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The Stream

  1. 60
    somerGeeposted 7 years ago

    In my labyrinth back yard

    There is an opulent stream

    That never grows to tenuity

    In which the antiquated father

    Of my daddy

    Of his obsolete father’s

    Lionhearted papa

    Grew and met so shine in it move

    Of which with celerity

    They all drank

    Apprehending it so luckily to be

    Part of that luminous gift

    That today hangs mine

    Taking it origin from a

    Crackless rock

    Flowing to one nation

    To another without deceit

    Holding tough their confirmations

    And raising high our aptitude

    Whenever i go to my backyard

    I feel it that jocundness

    Spying it innocuousness glide away

    With a tormenting glitteringness

    Which push so elevated

    My wife to be proud to be my lady

    My kids to be proud to be my children

    And my stream to be proud to be my servant

    1. AEvans profile image72
      AEvansposted 7 years ago in reply to this
  2. realitydream profile image60
    realitydreamposted 7 years ago

    streams in backyards are for the luckey ones -i had one too but far in the back acres where we caught frogs and chased butterflies and turned over rocks to reveal newts and crawfish -i miss it -somehow the poem took me back, ty-

  3. realitydream profile image60
    realitydreamposted 7 years ago

    they were walking
                                       THE WALKERS
    the sun was slipping

    splashing light all over the park

    a chill wind blew  from the north

    penetrated the sweaters they wore

    fabric swans in a golden pond is what they looked like

    "the car needs new brakes " she said

    "all our directions are a mistake" she said

    as the sun laid down at their feet

    and shadows licked the ground all around them