POETIC BLOOMINGS is a Phoenix Rising Poetry Guild site established in May 2011 to nurture and inspire the creative spirit.


Following her friend and sister North Carolinian, Jane Shlensky, our Co-host this week is highly accomplished and we are extremely honored to include her works amongst the glowing blooms here at CREATIVE BLOOMINGS. Nancy Posey is a strong voice in poetic circles, as she is a ardent promoter of the process. We welcome her here.




Nancy is an Alabama native, living in North Carolina (“The Writingest State”) since 1995.  She teaches English in the community college after 18 years of teaching in high school.  A lifelong reader, she has always been in love with the written and spoken word.  Nancy was drawn back to poetry with the Poetic Asides PAD challenge about 6 or 7 years ago.  Since that time, she has built friendships with the writers she met there, leading her to this site.  When she’s not reading or writing (or grading the endless stacks of essays) she stays busy.  She and her husband Dick have been married 37 years in June. They have three grown children and three grandchildren–all beautiful, charming, and fun. She also finds time to travel (most recently to Haiti) and to learn to play mandolin.

Find Nancy’s work and musings at: THE DISCRIMINATING READER and ALABAMA TAR HEEL


PROMPT #149 – “NO POEMS ABOUT POETRY?”: Nancy offers this thought for poetry month. It becomes our prompt this week! She says: “No poems about poetry,” I’ve read in submission guidelines, joining cat poems in the lists of don’ts. If poets don’t sing the praises of poetry, then, who will? People of all ages often bristle and grow defensive when we suggest reading poetry along with, not even instead of, their usual reading matter. I must confess that some of the damage is done by my people—English teachers. We assign a poem, ask students what it means, and then tell them why they are wrong. Didn’t Billy Collins say that high school is where poetry goes to die?


Rather than wring our hands, why don’t we take this opportunity during National Poetry Month to become publicists for poetry. Write a poem that celebrates poetry in some way—and follow that basic rule of writing: Consider your audience, reluctant readers.




I might as well write rhyme.
I have this blank page, and the time
and the rage to go gently into that good write.

I might as well write rhyme.
A poem is as expressive as I can get,
and I’m of a mind to do it all on my dime, every time.

I might as well write rhyme.
Poets are a special breed. We don’t need much
except a muse and just enough heart to get started.

Since I’m going to write something anyway,
I might as well write rhyme.
It’s the best way to know I’m alive.

© Copyright Walter J Wojtanik – 2014




I’m leaving it here on your desk,
purely harmless, with no hidden
intent, this brief poem I heard
that made me think of you. No
Latinate construction, skewed
syntax, no symbols planted so deep
even the poet needs a pirate’s map.
In simple words—ones I might
have said myself, though not
as well, not as clearly, this poet
who never knew you penned lines
that surely sing your name.

© Copyright Nancy Posey – 2014


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  1. William Preston on said:


    You write of caves and interior spaces;
    of mind-spun flowers and wind-blown places;
    your words create a glittering world
    of deep-felt dreams deployed, unfurled.
    The magic you make spans over the years
    to put mere sentences to arrears.
    Thank you. Thank you for all of that
    and for the joys your words begat.

    copyright 2014, William Preston

  2. Yes! I love poems about poetry! Good to see you Nancy as captain of the ship!
    I’m glad this place is populated with such talented people, Nancy and Walt.

  3. I’m with Benjamin in sentiment here. It’s good to see you Nancy. I look forward to seeing what you do this week. As for a poem about poetry and its value, it’s a favorite topic of mine.

    Great choice, Walt, for co-host. I don’t know anyone who doesn’t love Nancy’s work.

  4. Nice…and well done!

  5. Interpret

    I’ve written verse time and again,
    I’ve cried and I’ve died and I’ve bled,
    I’ve poured out my heart with my pen,
    Emotions written raw and red;

    Because my tongue plays tricks on me,
    Words can be misinterpreted,
    So I write and I let them see,
    I let them ponder rhyme instead.

    © Copyright Erin Kay Hope – 2014

  6. It is supposed that the majority of people who read poetry are poets themselves, so why not write poetry to interest the majority of our readers!

    Walt your Villanelle is superb and Nancy, I am always banging on about comprehensibility and your poem puts it so well. You couldn’t have chosen a prompt more close to my heart.

