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Post by MoonyLuna on Dec 27, 2008 13:05:58 GMT -5
Those beads of lapis, even the classical Blues of dawn, are dimmed by comparison. When I hand you this bunch of cornflowers The only other color in the room Illumines your eyes as you arrange them.
They are the blue reflection of whatever Moves in you, serene as cool water tipped Into crystal, oddly enough the willing bride To a cloudy head of melancholy So deeply blue it could prove musical.
This is the blue John Lee Hooker's gravelly Voice in the sundown field was looking for. This is the unrequited dream of an iris. Ice blue, spruce blue, little periwinkle blue— Nothing else that dies is exactly so blue.
Copyright Gibbons Ruark
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Post by MoonyLuna on Dec 27, 2008 13:06:52 GMT -5
Featured Poet Gibbons Ruark
Born in 1941, Gibbons Ruark has published his poems widely for over forty years. Staying Blue is his eighth collection. The recipient of many awards, including three NEA Poetry Fellowships, a Pushcart Prize, and the 1984 Saxifrage Prize for Keeping Company, he lives with his wife Kay in Raleigh, North Carolina.
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