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An original poem - themes included are childhood innocence and the limits of their imagination, as well as a child's ability to jump from one subject to another without missing a beat and simply expecting adults to keep up with them!

I sit then stand looking out of a window.

On a rainy summer’s day,

There’s wind through the air

And birds whistle and play.

Once I used to ride like the wind!

I’d sit on the saddle

Urging my steed faster

Faster until he left me behind.

We were inseparable until high noon

When I’d dismount and eat

Then camp out for the night

Before sleeping with the sky and moon.

My horse went with me everywhere.

We could not be parted

My partner, my sidekick,

My rocking horse and cuddly bear.

They sit in trees and upon our fences.

The grass stands green, lush and healthy.

Toy soldiers in attention behind the bed.

The sight and smell play with our senses.

I came out of the dark tunnel

This bright, cloudless, glorious day.

I shook hands with the captain,

Noise amplified by the concrete funnel.

An echoing roar of excitable fans

And I pass the football

To admiring teammates and then

Out come the hot dogs and loud brass bands.

I find my hero with a magnificent ball;

He beat two and buried it!

We lift the cup surrounded by cheers!

I hit the ball against our garden wall.

Overgrown, shabby, we like it that way.

Ravens soaring and dipping.

The shingle path guides them along.

I looked out of a window at my garden today.

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1 comentario

17 feb 2023

Your poetry awakens a sense of nostalgia and longing within me, taking me back to a time when life was simpler and more carefree, when my imagination knew no bounds and I could be the hero of my own story in all my childlike innocence.

I am deeply impressed by your ability to transition seamlessly from one subject and scene to the next, weaving together a tapestry of vivid imagery and profound emotions with a fluidity and imagination that knows no bounds.

I find myself lost in the captivating world you have created with your words.

It is not enough that a wondrous sonnet receives a common reply; it doth require a matching masterpiece that doth give it proper homage.…

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