Tales of Molly Dale’s Blue Eyes

Laz Freedman's Poetry Blog

Tales of Molly Dale’s Blue Eyes           

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Molly Dale….

Walks along quietly, upon a grassy trail towards the bluer moments, with no ends,

Coming upon trees so free, speaking wooden things… she thinks, that’s how…

How my words would make a difference, when nothing compares and anything could be,

Then in a second glance, warm winds blow leaves, surrounding her softly, only

Telling a beginning of some strange story…. somehow forming into shapes …

This must be art, of a sort… what can I derive, is there a meaning to me, to you?

Molly Dale…

Still walks with a story in mind, though her heart leads the way, not so strange…

I just think about and see the way there, oh and the blue, as if only she approaches,

Seems so far away, yet right along side, reflects the sky in Molly Dale’s Blue eyes…

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Laz Freedman's Poetry Blog

History of Humans, us

Sadness is in our world,   …is it, that there can be no happiness without it?

Can there be any peace without war?

Is there love without hate?

Will we ever learn?

We all need.

Us, searching and gathering… the way,

When we learn, looking deep inside ourselves… in our great minds, the answers are there…

Then we recognize…if only seeing for the first time…

Though a choice, locked away forever, denying, as an open door, closing…

Once edging closer and closer to the power of the universe, we came… and then went.

Forever we’d search, for that time again.

End

By Laz Freedman 10/7/2014

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GYPSY

belas bright ideas

The old woman clasps worn cards wearily to grizzled chin,

vertical lines set deep as piercing black eyes etched

into an apple doll face.

Sweeping swollen arthritic fingers over lined forehead,

drumming now, listening to the hollow sound

of bony digits echoing against her skull.

Tapping, tapping flat cards to the thrust of jaw

ever so gently yet persistently knowing,

as she did,

the message contained within the deck’s images

cast long ago from a stranger’s mind onto paper.

Fear arises, wells up inside her throat,

recalling faces beyond memory

castigating, infiltrating, immolating,

angry as the fires of hell that she knew

more accurately than themselves

their own path unfolding.

What the men wanted and what they got,

whether from her pack or between her sheets,

seldom elicited gratitude;

rather envy and scorn surged

from the recesses of dull minds

expecting picture-book angels,

unready and unwilling to accept

the too-human…

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