    Metaphorical Poetry

    My poems are an adventure
    into ideas unexplored.
    My poems are a mish-mash,
    a soup of varied words.

    My poems are a patchwork quilt,
    of scraps of cloth in brilliant colours,
    sewn together in quirky patterns
    by accident or design.

    My poems are the music of me
    the rhythm of my life.
    My poems are an adventure
    willingly explored.

  7. WmPreston on said:


    From structureless stanzas I flee
    whilst writing my own poetry:
    a pattern defines
    my rhymes and my lines;
    I’ve nary a verse that is free.

    copyright 2014, William Preston

  8. The House is Built

    One word
    two words
    three words
    come like bricks
    lain side by side
    in full development
    as they depart
    from the heart
    until the house is built

    He who builds
    is skilled
    in material
    and design
    the house
    in free verse
    strict form
    and rhymes

  9. flashpoetguy on said:


    don’t tell me poems waste time
    words strung in lines like paper dolls
    waiting for wind to blow them away
    don’t say poems can wait or they’re
    not worth the ink they’re written in

    don’t dare explain how poetry is useless
    how from it nothing is built that can remain
    nothing at all don’t call a poem
    names you’d be ashamed to wear yourself

    a poem’s a shelf upon which you store
    the core of you and if you’re wise
    a good disguise when truth is
    best left under wraps or life’s a trap
    just waiting to spring and bring about
    your downfall

    be instead the precious few who call a poem
    what it truly is: a hand to lift anew
    those who stumble in the dark of prose


  10. Laurie Kolp on said:


    Sometimes my dreams
    leave me slack-jawed.
    It’s like an attack
    of lucid metaphors
    begging for home
    awakens me
    and I can’t sleep
    until they’re delivered
    safe and sound
    to my writing shack,
    which is odd–
    calling the nook
    where I write a shack.
    But it’s like that
    with papers strewn
    this way and that,
    words on purple
    and yellow pads
    waiting in line.
    Sometimes I can’t
    even find the door,
    but it seems as if
    I live there,
    according to my kids.
    They call me
    a poetic maniac,
    but that’s okay–
    I don’t drink anymore.

  11. Smidgen and Dash

    A dash
    of you…
    a smidgen
    of me…
    is poetry

    we stand
    in this grand

  12. Oh YES!! Love them both, Walt & Nancy! Off to see if I can find that misplaced muse — and heart — Walt. 😉

  13. connielpeters on said:

    Writing Poems

    In the dark hollow of the night,
    I trade my sleep for time to write.
    Idea clouds form overhead;
    in blinks of time they can be read.
    When half done, they may dissipate.
    It’s in the cards to stay up late.
    It’s only signal to press on,
    until a chorus like a fawn
    will scamper in the forest green
    and sing of wonders, sight unseen.
    The earth rotates and time will crawl
    till words flow like a waterfall.
    Poems paddle by in their canoes.
    I so prefer this to the news.

  14. Darlene Franklin on said:

    I have sat and observed and written. And I love the supportive environment of this group of pets, encouraging me the fledgling poet (I might take exception to FlashPoet’s description of the “dark of prose.” lol. as a novelist)

    But I have questions about poetry as a genre vs. poems. Is this a place I can ask those questions?

  15. poetry

    always wants a dance.
    Even when nobody asks
    she gets out on the floor.
    Alas I am left, tapping,
    with two left trochees
    and a pest of unvoiced plaints.
    and some tepid punch jiggle
    when I bump the table
    for I bump the table
    when I tap. Poetry does
    enjoy a good turn
    in a lampshade.

  16. As Physics
    is that branch of science
    best equipped to describe
    a cat’s ability to alter gravity
    when it wants not to move, so
    poetry explains black holes as cats.

  17. Life is Like a Poem

    We giggle and act silly
    (rhyming poetry)
    and perhaps get a bit sassy
    (limerick lines).
    We look in the mirror
    (palindrome faces),
    and we often spell out our words with meaning
    (acrostic moments).
    We have problems, we look for solutions and we try to solve our problems
    (with a BOP on the head).
    We follow rules and routines
    (cinquain or a sestina to name just a few),
    and our friendships and loves take all shapes
    (Diamante diamonds and Shape poetry).
    We use math daily
    (Fibonacci sequences),
    we enjoy the outdoors
    (Haiku bits),
    and we travel the world
    (Gwawdodyn, Haiga, Kyrielle to name a few places).
    We tell long stories about our lives
    (Odes to you and me)
    and we seek, speak and long for love
    (Sonnets sing).
    Yep, our daily life is living poetry,
    so why wouldn’t we celebrate poetry?

