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RovingoneShow poetry

I'm blue collar in a world where the working man is relegated to the past. I'm a romantic, where it is regarded as being a failing, except by a few young, still tender souls, who can see things others cannot.

Things I love are rainy days, when I'm home, watching the storm, dry and warm, working at the mundane, such as cleaning the house, listening to some good jazz or classical music and making dinner, with a bottle of red wine breathing. And, I love my little cocker spaniel, getting old, but still lively with a tail that wags out her love for me.

If I leave this world tomorrow, I want to think I've enjoyed many fantastic trips in the reading of all the great poets and writers and, perhaps, left a few footsteps somewhere in some other mind as well.









My Poetry

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  • I'm just a sad little monkey, on a leash, all day.
    Wishing I wasn't stuck on a chain this way.
    19 lines, 2 comments, July 5
  • It all seemed so innocent, the night we met.
    Just one of those things we'd both soon forget.
    33 lines, 2 comments, July 4. In Contest, Angst, Sad Thoughts
  • It happened one day on the boulevard,
    All day long I'd been playin' hard.
    6 lines, 3 comments, July 4
  • Away up north, where ice and snow, are stirred by chillin' gale,
    there, where the northern lights are shinin', folks all tell a tale,
    19 lines, 2 comments, July 4

My Stories

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My other items

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Guestbook

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  • Hi just thought that we can be friends . catch me on my hotmail address.susanfrancis19@hotmail.com of facebook.com .
    would like to here from you
    Cheers -susan
  • Metaphorist on May 26
    Thank you so much for the favorite add
  • Night Hope on May 21
    "I'm a romantic, where it is regarded as being a failing, except by a few young, still tender souls, who can see things others cannot."

    Hmmm...I don't find it to be a failing; I think it's a requirement. How can one truly become a Poet without regard for romance? Just an observation. I grew up between two brothers, so I earned the title the hard way. Welcome to AP, Rovingone...Thank you for your kind words. A Gift, then...These are links to some famous Poets you might enjoy...& the last ones are a travel link from National Geographic & an inspirational trailer from Duirwaigh Galleries with music, art & poetry...Be well, Poet... Wanda

    Dunbar

    http://www.web-books.com/Classics/Poetry/Anthology/Dunbar_PL/index.htm

    Lorca

    http://www.boppin.com/lorca/

    Dickinson

    http://www.poemhunter.com/emily-dickinson/

    Millay

    http://www.english.uiuc.edu/maps/poets/m_r/millay/online_poems.htm

    Eluard, Neruda, Hernandez

    http://www.freenetpages.co.uk/hp/freeman/index.htm

    Bronte

    http://www.digital.library.upenn.edu/women/bronte/poems/poems.html

    Frost

    http://www.ketzle.com/frost/

    Keats

    http://englishhistory.net/keats/poetry.html

    Khayyam

    http://www.okonlife.com

    Tagore

    http://www.terebess.hu/english/tagore5.html

    Neruda

    http://www.poemhunter.com/pablo-neruda/poet-6638/

    Paz

    http://www.geocities.com/poesiamsigloxx/paz/paz2.html

    Gibran

    http://www.leb.net/gibran/works/prophet/prophet2.html

    National Geographic

    http://www.nationalgeographic.com/traveler/petra.html

    Duir Waigh Gallery ~ "Knock on the Duir" trailer

    http://www.duirwaighgallery.com/inspiration_trailer.htm

  • Rovingone : What will you leave? on May 14
    Make a mark, that what we were told as children. Go out into the world and be something for history to record with awe and humility and others will remember you for.

    Then, I went out into the world and spent my days toiling in the thick of it. Like a rutted road, where the wheels would, at times, become so hopelessly mired, I went forward, slow but steady.

    Now, looking back, into the valley, where the storms still mill and murkey water still fills those ruts, I see little has been left for history. My legs are soar from the chase and my eyes are growing weak with straining in the semi darkness of a horizon that never came fully into view.

    I watch those storm clouds now, and the world is covered with a cold, heavy rain. Many others toil up those same steep, muddy slopes and I wonder if they will leave anything to history. Then, I turn back to the yoke and press on, not really knowing the reason I pull the plow but too conditioned to it to think anymore. What will I leave? Long from now, a scattering of dust that no one will ever know was once a man.

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