At the Museum

Old objects at the museum and poetry are both things of the past. We observe them, and try to get an understanding and a feeling for them.

Props of a bygone era housed

Behind spotless panes of glass

Whisper quietly of a life we may

Never truly comprehend

Facts only burden the mind, but

Like fog, or like the fragrance of

A wild flower, the aura of a vase

A gown, or that of a fading portrait

Permeates your soul rendering you speechless

 

Your words are lined up in front of me

Like rows of terracotta soldiers

My eyes climb high on your steep, tilted t’s

Glide playfully down on your sloping j’s

Facts only burden the mind, but

Like fog, or like the fragrance of

A wild flower, the aura of a memory

Or a thought you spread out on the page

Permeates my soul rendering me speechless

 

 

 

 

 

 

Reviews

[Coyote Poetry]

I liked and I understood the poetry my friend.
"Like fog, or like the fragrance of
A wild flower, the aura of a memory
Or a thought you spread out on the page
Permeates my soul rendering me speechless"
The above lines. Were so good. Our memory. The last place we can remember the sweetness of life. Thank you for sharing the outstanding poetry.
Coyote

[Laz K.]

Thank you!

[Coyote Poetry]

You are welcome my friend.