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rochwrites | rochwritespoetry
https://brushthedirtoff.wordpress.com/author/rochwrites
Or something like it. On her 6th birthday). I will keep tying your hair in a bun. For as long as you need me to,. Then only when you want me to, until. You can do it on your own. That even with one hand. And eyes closed, I manage. To twist those thick strands, turn them. Round and round into a ball high up on top of your head,. Hold it there with six bobby pins and a hairnet so thin. You wonder how it can keep. As you do your pirouettes and pliés. But I tell you it will, and it always does. They stand up...
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La Seine | rochwritespoetry
https://brushthedirtoff.wordpress.com/2011/08/08/la-seine
Or something like it. The color of sunset. The wind kissing your cheek. In words you barely hear. It is not a dream. You can open your eyes. On August 8, 2011 at 1:51 am Leave a Comment. To TrackBack this entry is:. Https:/ brushthedirtoff.wordpress.com/2011/08/08/la-seine/trackback/. Feed for comments on this post. Leave a Reply Cancel reply. Enter your comment here. Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:. Address never made public). Notify me of new comments via email. January 1, 2013.
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Lilac Tutus | rochwritespoetry
https://brushthedirtoff.wordpress.com/2013/01/30/lilac-tutus
Or something like it. Tiptoe gaily on bright blue waters. To see elongated necks. Amidst a sprightly waltz. Outstretched arms fling in delight. Embracing everything and nothing. Laughter piercing the walls. On January 30, 2013 at 1:31 am Leave a Comment. To TrackBack this entry is:. Https:/ brushthedirtoff.wordpress.com/2013/01/30/lilac-tutus/trackback/. Feed for comments on this post. Leave a Reply Cancel reply. Enter your comment here. Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:.
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At the Park | rochwritespoetry
https://brushthedirtoff.wordpress.com/2013/01/17/at-the-park
Or something like it. Dry, crunchy leaves rustle. Under the tips of broomsticks. As they touch grass. Pushing loose soil upward. To scatter briefly in the air. One, two, three, four. Apart from one another. As they, too, are. A few long twigs poke. Through very thin plastic. They are done for the day. For a few pieces. Which will join more newly fallen leaves. On January 17, 2013 at 12:04 am Leave a Comment. To TrackBack this entry is:. Feed for comments on this post. Leave a Reply Cancel reply.
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Insomnia | rochwritespoetry
https://brushthedirtoff.wordpress.com/2011/08/03/insomnia
Or something like it. The droning sound of the fan. Does little to hum a lullabye. When thoughts drowning in caffeine,. Flee far –. Away from the call. 8220;We are all restless souls, who isn’t? 8221; says another. But to learn to tame discontent. That should be mastered. By one whose thoughts have the audacity. Even what fate brings. It is almost light. But the heaviness of wakefulness. And the hardwood floor is no longer cold. From hours of sitting. Who would have thought. To TrackBack this entry is:.
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rochwritespoetry | or something like it | Page 2
https://brushthedirtoff.wordpress.com/page/2
Or something like it. What I don’t understand. I only listen to. What are you thinking of. The composer’s days. As though you were him. In another place and time? Or do you see yourself. In every note, traveling. Of a friend,. A lost love,. Or of being all alone? Can you still feel pain. On the tips of your calloused fingers. Or does the song. What are you thinking of. When you play the last note. And put down your bow? I can only wonder. As I sit and wait to see you play. And perhaps go where you are.
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For Meg | rochwritespoetry
https://brushthedirtoff.wordpress.com/2013/04/09/for-meg
Or something like it. On her 6th birthday). I will keep tying your hair in a bun. For as long as you need me to,. Then only when you want me to, until. You can do it on your own. That even with one hand. And eyes closed, I manage. To twist those thick strands, turn them. Round and round into a ball high up on top of your head,. Hold it there with six bobby pins and a hairnet so thin. You wonder how it can keep. As you do your pirouettes and pliés. But I tell you it will, and it always does. Notify me of ...
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Running | rochwritespoetry
https://brushthedirtoff.wordpress.com/2011/07/30/running
Or something like it. On the street’s oceans. No one else can hear. I run past their sanctuary. My feet are cold. But rain is my refuge. I run faster,. For one droplet to fall. To see through it. On July 30, 2011 at 4:22 pm Leave a Comment. To TrackBack this entry is:. Https:/ brushthedirtoff.wordpress.com/2011/07/30/running/trackback/. Feed for comments on this post. Leave a Reply Cancel reply. Enter your comment here. Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:. Address never made public).
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Market Day | rochwritespoetry
https://brushthedirtoff.wordpress.com/2012/12/27/market-day-2
Or something like it. Over saving or sparing. For a kilo of meat. In synchronized rhythm,. Thudding of steel on wood,. Lashing about the pangs. Of households to keep,. And send to school. Rows of wide-eyed fish. Under running water,. From pink, plastic basins. Inviting more to come. For their daily ration. Of this well-orchestrated symphony. Taken at Batanes Public Market (April 2011). On December 27, 2012 at 12:01 pm Leave a Comment. To TrackBack this entry is:. Feed for comments on this post.
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January 1, 2013 | rochwritespoetry
https://brushthedirtoff.wordpress.com/2013/01/04/january-1-2013
Or something like it. January 1, 2013. Even the sleepy black Labrador. Snoozing on the dining room floor. After a night of licking beer. Off of his bowl. The streak of sunlight. Creeping through the door crack. Looks, through his half-opened eyes,. Just a little bit. On January 4, 2013 at 9:21 am Leave a Comment. To TrackBack this entry is:. Https:/ brushthedirtoff.wordpress.com/2013/01/04/january-1-2013/trackback/. Feed for comments on this post. Leave a Reply Cancel reply. Enter your comment here.