Certain Things Are Created In Beauty, Over And Over...

Poem By Glenn Bagshaw

In lieu of God's purposive hands,
nature rolls up for sleeves stern electric storms.
Rough forks of fire forge with spark-showers, hammers
and anvils the micro-macro-man- size orders;
rolling thunder lays loud terms.

But, sure, what this world is, is not by words
explained. Then here are our days. These times
with rain and sunshine as prerequisites
and our thought involved in dreams.

All seems echoes- shadows of trees at dusk of day-
as if they're somehow in all our minds
at all times. Mere forever goes down drains
before this realm, before these fade away.

For don't you remember (all Johns and Janes)
how once, long ago, when you were very young,
heaven was literally contained within your hands
that gave bread to birds in woods by Welkin Way?

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This modern step of time may turn my phrase-
but now attend- see language as bequeathed.
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The No-Light In The Head

When we finish our dance
our bulk fills the ground,
and the fear that we own
is the thought of no- sound,

Allan Tate At Christmas

On this His winter's day the Christ bells ring
that celebrate this season of despair.
Returns the dear, wronged echoes that now sing
in chorus, almost human, like a prayer.

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Cresting flowers are plumed as waves.
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Slips rip tide, waves pour pounded mortal roar.
The single life now drowns.

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Cloud-popping, blue-raved summer sky
with light stuck out like a tongue:
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Lullaby Of A Tired Mother

Evening falls,
dawn shall break.
I'm to pieces
if you wake!