Wishing Marko Woods

November 7, 2008 rosspoetvassilev

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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