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    In Bruges

    “THE untold want by life and land ne'er granted, Now voyager sail thou forth to seek and find.”  Walt Whitman  In the way  piano plays in an empty room, trains hold commuters  as travelling hearts in skin baggage, poetry passports are open to declare  Steel...

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    Some Call Them Interludes

    Before    Time was once apple  skinned and quartered  still hanging from the tree,  as if a disembowelled astronaut  hanging from moon gallows    At the hill’s summit  we knelt among the dead,  ate the rancid gifts from their bodies  flesh of berries, mouths and holes    of skin, until the sky  darkened...

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    • I always like it when someone starts with an object, “Apple,” and ends with the same object. This is good. I enjoyed it.

    • Yeesh! I’m hoping Del skips this one! (we’re planning a ’27 wedding). lol.
      Your poetic strength is maybe lost on some readers, because you go deep like this. There’s geometry in this creation, angles and dark corners. I can take the weight, though, when reading your powerful lines. Because there is reward in finding the meanings and how we perceive it all. Outstanding depth here.

    • As always Mark, I’m so pleased someone gets me.

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    Dream-Making in the Suburbs

    At night asleep  Alison's dreams are scattered  across the bedroom wall  like grainy cine film    No sound from the  nocturnal soap opera,  just hum of Alison sleeping  against somnolent city rhythm    Amber streetlights  steal through red curtains,  waiting for insomnia cinema to begin    Alison's legs up and apart  reminder, we touch...

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    Melt Into You

    Scrunch your body of work  inside my arterial gallery,  scrimshaw shotgun breaths  double-barrelled into every bone    Pearly dew drops   peel drought from land,  my hands act as gutters   brushing rain o’er skin,  gulping moisture before  it sinks under the ground    At the end of the ellipsis  webs hang...

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    Week in the Life of an Insomniac's Dreams

    Monday    I travelled through the night to try and find you    Tuesday    Awake in the far away  it could be July or December,  bones rattled under sleeping blankets  like a beggar’s hand cupped to receive silver    Wednesday    Perchance to dream my way back to  the music of our rains  and...

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    • Rob, your poem drifts like a half-remembered dream, tender and yearning. Each day carries longing, memory, and desire. The way you reach for someone across nights and cities is heartbreakingly beautiful. Even sleeplessness feels like a lover in your words.

      Beautifully done

      • Thank you Roma. Life becomes a two-storey building collapse, with past on one level and present on the other. The trick is to navigate through the rubble.

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