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Poetry Anthology

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Poem by Another Author and Critique
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Poems of Choice

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No Name Poem

Good morning, sun! With you am I

Reborn each day in glory bright

Good evening, moon! With you I dance

The breathless, endless, tender night

With four companions of my heart

Four wondrous djinns in my employ

They make me who I love to be -

They're Freedom, Passion, Strength, and Joy.

Wild Freedom teases, leaping high

And dares me not to suffer fools

His mad irreverent laugh a music

Written just for breaking rules

We leap the hard-set borderlines

And tear the silly fences down

No fear can choke nor custom bind

On Freedom's wings I know no bounds.

Delicious Passion tempts me in

With sinuous and hungry grace

He bids me hurry, makes me wait

Or makes me choose the time and place

He offers all I dare to dream

And with an almost maddening ease

Compels me as a moth to flame

Or drives me weeping to my knees.

I used to say, "I won't grow up."

'Twas Strength I feared 'til recently

When with a smile that promised worlds

He opened wide his arms to me

The fullness of this wondrous life

Is mine with Strength to see it through

There is no hope I dare not

And nothing that I can not do.

Joy makes his home within my soul

A dazzling flame, a steady star

His magic transforms darkened shapes

Back into what they really are

His touch awakens sleeping hope

As gently as he holds my hand

With Joy my teacher and my guide

I can not help but understand.

I dare! It's new, it's worth a try.

I want, so deeply I can't say.

I do, and only know success.

I dance, and wish no other way.

All thanks to these four comrades true

Who so enjoy inspiring me:

Freedom, Passion, Strength, and Joy,

My heart's most cherished company.

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To My Beard

What can I say but I am sorry,
I apologize for what I do to you,
my daily ruthlessness and cruelty.
What can I do but ask for your forgiveness
and your patience. For someday,
I promise you, someday I swear
on the beards of the prophets
and on the beard of the poet Whitman and
on the beard of the president Lincoln,
I will not stop you any longer,
I will let you go free, I will take down
the fence around you made of sharp blades.
For someday, I promise you, I will let
you run wild through the valleys
of my face like a stallion, I will let you
wander over the desert of my face
like a holy man in his vision of heaven
and hell, I will let you grow, blossom
and flourish, and I will stroke you
and comb you and keep you orderly
and free of knots and tangles,
and you in turn will make me look
distinguished, a wise old man as I stroke
you looking serious, looking as though
I were thinking deep thoughts about
life and death. But I will be thinking
only about you, my beard, my second face,
and this will be our secret.

J.R. Solonche

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My Nose

I never chose my nose to be,
a statement of longevity.
Its grandeur lies within its size,
and the way it looms between my eyes;
and the way it leads me from meal to meal.
Some wonder if the bulbous thing
is mine. And is it really real?

From my childhood days I wore it,
like a crown my mom adored it.
My father who had a big one too,
said son, its something to get used to;
and if children taunt you, don't forget,
there are bigger things you will regret,
and your nose will grow much bigger yet.

So big in fact that when I sneeze,
the trees around me lose their leaves.
It precedes me into any room,
but it has always made the ladies swoon.
People often say to I,
smaller noses we have seen,
on elephants and rhinoceri!

Me and my nose are stuck together,
weather for worse or maybe better.
It gives my face a regal look;
and helps turn pages in this book.
And when they put me in a basket,
tell the one that builds my casket:
to cut a hole on top so I,
can smell the flowers when I die...


Gabriel Liebermann

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