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Poems By Poet Peter S. Quinn  5/28/2016 3:41:20 PM
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#6 (From, ‘what's Really Happening-In 54 Numbers’)

Sing a song of heartsick blues,
Of loneliness I'm not amused.
I must reload my emotion fuels,
Because I'm not like I'm used.

Feeling left out, unstable,
Waiting for the phone to ring.
Going on, I'm not able,
If what we had don't mean a thing.

I relied my faith and trust,
In what was going on.
Now it seems that this is lost,
If our love is on the run.
Peter S. Quinn



3 Icelandic Poems

ég horfi
en hvert ég horfi
er í dýpt augans
og skilningur eftir hverri hugsun
sem ég ţekki

er hálfnađ

einnig skilningur minn
sem ristir ekki djúpt


í upphafi hverrs ljóđs
er friđur og ást
og friđur og ást fyllast rósum
sem ljóma af fegurđ óskekulleikans
í brósti ţínu

og ađeins í lokin
sölna blöđin
sem full voru af fegurđ
í gćr
ađeins í lokin
falla blómahöfuđin


hvítar liljur lífsins
eins og saklaust andlit
á grćnum svörđi
sem moldin ávaxtar
ásjóna engla
ásjóna lífsins

skuggar ei falla
á andlit ţeirra hvíta
lotninga fullar í nekt sinni
Peter S. Quinn



A Winter Song (From, Lost Song Poems)

There's outside a winter's song
With frore and grayish earth,
We had the summer for so long
For what each day was worth;
I'll long for summer and spring
Each time the night gets cold,
When weather hollowly will sing
In winter so frosty and bold.

A flower so gracefully done
The winter's rose in my window,
I'll greet you gladly on and on
Cherish your pearl white afterglow;
I've often been in a moody down
When darker the short day comes,
Then I see frosty rose jewel crown
And know in the cold it blooms.

Winter romance and candle lights
Longing for green sweet earth,
Longing for clearings sky bright
And all what the day young's worth;
How can it touch the morning flame
The winter that's gray and dark,
Will not each color be there same
Without its golden morning spark.
Peter S. Quinn



Clots Of Reddish Clay (From, Poems Of Papa Due)

Clots of reddish clay,
Mouthed in its vent;
Tender swooning play,
Decreasing and augment.
Morning coming back,
Beneath the milky ways;
Beaconing night black,
With the brighter days.

Clots of darkish society,
Driving its rim's heart;
Giving none opportunity,
Only the fulsome fart.
Black as a black can be,
Nothing in musky vessel;
Seeing not forests for a tree,
Critical eyes of a sessile.

Clots of wind driven theme,
Why has hope been robed?
What is there only beseem,
Nothing of thoughtways probed.
Morning coming back,
What will the others hold?
Empty and full of its lack,
Rediscovered any untold.
Peter S. Quinn
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Poems By Poet Peter S. Quinn