This is not poetry.
Braddock is not dead,just very very sick,and needs a good doctor
I love and miss you Chrissie, you were always optomistic and your an inspiration to me- love Frankie
Judith Brice's poetry quenches a political and literary thirst experienced in all corners of the world. Her Marigolds and Doves serves up a delectable diet of dichotomous imagery: simultaneously beautiful and horrifying; evil countered with hope.
Dr. Brice's word-smithing is nothing short of dazzling, particularly in light of the economy of words she uses. If you want to see how someone puts so much in such a small place, then look no further. They are a written viaduct between our awareness of the horror of the helplessness of others, and the hope we secretly cling to while denying our own private helplessness.
And yet, the empathic core of Marigolds and Doves left me thinking two thoughts I'd rather not ponder: Will olive branches ever again be carried by the dove? And, indeed, where have all the flowers gone?
To me a very thoughtful and beautiful poem. Thanks.
Dear Sam Hazo,
Have you heard them in California still whining about Katrina? Unseemly, at best; probably criminal; certainly damning.
I hope you are back. If you still are not, keep writing about us left here to listen to their excuses.
Remember Neruda's The Poet's Obligation?
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