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What dreams are these?
Talking with eyes closed.
Private and stolen pictures of love,
like an opera,
swaying with the power of language.
I will not cry.
I have a place in this kingdom.
Even if Shakespeare brings on the lines,
I will not die for you!
Wherfore art thou?
I will not die for you!
You, Romeo, thought more of yourself than I.
You, Romeo, failed to check my pulse!
Spoken word artist, radio talk show personality, school guidance counselor, chapbook published, voted best female poet at “The Vault” in 1998 and 2003
Will O’ The Wisp
What is that light that limns the further hill?
Is it fulfillment of the thing I dream
A wonderous light, reflected from the still,
Enchantment of perfection, the soft gleam
Of Beauty’s pool, where I may drink my fill?
Perhaps, perhaps — or maybe it is just
The Phosphorescent glow that marks decay,
The hallowing of offal, flame of lust,
Made beautiful against the fading day.
But let your heart discover what it must.
Then shall I seek to follow where it goes,
Even though foulness mock me at the end?
Yes, for the most untutored gardener knows
Fertilization of the soil will lend
A brighter bloom to the most perfect rose.
Many awards won, leathercraft artist, former
radio talk show personality, was L.I.’s most
senior active performing poet (b. 1902 d. 2006)
I know it will be wonderful, I know
That to touch you and to stroke your hair
Would be ineffable joy — it was, and Heaven
Moved in my hands as they caressed your face.
As my lips clung to yours a million strings
Echoed the music vibrant in the air
Around us, swelling with our shared embrace
Into a poem of joy, that rose and grew
Ever more tenuous until it left
Earth for infinity, soaring into Space,
Leaving me breathless, lovesick, and bereft.
Waking, my mind, loathe to relinquish, clings
To the dream petitioned for so long.
Gently your arms enfold me, and I know
Sweet as the music, high as the rapture given,
That is but the prelude to our endless Song.
a simple bagel,
a strip of rawhide
rolled into a holey mass,
with some sort of something
short of what would tempt you.
stuffed into a corner of a room,
behind a door that never closed.
A bagel never tasted, never chewed.
You put it there,
hidden away for other days,
days that would not come to you.
This brings me to my mother’s things:
silver, china, golden rings.
These things she saved for other days,
days that she would never see.
These things she hid away for me.
Many awards won, many publishing credits, first book ‘Spirits and Oxygen’ , second book ‘Reckoning’
Performance Poets Association®
it burst forth
gasps for life
listen to it,
let it grow,
let it go
Peter V. Dugan
Poetry workshop leader, multiple PPA award winner, one book published