
A rumor mill, fed by local spring, speaks with uncertain squeak amidst the rustling shoots, extended lines; new-turned leaves of the local grapevine. The fruit they grow makes bitter wine. © 2023 | K. Hartless
A rumor mill, fed by local spring, speaks with uncertain squeak amidst the rustling shoots, extended lines; new-turned leaves of the local grapevine. The fruit they grow makes bitter wine. © 2023 | K. Hartless
whine fine
my eyes are hard
perhiphery blinks
the book
of some one said so
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Very poignant piece how rumours can spread so quick like ivy. Powerful verses!
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Got some gravitas, this one. Btw, I finally got to read your poem in Gabriela’s “Hidden in Childhood.” I can see you now fighting for that shattered glass trophy … and learning your lesson all the same 🙂 Gary
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Wow, thanks, Gary. Yes, indeed. I really was the tomboy of the trio. I am so grateful for you reading my poems. These kind words mean so much. 💜
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Ahh, yes…
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love this one, K: succinct and sour, and that killer ending; love the country twang of the song —
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Thank you kindly, John. Bella White as that something special. I enjoyed this brevity.
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I love this one K, clever and to the point. ✍️❌❤️
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Thank you. 💜
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Rumors do grow bitter quite quickly. Well done.
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