Phalanxes of plastic ducks: wizards, barbarians-- the occasional detective-- swirl in the giant conundrum. Plastic dolls (fashion dolls?), no judgement on brand or aisle or hair, especially now, hear the canard-verse via pathways laid down in heat, in formless transformations. They know the wars. They know the strategies. They know the tidal energies. Or so Mandy says, holding a damp doll by the hair, dripping on the carpet, sleepy as an oracle fresh from a hot spring [or a bath] prophesying plastic. It's been a week since The Sunday Muse. And I'm working on the Indie Summer Read/Writeathon (currently reading Rocket Science and enjoying the drama) and working on other projects...but I find that I'm missing my Sunday poetry. :) -- Chrissa
Maybe try being in an airplane? A fun little write, it brought a smile here.
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http://jimmiehov6.blogspot.com/2023/03/the-egg-vs-apple-poem-for-sunday-muse.html
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Thanks for the link! I was having a bit of a challenge with them yesterday. And planes are right out for me--claustrophobia. :)
DeleteOh Chrissa! This is both magical and sobering all in one! A brilliant and beautiful poem my friend!
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