  18. Pingback: #PoetAsides: Day 6 – Night Has Fallen | Two Voices, One Song

  19. Stray Words

    By David De Jong

    I know of a cantankerous old gent,
    Simple in his ways, barely worth a cent.
    Takes his days in stride, fixed in a saddle,
    Carousin’ along, in fields of cattle.
    Prairie songs spill out his wanderin’ mind,
    Each he ponders, and fiddles, to refine.
    Most speak of life, some of love, none of hate,
    Some won’t make it past, that old pasture gate.
    Some he scribbles to keep, else he forgets,
    It be words he loses, he most regrets.

    They be medicine to an achin’ heart,
    Gives a spirit reclaim to a fresh start.
    Peace in a sunrise, opens better days,
    Even while alone, tired, searchin’ for strays.
    He’ll bring em round, if it’s the last he does,
    It’s findin’, rescuin’ the lost, what he loves.
    Some is tangled, cut and bruised in old wire,
    Others are found broken, lonely and tired.
    It gives him a purpose, best he’d found yet,
    It be those he loses he’d most regret.

    His songs be simple, but come from his heart,
    Some annoyin’, like a squeak in a cart.
    He knows what it’s like to be lost; a stray,
    Got lost in the woods, way back in his day.
    Just a small pup cryin’ in the dark of night,
    Wanderin’ and wonderin’, lookin’ for light.
    If his words can shed some light on the path,
    Save a life; from torture, torment or wrath;
    Then it be a pretty good, best-odds, bet,
    This man’s words were written, with no regret.

    Long ago, came another, searchin’ strays,
    Pages are filled with stories from His days.
    Words He spoke with love are written in red,
    Words like honeycomb to the soul be fed.
    He told stories with meanin’, lessons, too.
    Gave up His life: to rescue me, and you.
    So it be fittin’ this time, some call lent,
    To reflect on this One the Father sent.
    Be it in a song, a rhyme, written word,
    Let’s give thanks He died and rose on the third.

    Let it be said; once more, just once more yet,
    Come in from the dark, don’t die with regret.

    • Wm Preston on said:

      Get that man a guitar and a campfire. Wonderful.

    • I’m with you, William. David, you’re definitely a cowboy poet and that’s to the good. One o’ the best around, I’d say. So glad this form and ability hasn’t been lost. That would be a regret.


  20. Hiho, friends! Good to have Nancita hosting this week. I’ll be back with a poem-pushing poem.

  21. Marjory MT on said:

    c/w 4-2014 by MARJORY M THOMPSON

    When night slips past its fullness,
    quietness is found
    and poems are born.

    The last low rays of light
    from the departing moon
    leave all the stars to lag.

    Each star now shines as light
    fragmented from the moon
    to aid the birth of thoughts and words.

    Words written o’er the seas of time,
    that will remain
    caressed within the shifting sand.

    Each bit of sand a thought,
    voices that all the stars will hear
    throughout the ebb and flow of life.

    The night and day, the moon and stars
    still ebb and flow a beating serenade
    as yet another poem is born.

  22. Something silly from my past:


    If one took time
    To make a rhyme
    Where all lines rhyme
    Time after time,
    Is it a crime?

    To take the time
    To make lines rhyme
    Time after time
    Would be sublime,
    If not prime
    For wasting time
    On a rhyming rhyme.

    But now it’s time
    To give a dime
    To the funny mime
    Who cannot rhyme
    Time after time.

    He’s stuck in slime
    And cannot climb
    Out of the grime,
    Now, that’s a crime.

    But right now I’m
    Gonna’ take the time
    To throw the mime
    Stuck in the slime
    A new enzyme
    That eats the grime
    So he can climb
    Out just in time
    To get the dime
    And hear the rhyme
    That he can’t chime
    ‘Cause he’s a mime
    And mimes can’t rhyme
    Any time.

    Now, should that mime
    Stay in the slime
    Or is that dime
    Worth his time?

    And is it a crime
    For a rhyme to rhyme
    Time after time?

    Don’t ask a mime.

