Contents
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Paul Ingrassia, US
 

 

 

 

Cinquain

Silver Bullets

Full moon's
ashen shadows
embrace the wolfsbane blooms;
Gunshots ring out across the moors—
howling.

 

 


John Henry

Cold steel
rings as I sing,
dear Lord, and should my heart's
beat cease: bury me, my hammer
in hand.

 

 

Fallen

Brightest
of stars, broken
wings and shattered halo,
love betrayed, Kingdom asunder—
lost grace.

 

 


How The Hatfield-McCoy Feud Started Way Back In 1873

The true origin of the very symbol of Bad Blood in America.
 

McCoy
said, "Floyd, that thar
ain't yer hog!"  "‘Tis.”  “‘Tisn’t.”
”We’ll see ‘bout that, Randolph!” hollered
Hatfield.

 

 

Bewildered Boone

"Daniel,
have you ever
been lost?" "Never! Not lost;
but just once, for three days, I was
confused."

 

 

Quatrain

The Songs Of A Poet

(Reflecting Longfellow)

As the birds leave in the Fall,
We know not to where;
As a dusky starless nightfall
Shows depths of despair;

As the Summer with no rain,
When brooks are dusty ground;
Agonizing, love or pain,
Screaming without a sound;

As the grape becomes raisin,
Bareness to the tree;
As fire among pines blazin—
And the storm to the sea;

As the battered vessel slips
Beneath the ocean's crest;
As comes the frown to the lips,
The soul to the test;

So come to the Poet his songs,
All hitherward torn
From the dusky realm, where nightlong
Terrors are conceived and born.

His, and not his, are the tears
He sings; and the blame
Is his, and not his; and the fear
And loathing of a name.

For emotions chase him by day,
And plague him by night,
And he is enslaved, and must obey,
When the Demon says: "Write!"

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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