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Poetry
by Aristotle Sinclair
Time,
Time, the Voice Became an Absence
Her lips were flame, feminine
formed, altruistic giving of absolute
benevolence. As she spoke my name
several unstained times, the sullen letters
began to dance. Her speaking was
transient singing, a permanent alteration
of boredom's naturalized beginnings.
Her voice grew into a bird.
From the cup of my lonely hands
the scatter of her voice left talon prints
of an ascending bird. The prints represent
a rarity of giving, needing nothing
in return.
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Wondering
Toward Alien of Sound
Today I heard a noise
near resemblance of reconstructed
newness. Noise was not known.
Outside, birds' choir chooses westward
salutation. Farther, birds
capture gifts of air
massaging feathers fondling a blue.
All of this I recognize, wonder
when leaning toward an open window
if the lover will leave before introducing
smile of lights highlighting the noise
I cannot comprehend.
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The
Here is Here Regardless of Incidental Realities
The temporary is everlasting
as is alive its contrary. Her pastel green
painted fingernails will follow
an epoch of neoteric absence.
Her touch is always touching me.
Although she is dead
my memory regains a temporary
feel. As with sharp pains,
highlighting ache living
on sensitive ribs, a pill can remove its
momentary pressure, and though she
is dead, her face will reshape
as I enter the darkened hallway
of illuminated psyche.
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Aristotle Sinclair is a poet
of neoteric contemplation. He reads Duane Locke and Constance
Stadler to become acclimated to excellent poetry. He wrote his
first poem on 8/13/09, and has received acceptances to Writers'
Bloc, The Catalonian Review, Writing Raw, and The Legendary.
In the rarity of spare time, he reads various texts and quotations
from philosophers, and thinks Thelonious Monk is the epitome
of a jazz genius. He records occurrences at http://aristotlesinclair.blogspot.com/.
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