Well, ha, those memories warped, Andrew.
Brought a smile, for sure...
Doug
On 2011-02-03, at 1:35 AM, andrew burke wrote:
> The old copywriter sees feathers in the park,
> assorted colours and sizes,
> only while birds last.
>
> He walks his dog, remembering Eliot:
> I measure my life / in pooch poo bags.
>
> The wind shifts, he farts freely,
> remembering WS Merwin:
>
> unchopping the woodchip paths,
> imagining walking treetops
>
> among hawks and wedge-tail eagles.
> --
> Andrew
> http://hispirits.blogspot.com/
> 'Mother Waits for Father Late' republished available at
> http://www.picaropress.com/
> http://www.qlrs.com/poem.asp?id=766
> http://frankshome.org/AndrewBurke.html
>
Douglas Barbour
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http://www.ualberta.ca/~dbarbour/
http://eclecticruckus.wordpress.com/
Latest books:
Continuations (with Sheila E Murphy)
http://www.uap.ualberta.ca/UAP.asp?LID=41&bookID=664
Wednesdays'
http://abovegroundpress.blogspot.com/2008/03/new-from-aboveground-press_10.html
Language has unmistakably made plain that memory is not an instrument for exploring the past but its theater. It is the medium of past experience, just as the earth is the medium in which dead cities lie buried.
Walter Benjamin
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