restrictions fight
unshadowed vision full, shy moon
casts spell whose pull’s forgot by noon.


Between dark past and future flight
The wheel spins on, ignores ‘wrong’, ‘right’
As light, dark, rainbow’s ark all churn
fear not fall near, nor rise call spurn.
Sandman plays game outside luck, blight,
for more than intellect's harpoon.
Hope blooms, may anguish, heartache, prune.

Between dark past and future flight
oft ‘Justice’ seems a notion quite
outside God’s scheme - ‘on joue le clown’
play insecurity immune
while mocking empty social rite
inventing, changing Scheme and gods
to bury fears inspired by sods.

Between dark past and future flight,
through silver starred aragonite,
December’s frost melts into June.
Some worries shrink while some balloon.
Concealed may be revealed despite
the veil few tear – invite, festoon
lass lonesome on her honeymoon.

Between dark past and future flight
Cupid, Apollo, Aphrodite,
injustice remedy, dragoon
Fate’s darts, spite filled, to build pontoon,
surprise to catalyse, excite,
scene set for future hid from sight
till pattern pieces knit in tune.

Between dark past and future flight
some role reversals reunite
checks, balances, inopportune
risks which too haughty silver spoon
takes, greedy, - tides turn, pride indict.
Who, rich, Today would play and croon,
Tomorrow buries very soon.

Between dark past and future flight
sleep paints saint, social parasite,
in wavelengths rainbow may lampoon
for wage-slave, sage, or loon tycoon.
Blind bodies curled, bind whirl-swirled quite,
from youth uncouth, ungainly goon,
“to lean and slippered pantaloon.”

Between dark past and future flight
enchanting maid, heroic knight,
play out day’s doubt, - though beer saloon
may spur the bleary eyed to swoon.
Einstein’s ignored for much which might
influence an inner tune
or new create, decoding rune.

Between dark past and future flight
is vision sent meant to incite
destiny's spermatazoon
egged on by p[h]antomime cartoon?
Is insight drawn through second-sight -
though chance seems blind behind sin’s call
true dance dreams find combined in all.

(c) Jonathan Robin - Rhyme scheme after R.W. Answell
written 23 March 2005 and 29 November 2006 revised and expanded 14 April 2008.

For initial version and Answell see below
___________

Between dark past and future flight

Between dark past and future flight
the butterfly finds wings for flight
although within the spun cocoon
it knows not dawn from afternoon.

From morn till midnight we can learn
to seed born insight, harvest earn.
Thus to contentment very soon
sweet thoughts will bend, send sweeter tune.

Between dark past and future flight
trace space, expand and pace delight ~
although Fate now plays the buffoon
mocks efforts with uncoded rune.

As light, dark, rainbow’s ark do churn
fear nothing near yet nothing spurn,
for more than meets March eye in June
may blossom ~ anguish, heartache, prune, ~

for fears grow dim, soon tears do dry,
and Sandman grim can only sigh
when confidence and trust balloon,
scout out from dune to blue lagoon.


23 March 2005


Between the Sunset and the Sea


Between the gate post and the gate
I lingered with my love till late;
And what cared I for time of night
Till wakened by the watch dog’s bite.
And thud of leathering boxtoed fate
Between the gatepost and the gate.

Between the seaside and the sea
I kissed my love and she kissed me;
But rapturous day was gruesome night,
And what is love but bloom and blight?
And what is kiss of mine to thee
Between the seaside and the sea?

Between the sunshine and the sun
I saw a face that hinted fun;
But what is fun, and what is face,
When driven at life’s killing pace?
I simply say that I have none
Between the sunshine and the sun.

Between the bumble and the bee
Full many a soul has had to flee;
And what is love, may I enquire,
When asked to build the kitchen fire?
Or who would not leap in the sea
Between the bumble and the bee?

Between the tea store and the tea
There is a wide immensity;
A dollar twenty five a pound,
And not a nickel to be found.
Then what has fate in store for thee
Between the tea store and the tea?