    (c) 2001 Earl Parsons

  23. Penning Poetry (a repeat)

    Sometimes the words come quick – so fast
    my fingers fly to capture them.
    They splash over the fall in a sparkling cascade
    dancing, jumping, cavorting, roaring with life
    and vitality, sheer joy of being.
    Each drop a diamond reflecting the light in
    glints of ruby, emerald, topaz and aquamarine
    each singing a capella but in lilting harmony
    one with the other, a praise, a tribute, an ode.

    Then other times, it’s a tug of war and I with
    calloused hands drag and wrench each word
    by hairy head into compliance of sound and
    succinct significance, a taming of the shrew.
    I try to domesticate my wild, unwieldy thoughts
    to cohesiveness, try to transform a feeling,
    an impulse, a fickle emotion into a solid image,
    or metaphor of likeness to a reality of now.
    I know it looks like I’m goofing off but look –
    there are furrows on my brow.

  24. Upon Reading the Poems of Mary Oliver,
    In Which She Refers to the Poet in Third Person

    I write as often as I may
    a poem or a chapter,
    a recounting of the hours
    of the day, or the days
    that can pass in the course
    of a night.

    I write as often as I may
    of laughter, but tears
    frequently fall, searches
    of joy where anger
    is normally found.

    I write as often as I may,
    trying to expound
    on the mundane found
    in the spectacular, and vain
    attempts simplify
    the amazing.

    I write as often as I may,
    never quite satisfied with
    the result. Maybe this is why
    I follow the advice of a friend
    and leave the titles of author
    and poet for others to bestow,

    never referring to myself
    as anything more than ‘writer’.

  25. Through Other Eyes

    How do you see the moon?
    If you read five different poets
    describing the moon, you will
    see that each one extracts
    a facet of the moon, in their
    own unique way. You say,
    What does that do for me?
    Well, you will never look
    at the moon in the same
    old distracted manner. You will
    apply the poets’ images
    and thoughts, find which ones
    seem to fit your own idea
    of the moon, and you will smile
    at the intimacy poetry allows.

  26. Pingback: Ink | Whimsygizmo's Blog

  27. Ink

    We all collect words, Love,
    seize them from the breeze
    and press them down to page,
    wings still fluttered. I’ll simply
    pin these few to you, stick your
    skin with some new hue to breathe.

    Braille your way past silence,
                  loose them
                    as you may.


  28. I love the dialogues that develop when we are paying attention to each other’s words, don’t you?

  29. Pingback: Catharsis | echoes from the silence

    (a shadorma)

    Her words flow,
    like tears down her cheeks,
    spilling on
    -to the page.
    Poems, the silent echoes
    of her poet’s heart.

  31. Potter’s Play


    they can
    teach it’s
    form and shape

    it unto
    the desired

  32. OK, here’s two for the price of one! And yes, the 2nd is a “rewrite” of the first (– because, my husband says “it’s not a poem unless it rhymes”.) 😉

    This one is for you –
    penned & sketched in purple ink
    by my own hand.
    Nothing fancy, nothing new –
    but written from the heart;
    a simple message to let you know
    I thought of you today.
    I’m sorry that it doesn’t rhyme.
    Perhaps next time….


    Just a silly little ditty
    not too deep, not too pretty,
    written so that I might say
    that I thought of you today.
    I know that you prefer a rhyme,
    and so I spent some extra time
    making sure the beat was true;
    (after all, this one’s for you.)
    Maybe now you’ll like it better;
    if so, tell me, in a letter.


  33. Pingback: While the Getting’s Good | Metaphors and Smiles

  34. While the Getting’s Good

    Nature tries to burst out from behind the rush –
    from inside the bustle climb she’s just above my head
    and when I should be merging into highway traffic
    with my blinker frantic there she is and I must look.
    This Sunday is a slate gray heron and her flight is measured
    treasured is the sight of her majestic expanse of feathers
    gripping invisible wind and wise to tell me of time-
    fleeting and fast between outstretched fingers;
    truth is held in the dramatic arch of her angular neck
    her head pulses forward slightly on each powerful push
    and then I see suddenly the swirling trio of osprey to my right
    and the awe of the undersides of six mottled wonderful wings.
    Vast visions might arrive just when one could easily miss them,
    could try to escape one’s memory – if it weren’t for the jotted note.
    Yes, this poem may possibly just as easily never have been written
    if it weren’t for the small voice begging to become unhidden;
    night could show up as it does and it has and the day becomes filed away…
    a passing memory growing dim and dimmer in the swift approach of sleep
    all of this without ever a word finding page and purpose or poise
    but tender verse won’t wait and hearts hungry for poetry must be fed,
    spirit inspired must be bled – a sacrifice of minutes given for receiving
    a brief experience is made more full – more real
    by merely acknowledging it and honoring it with our attention.
    Nature tries to burst out from behind the rush –
    from inside the bustle climb she’s just above my head
    and when I should be merging into highway traffic
    with my blinker frantic there she is and I must look.

