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Poetry || SubmissionsLinksBy Janet I. Buck For a moment, an hour impending war is set on the back burner of a global stove as the world drops to quivering knees. The President calls Sharon. Oceans quite dividing us have blended in rivers of blood to mop; sadness is a votive's wick stretching over continents. Soil is soil is soil is soil. Loss is loss is basic loss. Seven heroes spring from stars -- the mourning veil is dropped across each color of the daunted eye. Footprints look the same today. Grief has several billion shoes. Their laces torn, their soles with canyons over flesh. There are no borders inking maps. Weeping is unanimous. No frisking issues for a sin -- no blame laid out like soggy quilts, no righteous swords at odds with points. Is this a letter straight from God scribbling the need to draft some passing of the olive branch? If heavens have a yellow garden, yolki flowers and daffodils grow side by symbiotic side. More Janet Buck at Ariga: The Zeinhom Morgue and Megiddo Junction, Two poems by Janet Buck Janet's web site More Janet I. Buck online, through Google. Today's Situation
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