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#Post#: 374045--------------------------------------------------
Re: Poems
By: Talitha Date: February 14, 2026, 2:36 pm
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for R... out in the stardust
stand with your lover on the ending earth-
and while a(huge which by which huger than
huge)whoing sea leaps to greenly hurl snow
suppose we could not love,dear;imagine
ourselves like living neither nor dead these
(or many thousand hearts which don't and dream
or many million minds which sleep and move)
blind sands,at pitiless the mercy of
time time time time time
-how fortunate are you and i,whose home
is timelessness:we who have wandered down
from fragrant mountains of eternal now
to frolic in such mysteries as birth
and death a day(or maybe even less)
~ e. e. cummings
#Post#: 378290--------------------------------------------------
Re: Poems
By: LesserGoddess Date: March 9, 2026, 1:56 pm
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by Seth Brady Tucker
The Road to Baghdad
Is less a road than a floral
collection of spongy and soft
bodies, a gathering of the myriad
colors of nations—burnt umber,
puce, kiln red, olive drab, hot
steel. It is a road that stretches
eternally into the ochre mocha
of the horizon. The road
to Baghdad has its own atmosphere
and sound, so unlike the roads
I have driven in the States—here,
the road is silent but for the pops
and spits of flame where trucks
clutch the bright and colorful
bodies of the unfortunate dead.
The road to Baghdad is like the aftermath
of a Fourth of July parade—streets
littered with the chaos of celebration,
where dyed paper and the bright
hulls of fireworks gather in the gutter.
Sometimes, I look for the road
to Baghdad in old maps or on
the web, but I can never find
it—the distance of time has cleared
it from the record books, has erased
it from everywhere but my mind, and
from the minds of those soldiers who saw
it with me. Today, I awake in the morning
with unexplained scratches on the bridge
of my nose, and I ask my empty room, where
has that road gone? I understand that if there
is no road, then there is no me. But if none
of this ever really happened, how do I awaken
every morning to the sun burning my outline
into the wild asphalt of that beautiful highway?
#Post#: 382739--------------------------------------------------
Re: Poems
By: LesserGoddess Date: April 2, 2026, 6:19 pm
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To His Coy Mistress
By Andrew Marvell
Had we but world enough and time,
This coyness, lady, were no crime.
We would sit down, and think which way
To walk, and pass our long love’s day.
Thou by the Indian Ganges’ side
Shouldst rubies find; I by the tide
Of Humber would complain. I would
Love you ten years before the flood,
And you should, if you please, refuse
Till the conversion of the Jews.
My vegetable love should grow
Vaster than empires and more slow;
An hundred years should go to praise
Thine eyes, and on thy forehead gaze;
Two hundred to adore each breast,
But thirty thousand to the rest;
An age at least to every part,
And the last age should show your heart.
For, lady, you deserve this state,
Nor would I love at lower rate.
But at my back I always hear
Time’s wingèd chariot hurrying near;
And yonder all before us lie
Deserts of vast eternity.
Thy beauty shall no more be found;
Nor, in thy marble vault, shall sound
My echoing song; then worms shall try
That long-preserved virginity,
And your quaint honour turn to dust,
And into ashes all my lust;
The grave’s a fine and private place,
But none, I think, do there embrace.
Now therefore, while the youthful hue
Sits on thy skin like morning dew,
And while thy willing soul transpires
At every pore with instant fires,
Now let us sport us while we may,
And now, like amorous birds of prey,
Rather at once our time devour
Than languish in his slow-chapped power.
Let us roll all our strength and all
Our sweetness up into one ball,
And tear our pleasures with rough strife
Through the iron gates of life:
Thus, though we cannot make our sun
Stand still, yet we will make him run.
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