R.W. ANSWELL

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0103 These late autumn days

these late autumn days
leaves fall like poems
green as new thoughts
yellow as wisdom
red as late summer love
brown as old speech
dry as the past

these late autumn days
old poets
look out at coming winter snowclouds
but hope like trees might hope, unknowing,
for a miracle of rebirth
beyond their dry boughs' reach
of words

new buds
green as
new songs

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Late Nights

Stiff neck
Aching body
wet eyes
Can't sleep
Only thing
One her mind
Is her

She's always up
Late at night
Writing poems about her girlfriend
Some sweet some bitter

Wondering about their future
Regreting her past
Thinking about the times she's hurt her
and how all this could have been prevented if
She never would have grabbed her hand at that carnival

(1-13-06)

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Dead Poets

dead poets; old cars
junked in heaps
in front of
abandoned houses...

empty mailboxes
rusting to the
ground...

empty swings creaking
in the late evening breeze;
a bottle of wine,
half-empty,
moans in the shadows.

the fields have been picked,
nothing left, but sweat stained dirt....
even the embers have grown cold,
and the pot is empty.

the sounds and smells of living
linger by unmarked stones...
dead poets; old cars...
running on empty!

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Walt Whitman

Poets to Come

POETS to come! orators, singers, musicians to come!
Not to-day is to justify me, and answer what I am for;
But you, a new brood, native, athletic, continental, greater than
before known,
Arouse! Arouse--for you must justify me--you must answer.

I myself but write one or two indicative words for the future,
I but advance a moment, only to wheel and hurry back in the darkness.

I am a man who, sauntering along, without fully stopping, turns a
casual look upon you, and then averts his face,
Leaving it to you to prove and define it,
Expecting the main things from you.

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Budding Poets Of This Nation.

I called up serendipity.
But she didn't answer her phone.
So I had to make do
With my usual stroll
For inspiration
Of my own.
I bumped into fate.
He was running late.
Said 'Don't you know'
'I'm flying off on vacation'
Such woe
For budding poets
Of this nation.

Then I saw moon blue.
Surely he'd shine down
Some rhyming hue.
I told him
His crescent was pleasant.
He said
'Look up when I'm on full display'
I'll beam you a muse
That will blow them away.
I am the stars closest relation.
Such woe
For budding poets
Of this nation.

So on this beautiful noon,
I would look to the sun
For that unwritten tune.
But he went in,
Obscured by a cloud.
That laughed out loud,
Then wept.
As lightning cracked
The whip he kept,
To spoil a show.
Such woe
Always follows deep elation.
For all budding poets
Of this nation.

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Poem about Poetry - I dream to write like black woman poets

i dream to write
like black women poets
free from verbose bondage
strutting away verses
with enviable clarity,
simplicity, agile as
an ambitious lass on
hip hop dance floor

i also know why
the caged bird sings
it's because it wishes
to fly to the affectionate black woman poet
to learn from her how freedom songs should be sung

i dream to write
like black woman poets
verses so eloquently tempoed, neatly executed
they float through my soul the lightness of
butterflies flitting from rose to rose, bloom to bloom
smoke over indian summer ocean

i dream to write
like black woman poets
with no pretensions about the past
calling a spade a spade
yet infectiously bold about the future
taking the world by storm - in storms
- black women poets who could take me through
the thick and thin of their salvation song
with a tenacity court cases are won
gospel songs are sang

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A Smothering of Poets

A love which ends badly-
if we let it-
freezes Time;

and we move on
covering it;

leaving it unchanged and unresolved.

We plant the last Kiss
with a question mark
knotted in the Semi-finish..

We drag our Dead Poet Love
into the future
bound and gagged
in the truck of the car
because all past loves
are Dead Poets;

we ignore the muffled cries
in the rear;

drive toward the future
tamping down the present
with a finger
dipped in
past and jaded memory.

We smother old past poets
put them away in the dark closet
because New Love
most often
doesn't share our love of
Former Poetries.

We reel in the Future now
before it is born;
strangled;

we make Hope for New Love
to lie
down in the cold;

but, our warm coat
is in the closet
which means
at odd times
in the chill
we dream of dead poets,

who sometimes
don't remain
dead still
in the trunk of the car
in the closet
in the category
nil.

