This poem grew long hair and a beard, trying to look like Walt Whitman, I suppose. What do you think?
*****
WAY OUT WEST
WHERE THE HOT SUN
BAKES THE FLESH
In the air,
in the very oxygen I breathe,
there is a presence,
a sense,
as though I’m being regarded…judged.
Not a Godly stare,
or ancient awareness.
…I look back to see my father,
or Great-great-great Grandmother,
seeing me as their clan cogent,
their diluted spirit docent,
I feel the hands outreaching,
in the words and songs worth teaching
And I reach for things they’re preaching
Sans sorrow and beseeching…
*****
I ignore my relatives in relation to their relativity to things deep
it hurts don't go there they all try to get into my head I said yeah! yeah! yeah!
Are you ignoring this one?
http://uk.answers.yahoo.com/question/index?qid=20080715105227AASdwby&r=w&pa=FZptHWf.BGRX3OFPgDJUVG4HpWat.k_ofoK8x9nb20sVJAqWYw--&paid=answered#OqwtP1HAAksvDOZv9MIj
He's attention seeking again.
Me too why don't you answer my fings no-more?? eh?
Hot Seat Teaching Strategy - Mrs. Webster
