Poetry Blog by Brutus Paulinus

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Cynthia Buell Thomas on we run (Sat, 14 Apr 2012 02:26 pm)

stella jones on we run (Tue, 3 Apr 2012 06:20 pm)

Yvonne Brunton on we run (Tue, 3 Apr 2012 06:04 pm)

Nick Clifton on Spring (Wed, 7 Mar 2012 11:44 am)

Marianne Louise Daniels on In Este (Tue, 21 Feb 2012 09:26 am)

stella jones on In Este (Mon, 20 Feb 2012 11:12 pm)

Brutus Paulinus on Connections (Mon, 20 Feb 2012 09:05 am)

Marianne Louise Daniels on Connections (Thu, 9 Feb 2012 12:22 pm)

Rory Peace on Connections (Thu, 9 Feb 2012 12:00 am)

Brutus Paulinus on A distant Memory (Wed, 1 Feb 2012 08:37 pm)

we run

the ambition when we

started the race; the gallops and

one more breath; escaped



and we felt young again

pushing the threshold

of an imaginary battle



against the unreachable sunset

that tainted; in red the salty droplet

smashing against; the gravel

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entry picture

Unknowingly you woke up this morning to 

the instant in which spring conquered the darkness
that accompanied you every morning out
of bed. The abstracting silence of the night
replaced by the symphonic call of the  first migrating geese:
passengers  of the unpredictable railway of the seasons.
In their shed white feathers you read about ...

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In Este

entry picture
In Este the vineyards weeped under the expanding
fog. Her empty eyes stared at me and 
in their reverberating darkness I was trapped as
her spirit formed aged velvet crystals in my glass.
Violins scented of spring and a tiny droplet from her
barefooted dance inundated the morning breeze.
My foot stamped the gravel as a thinly crusted air 
forced its way into my...

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I like the moment when my hand
opens up a window to the unknown

polar winds, a vintage of lifetimes and stories,
now caressing my combusting skin.

For an instant, we are sand: constrained and
docile to the invisibility of our surroundings.

A neon moon brings me in touch with my
most primitive instincts: claiming ownership of

the next wrong step and a turn that is a season too late.
Cha cha cha... Your h...

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A distant Memory


I see you in black and white,
a smear on my screen 
secretly opening up a door
to the unknown universe
that you now inhabit.

I feel astray and distant
from a future,
that never

My remembrances of us are
so unlike the motionless
image flickering on my screen:
constantly metamorphosing,
from perfection to a man
living in the delicate body of
a woman.


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