June 7th 2016

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 June
····evenings—the thin thread of night-
········fall
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I’ve been reading about the discovery of a sort of Stonehenge, as I consider it, lost to the world for some 170,500 years. Stone circles lie untouched from the time human hands arranged them. Torches still lie where they were put down, not by hands like ours but by the hands of Neanderthals. Three ice ages have come and gone. The immensity of time that only seems like yesterday in this cave, and the people whose lives, families and children are gone forever, fills me with an inconsolable grief. What must the world have been like so many millennia ago? What did they see when they walked out of the cave? Did they know they would never return? Could they have dreamed of the tens of thousands of years before another human saw their work? There is so much human history, life, struggle, love and wonder—lost to us.
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214 June 7th 2016 | bottlecap
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One response

  1. I bounced this little doggerel off your blog about “Poetry Neglect.” I was trying to make the point that the effective poet accumulates her audience in individual acts of solitary engagement over time. Despite the dependable meter I wrote it in a somewhat stream of consciousness manner. Could this be a case of too much “sound sense” to make sense?

    To Emily

    Companion, mine, the poet
    Indwells to meet the day
    We coincide our centuries
    With feeling’s first frontier.
    One by one she greets us
    So staggered is the plunge
    Like lightning that splits a tree
    The day the bloom is done,
    Prophet of the lonely depth
    And soon the sky returned.
    Nice to have a pal so versed
    In the soul of our veneer
    Those days when we stand stripped, alone,
    Of shiny current trend.
    Centuries may pass
    Yet one by one we feel
    Centuries removed
    The poet’s company.

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