    Copyright © Hannah Gosselin 2014

    I guess this is more for the reluctant writer…that’s okay right? 😉

    Thank you, Nancy for sharing/hosting/inspiring and thank you, Walt for all you do!

    Warm smiles to all in the garden. 🙂

  35. I’m really late. So many tasks today. But I do have a couple of poems for the prompt. I’ll have to return tomorrow for commenting. This is the first one.

    Poem’s Professionalism

    Such tiny gems
    These glyphs that speak
    To hearts and mind
    Of times, places,
    Lives spent elsewhere.

    These glyphs, of color
    And sound, sensory
    Influences never witnessed
    Until found within lines
    Spoken, telling stories.

    Insignificant letters
    Bundled together,
    Taking the lead when
    Giving a mind direction
    And leaving an impression.

    Rhyme or rhythm, each
    Has a place, a job to
    Execute flawlessly,
    To haunt the reader with
    Mental images forever.

  36. This was a very quick one, with little time to smooth it out or moke it say what I really wanted. Any suggestions are welcome.

    Letter Dance

    It’s not a waltz
    Or even a jig;
    Nor is there schmaltz
    Or a whirly-gig.

    The dance revolves around
    Letters and a poet’s mind bound.

    I am but an A,
    And I can save the day,
    But not before B
    Rushes headlong after me.

    Soon C drops in for a chat
    But we don’t often spat,
    Even if D wants to keep us
    Apart, directing like a referee.

    E often falls in line at the end,
    It’s her choice of sound to mend,
    Of course, F favors a close snuggle
    With vowels that won’t struggle.

    There are so many of us;
    Which ones are chosen makes no fuss,
    For we all get chosen every day
    For making words is a poet’s way.

    Without us no words would grace
    A page that spins tales of alphabet lace.

  37. what is
    lyrics sprinkled on blank

  38. Priti on said:

    Please Read-
    Of simple things I try to write
    Poetry, in every sight
    Rhythmic words like soaring kites
    Amplify my every bite
    Makes me dive in deeper seas
    Contemplate and twist my keys
    Like a best friend it’s with me
    Showing me,new sides of me
    Now I send some thoughts to you
    Sharing some of what I view
    Maybe you will find some reds
    Linking to your inner threads—–

  39. Wm Preston on said:


    Please note:
    Only poets
    Employ the strong measures
    Meant to make music without tune-

    copyright 2914, William Preston

  40. Darlene Franklin on said:

    The Road to Poetry

    Addicted with the first story
    Twenty years and more
    Words slip and slide
    One sentence, one chapter, one book
    Jonesing for a fix at opus number thirty
    Demanding a more powerful drug
    Adding rhythm and rhyme
    One word, one rhyme, one line
    Words reborn as poetry
    Dare I proclaim it?
    A writer? Yes.
    A poet?
    I must

    Not sure if this is what the prompt meant but . . . anything goes, more or less, right?

    • Wm Preston on said:

      This looks and sounds right, in my opinion.

    • Darlene, you have taken a different route to get here, as many of us have. I, too, write novels. Moving prose into poetry is difficult, but good lyric prose always stands on the edge of formless verse. You haven’t stepped on my toes here. That’s for sure.

      • Darlene Franklin on said:

        When describing something in my books, it often comes out poetic. And when I am steeped in feeling, it comes out in devotionals and poems. . .I have downloaded low-price books ($ .99) of poetry by Emily Dickenson and Shakespeare. I’m also a fan of Robert Frost. I’m afraid I am ignorant of contemporary poets.

