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Three in the morning, and again I dream
Of waves and windblown sails, driving us on.
A petulant ocean, its mood would seem 
Somehow to echo mine, awaiting dawn.
Tossing and turning, creaking and groaning,
It's an old man's bones I hear, bemoaning.

Copyright © | Year Posted 2017

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Date: 10/11/2019 6:13:00 PM
Wonderful use of rhythm and words. You are a musician and a poet, surely... Ann
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Date: 8/24/2017 12:16:00 PM
Oh my goodness old bones never give us a moments peace. They are always there grinding and groaning even when at rest. They keep us honest when we try to pretend our youth is still with us. They get us in the end. I really flow with this poem creaking like an old wooden ship.
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Date: 8/5/2017 8:42:00 PM
I like the way the words flow in this poem.
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Peter Rees
Date: 8/18/2017 8:45:00 AM
Thanks Darlene.