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1265.
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9 (From, Picture Poems 11)
Morning bloomed
of remembered times
when your blue eyes
found me again
and won over
Peter S. Quinn
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1266.
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A Bird Has Flown Away
A bird has flown away
Into the bright new sky
To give its shining day
For earth in quiet high
Dark is deep like ocean
In its forgotten past
Each hour of its erosion
Leaves of a fallen rust
Clouds are now swaying
To give the blue its glow
As ray in clouds are playing
With more and more to show
On to the faraway horizon
By the waves of the sea
My thoughts shall run on
Like everything that's free
And bring the splashes deep
Through flowing billows
And those fresh moments keep
In tides of past gone flows
Peter S. Quinn
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1267.
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A Butterfly I See
A butterfly I see
On a bloom blossom
Flying on so free
Oh how life is osome
Making life an art
Soon there will be spring
Nature in its start
With the birds to sing
Yesterday was cold
In its whitish fold
Rain is now falling
Seeds from earth calling
In its clear drops
Until winter stops
Life is full of turns
Coming here and giving
Habitats and learns
Day to day living
Love in lives clouds
Singing freshly ways
Streets of many crowds
In its coming days
Refrain:
Yesterday was cold
In its whitish fold
Rain is now falling
Seeds from earth calling
In its clear drops
Until winter stops
Peter S. Quinn
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1268.
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A Clock in Time
My song has gone to loneliness
Its freshness is rustic and old
The window sings in wintry wind
For memories that can not hold
The hour is now in to nothingness
Though not everything has been told
Feelings are out and vision sealed
Into a dark shape that now unfolds
You have not my heart learned
None new is to be had here
Only moisten eyes confronting
Old corners to know and see
And bridges to fit themselves burned
In to what does appear
A wall of reflections hunting
Of what has come here by to be
My song has gone to its past
Crumpling like loose molars
And bringing back here to each cast
Their aged siding paintworks
For days have gone in to their last
Of lights and sketches returning
A clock in time - a mirror glassed
I am still alone here yearning
Peter S. Quinn
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