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Jo Ko Poem
All day I think about nothing.
And all day, nothing thinks about me.
I sit and I stare,
Or I pace everywhere,
Looking for something to seek.
I am meek,
I feel weak,
I find it hard to stand on my feet.
But when I sit about,
I stir and shout;
And fly up out of my seat.
What is it that I’m meant to find my dear nothing?
What is that lies beneath?
Is there something there?
Because I could swear,
I’ve caught you starting back.
Copyright © Jo Ko | Year Posted 2024
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Details |
Jo Ko Poem
It was cold now.
The joy in the air that one thinks of when they hear,
“Summer”, seemed to have gone away long ago.
But it was not dead yet.
And it would not die without first saying goodbye.
It would sing a song,
No,
More of an Opera if you will.
It was grand in its modesty.
Loud and yet silent.
The Crickets and the Cicadas and the Mighty Birds screamed,
Refusing to depart without first making sure that they would be remembered.
They surely would be.
It was not only those creatures that made up this tune.
It was also the light and the rocks and the way the light bounced off of the rocks and, well, many things.
All those things that do not speak but that I hear nonetheless.
Or perhaps, none of these things cried out to me.
Perhaps I’ve gone mad.
It may be that,
Stones do not talk
and
Summer is not some Goddess
reaching out to me, and only me,
In a triumphantly serene moment.
But it was pleasant either way.
Copyright © Jo Ko | Year Posted 2023
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