it was the first heron

it was the first heron birth ascending
- rolling on high shores
in a prison cell of old Istanbul
with a cockled heart elevated high
in a dark smell of wet childhood sand -
that started the fire

a breath a way out an epiphany
he talked to me in wordy dreams
long before nightfall spelled my name
he soaked long diction in vivacity
before landing on my bed
feeding my eyes with Wales




Poetry by Bob
Read 619 times
Written on 2015-05-21 at 15:51

dott Save as a bookmark (requires login)
dott Write a comment (requires login)
dott Send as email (requires login)
dott Print text


Jamsbo Rockda The PoetBay support member heart!
I cannot pretend to fully understand this. Although it flows well and describes lively images.
2015-05-23