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Young Poets

You speak for the lakes, the trees and the birds
You say what they'd say if they had the words.
Make PEACE and be proud, choose well every choice
Speak HOPE and speak loud, you are Nature's voice.
Speak with respect now, for jungles and streams,
Speak for all wildlife and dream giant dreams.
Speak with great courage, speak up and speak out,
Write with a whisper or write with a SHOUT!
Stand up young poets for clean air and rivers,
Free verse or lyric; your message delivers...
Truth to the future citizens of earth,
Speak of your freedom your friends and self worth.
Speak for tomorrow and though you're still young,
Speak for the Forest, your pen is her tongue.
The world waits to hear your songs still unsung
Words posses power, you can write the wrongs
Teach us and lead us with Poems and with songs.
Speak now for nature, for trees and for birds,
Defenders of Earth choose carefullly your words!

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The First Poets

The First Poets hunted game in the forest and on the plains-
inventing signs and gestures; guttural sounds and mime-
and ultimately Words.

The First Poets wrote words and drew pictures
on the walls of caves
stamping their feet to drum-beats;
learning to dance.

The First Poets invented music for their words
religion, books and counting-conjuring up
in each instance-new things.

The First Poets imagined names for plants,
animals, birds and creatures of the sea;
sang songs about them-wrote poems and hymns.
creating sentiment, vows and promises-
marriage ceremonies.

Poets invented the idea of the Idea, of kindness, and visions.
Poets invented hope and the future, love of the past, community.
Poets invented the rhythm of our lives.

Poets re-invent themselves and civilization each generation.
They peer into the gauzy dream and dream what is not yet;
they peer inside themselves
reaching in
with-drawing something new
from that which had not been
there
before.

The First Poets invent and re-invent civilization each generation.

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Society of Poets

bring all the cymbals and the tambourine, and we
will make a holiday; with the paint all can color the
day of today that last for a lifetime, a happy endless
ending of what the future brings

come little soldiers of the time, forward the pen
and the load your body with the mind that savory the
essence of the every events, always see and dance
with the rhyme and sing every lyric the moment that
you put your ink in the pen

countless footprints can be print in the brush you
hold any time the color surpass, make it beautiful and
furnished it with emotion, a feeling that nobody had
ever made, only thy faithful heart can read the
meaning of the day

let the east and the west poets rejoice for in every
joy and happiness, the world remember our call, the
heart that is posted in the soul, revive the spirit of we
always call, may peace reborn in every move, and as
the day will never end; the hour will be the same again

what a lucky day, where all poets of the world would
always stay in the pen their heart makes all the way,
ink the paper and paint your design in the frame you
hold, live and share the legacy the beauty of yesterday

society of poets......... the heart of the past and the soul
of today

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Ode X: To Thomas Edwards, Esquire: On The Late Edition Of Mr. Pope's Work

I.
Believe me, Edwards, to restrain
The licence of a railer's tongue
Is what but seldom men obtain
By sense or wit, by prose or song:
A task for more Herculean powers,
Nor suited to the sacred hours
Of leisure in the Muse's bowers.

II.
In bowers where laurel weds with palm,
The Muse, the blameless queen, resides:
Fair fame attends, and wisdom calm
Her eloquence harmonious guides:
While, shut for ever from her gate,
Oft trying, still repining, wait
Fierce envy and calumnious hate.

III.
Who then from her delightful bounds
Would step one moment forth to heed
What impotent and savage sounds
From their unhappy mouths proceed?
No: rather Spenser's lyre again
Prepare, and let thy pious strain
For Pope's dishonor'd shade complain.

IV.
Tell how displeas'd was every bard,
When lately in the Elysian grove
They of his Muse's guardian heard,
His delegate to fame above;
And what with one accord they said
Of wit in drooping age misled,
And Warburton's officious aid:

V.
How Virgil mourn'd the sordid fate
To that melodious lyre assign'd
Beneath a tutor who so late
With Midas and his rout combin'd
By spiteful clamor to confound
That very lyre's enchanting sound,
Though listening realms admir'd around:

VI.
How Horace own'd he thought the fire
Of his friend Pope's satiric line
Did farther fuel scarce require
From such a militant divine:
How Milton scorn'd the sophist vain
Who durst approach his hallow'd strain
With unwash'd hands and lips profane.

