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Post by geneva on Jul 9, 2004 9:16:15 GMT -5
“Working hands.” She said of his photograph
Even as her own knobby claws Never ceased moving A steady hesitant clock
Very fine layers of well-oiled paper Stretched taut over bony knuckles And blackening veins
Giving way to miniscule, migrating ripples On a far-away sea Stained a mottled brown
Skin gathering in forgotten crevices Pulling lithely over slowly dancing tendons
A quiet testament To the weary restlessness that drove
Those most beautiful hands in the world.
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Post by BlueDolphin on Jul 9, 2004 17:59:12 GMT -5
Good poem! My only suggestion is about the last line. When I read it, the word "Those" sounded a bit awkward to me (maybe because of the slant rhyme feeling it had with the word "most"). Changing it to "the" seemed to solve it for me.
Then again, I maybe I'm just weird.
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Post by geneva on Jul 9, 2004 19:04:41 GMT -5
-little obnoxious voice "You are weird! Neheee!"
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Post by flirtayangel on Jul 14, 2004 9:04:15 GMT -5
I really like the poem. It's unique, it's about the rarer beauty in life that most people don't see. (Most people, at least at our age, don't consider age as beautiful.) I think it's sweet, and if I were your greatgrandmother, I'd feel extrememly flattered.
~*~Me
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Post by geneva on Jul 14, 2004 23:00:44 GMT -5
thankyou.
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