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A Collection of poetry by Frances Wosmek
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The Ghost of some great beauty
haunts my mind .. somewhere, sometime,
I must have known it well
that it should re-occur
like fragments of an interrupted rhyme.
Sometimes it lights my
memory
in a blinding flash ...
But when I start and cry,
the dark recesses of my mind
dispose it to a fading
sigh.
A tune unspent? A silent
bell
restrained from joyous ringing? ...
stilled memory? ... a muted bird ...?
what song
that aches for singing? |
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Afternoon swims lately
across the believing heavens,
and the cool, conceiving waters,
rhythmic as the day's ebb,
sweep shore
in the moonflow
of a single tide
A bare brown boy
oceans a pink starfish
in the cup of his hand.
Each concedes the incomprehensible
chasm of breath,
and the rays converge
to a still point.
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Cool in the iris and amethyst air,
evening brushes its moon-silk hair.
Sun shouts of children,
Wild-wind sweet.
fade to stillness
as fields of wheat.
Shawled with shadow,
the sleeping Earth teems
with the shimmering dust
of shining dreams.
Then, soft moth wings
of the purple night
fold with the coming
of dawn's pink light. |
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ARTIST
Creating is a form of prayer.
Man senses beauty everywhere.
His mind and hands need seek to trace
the dimly felt outline of grace.
That he should be so bold to dare
his own Creator's task to share,
in humble gratitude he seems
to shape the very God he dreams.
Then when he finds the likeness fair,
his own face finds reflected there. |
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To read more or to find out about
publishing rights, contact Ms Wosmek. |
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