VII.
Then Shakespear debonnair and mild
Brought that strange comment forth to view;
Conceits more deep, he said and smil'd,
Than his own fools or madmen knew:
But thank'd a generous friend above,
Who did with free adventurous love
Such pageants from his tomb remove.

VIII.
And if to Pope, in equal need,
The same kind office thou would'st pay,
Then, Edwards, all the band decreed
That future bards with frequent lay
Should call on thy auspicious name,
From each absurd intruder's claim
To keep inviolate their fame.

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Its Not Too Late

(david jones)
Immortal music (bmi)
Lead vocal: davy jones
If I had a penny for every time I thought about you
I would be a millionaire
I would send you flowers each day
And I would show you in every way
Just how much I really care
The summer sun and the winter snow,
The autumn leaves let the spring rains know
Just how much I need your love
And if I knew that my time was near,
And you were there,
I would have no fear
Your name would be my dying prayer
Its not too late
To turn this ship around
To sail into the wind my love
Before we run aground
Its not too late
To say that I love you
And its not too late for you, my love
To say you love me too
(its not too late)
If I was a rich mans son
I would work till the day was done
Just to prove my love was true
I would take you for my wife
And I would love you all my life
And I would never leave or be untrue
Its not too late
To turn this ship around
To sail into the wind my love
Before we run aground
Its not too late
To say that I love you
And its not too late for you, my love
To say you love me too
(its not too late)
You know our future and your feelings
And the love that I have for you
Theyre always in my heart and on my mind
A never ending love affair
Well go together everywhere
Our love will last till the end of time
You know our future and your feelings
And the love that I have for you
Theyre always in my heart, theyre on my mind
A never ending love affair
Well go together everywhere
Our love will last till the end of time
Its not too late
To turn this ship around
To sail into the wind my love
Before we run aground
Its not too late
To say that I love you
And its not too late for you, my love
To say you love me too
(its not too late)
Its not too late
To turn this ship around
To sail into the wind my love
Before we run aground
Its not too late
To say that I love you
And its not too late for you, my love
To say you love me too
(its not too late)
Its not too late (its not too late)
Its not too late (its not too late)
Its not too late to turn this ship around

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Late March

Saturday morning in late March.
I was alone and took a long walk,
though I also carried a book
of the Alone, which companioned me.

The day was clear, unnaturally clear,
like a freshly wiped pane of glass,
a window over the water,
and blue, preternaturally blue,
like the sky in a Magritte painting,
and cold, vividly cold, so that
you could clap your hands and remember
winter, which had left a few moments ago—
if you strained you could almost see it
disappearing over the hills in a black parka.
Spring was coming but hadn't arrived yet.
I walked on the edge of the park.
The wind whispered a secret to the trees,
which held their breath
and scarcely moved.
On the other side of the street,
the skyscrapers stood on tiptoe.

I walked down to the pier to watch
the launching of a passenger ship.
Ice had broken up on the river
and the water rippled smoothly in blue light.
The moon was a faint smudge
in the clouds, a brushstroke, an afterthought
in the vacant mind of the sky.
Seagulls materialized out of vapor
amidst the masts and flags.
Don't let our voices die on land,
they cawed, swooping down for fish
and then soaring back upwards.

The kiosks were opening
and couples moved slowly past them,
arm in arm, festive.
Children darted in and out of walkways,
which sprouted with vendors.
Voices greeted the air.
Kites and balloons. Handmade signs.
Voyages to unknown places.
The whole day had the drama of an expectation.

Down at the water, the queenly ship
started moving away from the pier.
Banners fluttered.
The passengers clustered at the rails on deck.
I stood with the people on shore and waved
goodbye to the travelers.
Some were jubilant;
others were broken-hearted.
I have always been both.

Suddenly, a great cry went up.
The ship set sail for the horizon
and rumbled into the future
but the cry persisted
and cut the air
like an iron bell ringing
in an empty church.
I looked around the pier
but everyone else was gone
and I was left alone
to peer into the ghostly distance.
I had no idea where that ship was going
but I felt lucky to see it off
and bereft when it disappeared.

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