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Jan Backes Poem
Once thicket thickened
Mossy, leafy
Underlay.
Chance to catch starling
Or barn swallow
Amidst slumbering umber.
Eyes pinched-- tiny prickles
Star thistle glistens
By green-lit moon.
Craned and swoop,
Echoic;
Plume beats hilarity.
Lest they sail asunder,
Beaks...
White capped-- bold and noble
Strand guarded;
Acronymic to the other
Guided by the sea.
Copyright © Jan Backes | Year Posted 2011
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Jan Backes Poem
Revise, revise.
Rewrite, rewrite.
Marketing, marketing, marketing.
If you're in search of fortune,
It seems a price to pay.
It goes against nearly
everything
when speaking to the muse.
Stare starlit--
the moon's not far behind.
Give yourself permission.
To eat broccoli
And love it.
Roll in the snow naked.
Walk like the turtle
And travel by bus.
Copyright © Jan Backes | Year Posted 2007
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Jan Backes Poem
The picture is perfect
All spackled and new
Under dim-lit forsythia.
The reflection is shone
In the new fallen snow.
And base to the corner
Its' curiously known.
Each texture, each timber
So hallowed receive.
All the grandeur and loyal
So effortlessly groan.
Always windswept and drifting
Carefully blown.
Spring.
Copyright © Jan Backes | Year Posted 2011
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Jan Backes Poem
I give thanks to the retailer:
"Thank you very much."
To the toll taker:
"Thanks for working the holiday."
And I got back:
"God bless you," from her.
I don't say it only because
It's what I was taught
But because it's quick,
Doesn't cost anything
And it feels good.
I thank God that
I'm given this day.
Flo, my Mom, Dad and Sister,
For all the love they give.
Thanks for making the bed.
Thanks for doing the dishes.
If I tweeted or had a Facebook account,
I'd find a way to thank
All of my friends.
Thanks for being there.
Thanks for being you.
Thanks for letting me love you.
Copyright © Jan Backes | Year Posted 2011
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Jan Backes Poem
Does the peril of a life so perfect
Squander unwept tears?
Does the shiny saucer of a world
Call the horrid fear?
If I disclose a million-fold
The welcome do they serve--
I swear the rugged tundra
Lies beneath a twin-bridged stream.
So open do I say,
I lift you herald high.
Does one who's undeserved
Flow gently without flight?
Does it matter here what genre I portray?
Does it matter then again
That I've lost my square on life?
How many times will it take till I see
What my maker wants of me?
How many writings will I send
Till I meet my calling, please?
Copyright © Jan Backes | Year Posted 2011
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