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Mayday/1st of Fools

a happy birthday present for my wife!

By Rob AngeliPublished 3 years ago Updated 3 years ago 1 min read

Recalls a long and memorable walk we took together one spring day during hard times a couple years ago, and how we were refreshed by the spectacle of nature and humanity. Joyeux anniversaire mon amour!

MAYPOLE 1st of FOOLS out again on down-time/impressions:

means for both of us freedom from labor and of

The Song of Swan--Poetry's knell of death

and birth\\:

a taking-wing today of future prognostications

fulfils the finality factor of every swansong

by means of the

garden colors spilling off of the lower rooftops.

Brood of Calcutta here transplanted in spirit

Rooted in Suburbanly Americanized Memories of Parisien Banlieux

crossing the RIO BRANDY

X-ing

so DOMESTICATED>>> MayPole Day

<<< where green was the theme\

seeming like the subject of a swansong on a stroll/thinking too much

Spring Break and Girls Gone Wild

When Lewis and Clark undertook their famous crossing of the RHINE,

and the ridicule of our precarious

passage through plague--:

nursing a sense of industrial isolation from having long been set apart from everything fresh—

but breathing in deeply such sweet seasoned air into the

spongy tissue of the lungs.

Down-hill to Market-Street,

barely working up a sweat yet we thought we heard something squealing in the foothill suburbs

skater strident minis like imberb Valkyries

bellies flat on the skateboards (it shall crawl on its belly)

slips of kid

launched like squealing missiles into oncoming traffic,

dodging everything artfully.

MAYDAY IN PANDEMIC bred toadstools

even outside goblin gardens;

mushroom strings from roots fed by dew

some hours after that fateful bellyful of pizza.

Now old neighborhoods are changing/ its denizens are different/ our skin changes. Verge of Death? this is life.

the new reptiles crawl dew fungus an old creature

slips of serpent

[As the APPEARANCE of SNAKES is a sign of Spring]

To Be Continued...

artlove poemsnature poetrysurreal poetryinspirational

About the Creator

Rob Angeli

sunt lacrimae rerum et mentem mortalia tangunt

There are tears of things, and mortal objects touch the mind.

-Virgil Aeneid I.462

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Nice work

Very well written. Keep up the good work!

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