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I am the word juggler.I juggle the wordslike swords.I slice sensewith poetic license.
'Why do you run?' I asked the river,'So fast I can't compete.''I run,' the river said, 'becauseI have some streams to meet.'
I told a whopper, a fib, a lie.Slipped out of my mouth. It was slimy, sly.
The living room remembers Gran dancing to Count Bessie.The kitchen can still hear my aunts fighting on Christmas Day.The hall is worried about the loose banister.
Newly baked and fresh todayEat while hot or take away.
Spring is baby,bright, fresh and new,gurgling with the melting snow,singing with the first cuckoo.
My love is like a well-read bookwhich makes me smile each time I look.It shouts and whispers, roars and singsit grounds me and it gives me wings.
Thomas Farynor, Baker to the King,Left his oven burning with the firewood nearby.The embers muttered, the little flames took wing
The light through the blind is a poem,
the way it illuminates air.
And the shadows that fall
on the floor and the wall
are signs that a poem is there.