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Clarence Oubre Poem
What of the girl sitting next to him,
blood and blood,
the same empty stare,
The coagulant dust, like mud,
drying
against these leather orange seats.
"My baby, my baby,
tafali, tafali alhulu..."
Now what memory will last
of my mommy's sonorous voice?
Will she return like waves in the night?
Shall I wait forever?
Copyright © Clarence Oubre | Year Posted 2016
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Details |
Clarence Oubre Poem
The haunt of an hour
has found my depth
In silent awe.
Every corner lost,
Every raiment fallen--
the history of a snowy mulch.
Every eye flowers
in regal pause,
Softened in this groundless
light.
What words could ever render
to another such delight,
Far from every written home
so forgotten?
Copyright © Clarence Oubre | Year Posted 2016
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Details |
Clarence Oubre Poem
Bent and crooked with
asphalt-sweaty ditches,
lined in sunny oak trees
with tangled picket fences.
The heaven lord,
painting relics in the air;
and though its flowers always fade,
it was all that was there.
Finding its way
in wandering spires,
while the familiar to and fro
of the silent height transpires.
Here, beneath a tree
and luxuriant skies,
these steps become a notion
as the last mile dies.
Copyright © Clarence Oubre | Year Posted 2016
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