It appears that you enjoy reading the bits of literature and poetry we have posted since changing the theme of our blog. The numbers do not lie and we find it gratifying to post something besides the usual rant about subjects near and dear to us.
We are not sure why the do not have poetry circles, as opposed to the poetry corner, but if it was good enough for Bullwinkle J. Moose, it ought to be good enough for us. The avantage here is that we get to finish the poem, whereas Bullwinkle never had such luck. We miss Bullwinkle on Saturday mornings. We heard that Sarah Palin made an assassination attempt on him but he appears to have escaped unscathed so we wish him the best!
Today’s offering is another older one, since we had the notebook open from the last blog and also since this week saw the celebration of International Womans Day.
Here at the factory door she stands,
hair on her shoulders in greasy, limp strands.
The door slams behind her. She doesn’t make plans.
“What’s the use in it all? What’s the use, then,” she screams?
Weekends collapse into cascades of dreams.
On Monday it’s back to the sound of machines.
Comforts she finds in the arms of her lover
quiet the restlessness yet never quite smother
dissatisfaction – it tugs at the covers.
Passions consumed with the closing of eyes,
cigarette lit, by the window she lies.
Eternities live while her destiny dies.
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