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butterflies’ must fly

Missing image

the quintessential bad girl
swaying to the blues
she never forgot how to move

they all thought they needed her
but never learned how to keep her

she couldn’t give anyone enough

they’d all try to destroy
the very thing they loved

she never idolized
a living being
like she worshiped
trees
the wind
and summer rain

she didn’t lose herself
in a bottle
like dorothy parker
nor spread herself
like anias nin

as tortured as any writer
she dove too deeply
into her own mind
and her heart pumped indigo

in the end she stayed
with the man
who learned to let her go

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1 - 7 of 7

  • camus gold member
    February 17, 2008

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    An appealing poem

    I dont know who Gypsy Red is so my interpretation may be awry. This is a simply beautiful poem poignantly depicting the anguish of a lonely, free-spirited lady who gave so much but received so little, except from the source of her one true comfort - nature, in the form of the trees, wind and summer rain. Her spontaneity contrasts markedly with the more cold, calculating character of the men who used her for personal gratification but failed to appreciate her true worth. Liked it Joyce.


    • Redstormy gold member
      February 20, 2008
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      camus gypsy red was me. If you go into my lists
      I have a series of gypsy red poems. Was being the
      key word.

      Red


  • Timothy Cameron gold member
    February 16, 2008

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    Cocooons require pain. Me, I sometimes wonder if someone burned my wings off with a cigarette. Some people will do that to those they say they love. I've glad you were able to find R and vice-versa. God is good, but is also a mystery of trust. Still wanna go home. My fav song is Summer Rain by Michael Monroe. You can hear it on MySpace. He's on my friends' list and the song can be clicked on from his page.
    Peace hugs love prayers.
    Timo


  • Danna Hobart
    February 16, 2008
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    This is beautiful, Joyce. The last two stanzas are especially strong, and their imagery helps convey something... unsayable.


  • birch
    February 15, 2008
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    Second to last stanza; that's who I am. That's me in one stanza.

    Justin


  • misselaineous
    February 15, 2008
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  • briareus silver member
    February 15, 2008
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    Concentration of narrative -- biography distilled into 27 lines, poignant summing-up of the Gypsy Red story. (Anaïs Nin was my favorite prose-poet, from 1962-71 and learning only recently from Wiki, of her two husbands.)

1 - 7 of 7