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Disclaimer:

Regarding posts made on Pitching Pennies Poetry and The Peaceful Pub…

I would like to thank each and every one who takes the time to “like” my work and to
comment on it. You are so special to me and so are your blog sites.  I wanted to share
a current issue with you.

There is a person who uses the same login but sundry site names (several of which are already closed)  who pings back most every post I make.  I consider a ping back a great
honor so long as it is used for a literary purpose.

However this person is using my posts to highlight his possibly unscrupulous ventures.
Most certainly the sites are commercial schemes.  I pay to keep ads off my sites.  I take a
strong stand against some of the ventures this person promotes and I most certainly
don’t want to assist him in any way.

I have removed the ping backs from my site and am now posting the following disclaimer:

PLEASE:  Please do not use material from Pitching Pennies Poetry or The Peaceful Pub or any link thereof for the purpose of drawing traffic to commercial sites.  

The Play’s the Thing

“With these my hands, by time’s grey hand defiled,
I’ll speak my praise – thy verse leaves me beguiled!”
W.S. /rr

I beg, make haste; the crime must be avenged!
The ghost has seen its duty to accuse.
O, fie due process!, let it be impinged!
The execution will not be recused.

What waiting grave proclaims a warming trend,
unless of course, the destination’s hell?
Lethal poison befits the brutal end,
A mix and switch, by his own hand he fell.

The play’s the thing, you lawless resolute,
Must it be midnight ere your lines do speak?
It is in your power to heal the mute,
The protagonist was not mad, nor weak.

Now, even with the mousetrap set and sprung,
The jury does defer ’til song is sung.

 

The Measure of a Minute

I borrow this moment,
not the mark on the face
of the clock, but the memory
of it. It has started and will end
and the next one will begin,
but it is this one that I want.

The one where no thunder
is booming, no tv is on
to speak of the unending guns.
I can’t think of anything noteworthy
except that every minute is unique.
I choose to keep this one, this memory

because there will never be
another  like it.

The Importance of Words

Alone,
no contact with another human being,
no dictionary nor guide for punctuation,
No word for flower
or bloom,

Come winter,
when earth is blanketed in ermine,
language would be loomed,
a word woven
to share a sense of relevance.

Even on the darkest night
when clouds cover the constellations,
we write our world plush or harsh,
in vernacular bright or gray,
in dissonance or symphony.

At midnight
in the middle of a storm,
how morose our universe would be,
if there were no words
to conjure images of morning.