Wishing Marko Woods

by Ron Androla


There are always trains
Scratching the bell of Sunday
Morning with iron fingernails
Sliding down the
The sway, Q., the sway.
Ropes slip triple-time
As soon as our eyes open
With an initial tide foam mind.
Skull as clapper
The encirclement of
Dawn light arrives
As a beautiful, gray
Feather, brother,
Which is a weeping
Girl, which is a
Cup of
It’s 1965
& you’re
It for kick
The can.
Shadows are
Trees & things of
Atoms rainbow across
Irreversible damage
Says you.
I am certain you do not remember
Sending me 2 colored drawings,
& I don’t remember when,
But they are on the wall in front
Of me so I know demons
Yearn for laughter & the vast
Celebration of peace.
Poetry is courage.


Ron Androla at Wikipedia:


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