  41. (I hope this is not too bizarre for the prompt– I just couldn’t get it to go where “I” thought it should go!)
    {Poem w/image: http://lettheballoonssailmeaway.wordpress.com}

    Lost Poem

    There’s rhythm in the waves today
    Slow and steady, across the page.

    …Rhythm in the waves today
    …And steady, across the page.

    …In the waves today,
    …Steady across the page.

    …The waves today
    …across the page

    …Waves today
    …the page


  42. connielpeters on said:

    Mightier than the Sword

    Tiny targets tremble
    as monsters rage in anger.
    Hope glimmers, skitters, snuffs,
    and comes to a complete stop.
    In the downward spiral of violence
    a sharpened pencil pierces
    and pushes through to pillows,
    sunlight, azure skies, laughter,
    and delicate petals of orange tiger lilies.
    Ah! What poetry can do!

  43. Darlene Franklin on said:

    What wonders I wrote. . .before the words disappeared. Enjoyed this very much.

  44. Fog, Dusk and Beyond
    By: Meena Rose

    The fog at dusk is crowded now;
    Humanity’s observers now congregate
    For their ritual discourse.

    The congregation made up of poets;
    Of seasons past and of seasons to come.

    The eclectic delegation hosted by poets
    Of the current season.

    Their powers traverse time and space;
    Their perceptions vast and deep.

    They are grading Humanity’s progress now;
    Dismayed and pleased all the same.

    The state of consciousness is amiss;
    Yet portions shine true.

    Discourse over;
    Plan for the year set;
    Congregation dismissed.

    The fog at dusk is empty now;
    Already awaiting next year.

  45. magicalmysticalteacher on said:

    under the willow
    reading books of poetry—
    sudden thunderstorm

    • William Preston on said:

      This is interesting; it seems to straddle haiku and senryu. Raises all kind sof images. Great job, in my view.

  46. sudden thunderstorm… lots of goodness there

  47. Everything on here is so good this week (as per usual) but I don’t know if I’ll get back to comment on anything individually or not…my plate seems rather over-full right now (no excuse, I know, but it’s the only one I have) Great to see you Nancy, at the helm – thanks to both you and Walt for continuing to nurture the garden. Here’s my effort, an oldie but I think it works for this prompt..

    The Trouble with Poetry

    She’s impossible
    A harsher mistress
    You can’t imagine
    Demanding to a fault
    She will make you
    Give up friends
    And family and live
    In poverty and isolation
    Without a thought
    For your well-being

    And you may chase
    Her from your
    Life believing you
    Are better off without
    Her but eventually
    A time will come:
    Your dog will die
    Your wife will leave
    Or it could be you just
    Can’t sleep
    She will call to you

    Sexy, sultry as any siren
    You will not be able
    To deny the itching
    In your palms
    Until you sit down
    With a pen
    Or a laptop
    And answer her
    At last
    But by then
    She will be out
    For blood.


  48. Cats, Poetry & Death #57:
    On Crossing the Great Divide

    Sit a while and I will read
    tales of yore to thee
    Rest your eyes and I will feed
    the visions closed eyes see

    Let the cat purr you to sleep
    as my rhyme and meter sway
    slip silently into the deep
    slumber and drift away

    In you dreams you’ll hear
    voices crying out aloud
    heartfelt wishes full of cheer
    to make you strong and proud

    Be not afraid of saying adieu
    take heart and seek the light
    as I whisper farewell to you
    and you enter the endless night

    T’were spoken oft in the past
    how a poet’s words can soothe
    and to hear his words spoken last
    would help you gently move

    From here into the next place
    and rising with strength reborn
    and a broad smile on your face
    you’ll welcome death’s first morn

    For It’s the poet’s words and the cat’s
    meow that lighten loads and hearts
    and lay out garlanded welcome mats
    and hail Ambrosia laden carts

    As Elysian Fields beckon thee
    and the spectre’d veil falls
    lend your ear once more to me
    afore it hears the final bugle call

    So goodbye, if it must be so,
    as you take your final breath
    one last verse before you go
    of Cats, Poetry and Death.


  49. Roots to Pen

    From roots to pen
    we poem and write again
    From experiences we gather
    weathering storms or in the norm
    Pooled and stocked rich in the memory banks ready for distribution
    when the time is right for dispensing

  50. Pingback: #30x30Poetry: Day 11 – Constantly Risking Absurdity | Two Voices, One Song

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