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An Act of Courage
An eye that smiles
through tears I see,
bright teeth in styles
that comfort me.
Smooth ear listens,
soothes suffering.
Soft hair glistens,
pain buffering.
Confusion is
not iron-cast.
It will not win.
It will not last.
When all seems lost,
and discontent
brings up the cost
to one last cent.
An ear, an eye
a soft embrace,
a smile to save
another's face.
© Brenneman T. March 8, 2004
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That's all, That's it
In cautiousness the dog was clear.
She curved her lip and bent her ear.
Right paw fell still in cool midair.
She focused form in one sharp stare.
Her hare was youth-filled unaware,
and knew not whys, nor when and where,
a tooth would sink deep into neck,
and she squeal innocence it's fleck.
Accustomed is world to crime,
and soon bright red is spot or grime.
A story told in blotch and grit,
is life, then death, that's all, that's it.
© Brenneman T. March 8, 2004
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Wet Wood
Another stick has fallen.
Another tree succumbs,
to the pile you'll stack us all in,
both the beauties and the bums.
Random fires burning,
just as hot as they could be
before coals that you set churning,
with wet willow oak and me.
My energy released now
isn't different, but the same,
as a wood that wasn't seasoned,
doesn't have another name.
© Brenneman T. March 9, 2004
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Steal to Ruin
Why did a beauty steal to ruin?
Why did her love turn black?
A visage my heart's hopes grew in,
has chased compassion back.
© Brenneman T. March 9, 2004
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Painters and the Brush
Red soil seedling stirs.
High, ants adhere to conifers.
A rocket pushes space,
and freckles form a face on face.
We are each others dirt,
coarse mediums of joy and hurt.
Both painters and the brush,
bound tight, we feel the waters rush.
This night we did not touch.
Lying side by side, the distance much.
More inside us, than by,
sense radius of you and I.
Minds measure merely means,
and not exactly in-betweens.
Confusion is the norm,
with elements of calm and storm.
Finger caresses brow
her thoughts are lost, instead of now.
Then ready bodies blend.
She opens to the tinge of end.
© Brenneman T. March 14, 2004
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Spring Hope
Sun roots to shine
warm ray on us,
through cloud and time,
and catbird's fuss.
Rest, camellia bloom,
pink on the ground,
while others swoon
in robin's round.
Green leaves inflate
with breath of spring.
It's not to late
for anything.
© Brenneman T. March 16, 2004
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Lightening Arrow
Unfettered flash
from single man
strikes through silence.
Where will it land?
His dreams emit
prophetic charms,
as they sleep breathing
arm by arm.
Unspoken truth,
unsavored touch,
into the void
will gather much.
Reasons come
in every shape.
What strikes a heart
may not relate.
Unmeasured is
electricity,
that has no place
in you for me.
© Brenneman T. March 16, 2004
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Sugar Creek Greenway
After tearing up the sides of Sugar Creek,
giant yellow trucks and back hoes rest in mud and rain.
Tons of grey rock and brown dirt lie in piles.
Thousands of feet of orange plastic fencing
run around its edges.
It's evolution, man-made style.
Tear it up. Get it now.
© Brenneman T. March 18, 2004
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Red Leather Bible, White Cigarette
Driving home Sunday morning,
I stop at a light at Scaleybark and Woodlawn.
I see a middle-aged man briskly walking,
swinging a red leather bible in his left hand.
In the same hand,
I notice a small projection between two of his fingers.
What is it?
He then raises the hand and contents to his mouth,
and takes a long drag from a cigarette,
exhaling broadly into the clear spring sky.
The man, the bible, and the cigarette seem in harmony.
Maintaining the rhythm in his step, and lowering the hand again,
he walks right in front of my truck.
I see this act repeated a number of times
as he slowly disappears from view.
Smoke dissipates, then swirls again around the bible and his head.
The pattern seems strangely attractive,
as he moves so purposely toward an unknown destination.
© Brenneman T. March 21, 2004
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Black Ant Asphalt
My streets are paved for miles.
I live among bricks, man-made piles.
Lone black ant searches desk for food,
but it's barren-sleek-ordered, as my mood.
Cars wait with my truck and SUV's.
They're little kids up to my knees.
Antennae feel plastic for a pulse,
but there's nothing edible. All is false.
I drive right home, or left to work,
leave a hungry ant to study my quirk.
© Brenneman T. March 25, 2004
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