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Marsh Trees

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  • John Wertz
    replied
    Thanks much John.

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  • John Northcutt Young
    replied
    Enjoy this. Especially like the opening---how it paints a picture. Well done.

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  • John Wertz
    replied
    To PhoenixRising: Thanks so much. See you are from Arizona. We were out your way a couple of years ago. Terrific! Lots of poetry in those canyons.

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  • PhoenixRising
    replied
    Great!

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  • John Wertz
    replied
    I appreciate your kind words,

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  • luna5000
    replied
    Very skillful, descriptive, and flows like water.

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  • John Wertz
    replied
    Thanks much J.

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  • J.Worth13
    replied
    Love the style and flow of this one, and exceptional message and imagery to boot!

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  • waydownuponjoy
    replied
    Such beautiful & thoughtful imagery you've drawn here with this poem and I felt that it was a tidal island that you shared here! I did note that you were in Bluffton and have enjoyed that area myself on holiday. joy

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  • John Wertz
    replied
    Thanks to Pamela, John and D.F. for your thoughts on this piece.

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  • Pamela Baker
    replied
    lovely!

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  • Electron.John
    replied
    Lots to love about this one. "To shelter neath its dome of jade", "A painter's scene and poet's mind,", "No builder steals the souls of trees." Thanks for sharing.

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  • D.F.Russell
    replied
    "Were I but young and standing here"

    The things we regret the most, I think, are probably the things that change us the most.

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  • John Wertz
    started a topic Marsh Trees

    Marsh Trees

    Marsh Trees

    Far 'cross grasses green and pink,
    Sand bars white and black salt creeks,
    Where cloud and flood merge indistinct,
    Where 'cross dry land the ocean leaks,

    There grows apart a wooded glade,
    Where no one goes that I have seen,
    To shelter neath its dome of jade,
    A shrine where ne'er a pilgrim's been.

    Were I but young and standing here
    And saw that distant grove of trees
    And saw that march hawk circling there,
    I'd walk or wade out as I please.

    That mile or so of trackless waste —
    And not a whit what you might think.
    Light callowness I then embraced
    And worried not on food or drink.

    And in that secret wood might find,
    Where last the native bare foot walked,
    A painter's scene and poet's mind,
    A mystic's dream that spirits talked,

    That most singular, rare of earth,
    Where grains of time melt in hot breeze,
    Where no lined ledger sets the worth,
    No builder steals the souls of trees.

    John Wertz
    Bluffton, SC
    2014
    Last edited by John Wertz; 02-06-2015, 12:10 PM.
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