Sentinel Poetry (Online) #25     2nd Anniversary Issue    December 2004



Education is a patent waste
these days on youthful minds;
it doesn't give half a taste
of all the lies that lie before
you all. That you must go to
school, be taught by rote the figures
and the letters; that you must
in your turn, fetter every thought
with ugly murkish clutter.

"I'd hand you back the keys,"
she said, "only I lost them,
long ago. You see, they chained
my mind," she said;
"Or, maybe I let them?"


The sodden marsh field
Mourned long by the willow
the reason for weeping, forgotten.

Weaving in the tree branches
in a mean October breeze
hangs an old smock dress

So-seventies flowers faded
like the bog grasses.
And the weeping tree

shedding it's leaves;
one by one.

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