Birds F l y i n g Solo
The post A Bird | Mary L. Steffen appeared first on Best Poetry.
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Birds F l y i n g Solo
The post A Bird | Mary L. Steffen appeared first on Best Poetry.
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Author: Best Poetry Online
Jews dream of David’s reign, of Solomon’s expansive kingdom; Muslims dream of their caliphate, of a glorious empire of conquests. Yet there is a third dream at hand of middle-ground concession, an offspring of compromise, the progeny of goodwill. Let a lucid consensus reflect that there is in each conflict one single right side: that…
He died of natural causes, they tell me in the newspaper, and is that supposed to make me feel better? What is natural about falling down to the earth that spat you out, fading into nothing? The post Natural Causes | Joshua Ford appeared first on Best Poetry. Go to Source Author: Best Poetry Online
It just doesn’t matter How many accomplishments you achieve in your lifetime. How many Sunday services you attend. How many good deeds you try to do. How many poems or books you have published. How many times you’ve said you’re sorry, Over and over And over again. It just doesn’t matter, Because forgiveness never comes…
If Blade Runner and The Terminator depict a dystopian future as imagined in 1982 and 1984, respectively, The Creator (2023) is a perfect projection of the present – a time when the public is passionately debating the very pressing issue of the role that Artificial Intelligence plays in basic living duties, in the stock market, and in filmmaking. For…
Mists in whirlpool autumn is spent summer time shapes events into ordinary lives. Only people are missing in this part of the town. The post People Are Missing | Ananya S. Guha appeared first on Best Poetry. Go to Source Author: Best Poetry Online
“Stalin’s Holidays” is the title poem of John Forbes’ second collection. Happy holidays! Stalin’s Holidays The quick brown fox jumps over the lazy dog. Juniper berries bloom in the heat. My heart! ‘Bottoms up, Comrade.’ The nicotine-stained fingers of our latest defector shake as they reach for Sholokhov’s Lenin—the verandah is littered…