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Axilea MU, click here
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That same night, that same nightmare, that veil that falls, expanding drop of water over a once precise drawing. That suffocated song, that enigmatic chorea. That is what I see when I lose sight.
Droplets on the wooden contour of an instrument that lies at my feet, brought by the tide's autistic movement. Its sound is unknown, its technique, a mystery. Someone must know on a distant shore.
Fog falls. It seems that it's all over. Nothing supernatural. That sparkle drowned, that tune muted, still, that waiting for a miracle.
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| Reviewed by Chip Bergeron |
12/19/2011 |
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You've written a great description...
Chip Bergeron |
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| Reviewed by Christine Tsen |
11/29/2011 |
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| Wow ~ Nights and nightmares have a beginning, but they also have an end and for me the special poignancy of this poem is that even as fog descends hope seems to forsake all, including the speaker still waiting for that miracle. Awesome. |
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| Reviewed by D. Vaineo |
11/29/2011 |
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Axilea, Your words 'always' give me insight-
I love this one!
Always,
Deborah |
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| Reviewed by jude forese |
11/28/2011 |
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| "tide's autistic movement" ... outstanding prose! |
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| Reviewed by Kate Burnside |
11/28/2011 |
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Is it not the actual MOMENT that's the miracle, Axilea? Like a star seen in peripheral vision, blink and you miss it. Perhaps the supernatural is a mere opacity, a sheen, a miasma of a certain mix of time and space.
But my, I'm in love with your expression and idea in this piece. I can feel the suffocation of that expanding droplet - that magnifies the more I lose sight, yes! And "the tide's autistic movement" is sheer brilliance! I have savoured this, thank you. xx |
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| Reviewed by Jon Willey |
11/28/2011 |
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| miracles are very personal, the sole domain of individual interpretation...it is the genesis of the request or expectation that elevates my interest...your descriptors of definitive events that are wide ranging and not specific to any one individual...your interpretations for them are rich with emotion, yet almost calmly staid...I shall peruse this work many times, seeking always a new deeper meaning and applicability to self.. I bid you joy, love and peace my dear friend - Jon Michael |
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| Reviewed by John Flanagan |
11/28/2011 |
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Axilea,
for me, not with a bang but a whimper theme;
yes, the lives of quiet desperation are here
and through the grey their eyes have to search
for bright - maybe the sun is the first and last
miracle or maybe it's love..i certainly don't know.
Be well,
John |
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| Reviewed by Patrick Granfors |
11/28/2011 |
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| Fine writing here Axilea. Some people wait a lifetime for a miracle only to miss the daily miracles that are revealed to us if we choose only to look. Patrick |
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| Reviewed by Amber Moonstone |
11/28/2011 |
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I just love how you wrote this, Axilea
So good to read you again...
Peace, love and light,
Amber |
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| Reviewed by dan Rosenhagen |
11/27/2011 |
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| I too am waiting, I think we all have a piece of this inside of ourselves in one way or another. Seeing it expressed in this way makes it seem to make sense. Great write Axilea. It's always nice to see ones self in another's writing. ;-) |
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| Reviewed by Charlie |
11/27/2011 |
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This reminds me of the Hubble Telescope--how there were cosmic oceans of truth to unravel, only the lense was warped, and mystery remained despite countless dollars and hours put into the project. But then they gave it glasses, and it's astonishing the world-views that we have now.
It's like when I got my first pair of glasses. Before, grass was a mass of green, but when I put on those lenses for the very first time, I saw each blade of grass, each pebble in the concrete as a piece of the great whole.
I, with my myopic vision, more often than not skew the pristine into something gray and humorless. But that's nothing that the right set of lenses can't cure. That Someone on the distant shore will know how to set it straight. He always does.
I hope you never stop wanting miracles. I hope you're a part of many of them too. --Charlie |
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| Reviewed by Morgan Merriweather |
11/27/2011 |
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| moving pieces and small chance of a precise fit. very cool poem. ~ Morgan |
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| Reviewed by Douglas Bentley |
11/27/2011 |
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Transient.
I can relate.
My drawings must be precise.
In music I delight.
I am losing my sight
Don't know whats wrong
But something isn't right
Already fell
Beyond a miracle.
Up periscope
Throw me a rope.
db |
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