Hands on air below and hands on high,
seen by seers but not the eye,
relevant to the air but not the feel,
touching but not touching,
lost between magnetic poles,
dancing with the hollow wind,
one mind attached to the earth
and one floating
in a heavenly sphere,
one weighted down by words,
and one lifting them into space
as poets dream and writers write,
as the abstract gets lost
in its own heaven
and writers’ words tell a story,
as the poetic spirit
wanders into a maze,
and the story brings it out,
as the poets sit on a cloud
but the writers fall through it,
 
poets climb with the spirit
and float between the ground and sky,
the heaven beneath the heaven,
of space delineated
and space unencumbered,
suspended in the busy air
that rises from the bowels of the earth,
the lifting of the heavy dreams,
the softening of them in their flight,
the story of the story unwritten
and the words not worded,
the poem in its
abstract wanderings,
the end not ended
but suspended in space
while drifting on and on and on...,

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Robert L. Martin
12 months

Thanx Nelson. Hope you had a great Christmas

Nelson D Reyes
12 months

“the poem in its
abstract wanderings,
the end not ended”

Well put. Love this one it’s a favorite. Thanks Robert.

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