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School Of Arms

 

the old worlds are dying

crumbling into the fine dust of memory

kept only by foot, hoof, claw, and wind

though the soles of the next world’s creatures

will walk new paths of immediacy  in these

sands of old regret

the only thing we will have left behind

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About HINES

Musician, actor, poet, father, reader, human, alien, otherworldly spirit...Derrick J. Hines is and will continue to be until nothing is.

7 responses to “School Of Arms

  1. Hines, that is brilliant. I’m looking at a lot of poetry as I extend my own networks as a poet. Some is good. Some, I think, “this person hasn’t really got the idea. It’s uninspired or mannered.” A very few, there’s sudden excitement, WOW. This is one.

    As for you being an alien, I remember the odd feeling entering a foreign country, seeing an entry point marked ALIENS and realising that meant me! That led in due course (many years) to a poem…

  2. christyb

    Hines, I am stopping by to introduce myself to your site as you have so kindly done on mine. Your poem speaks volumes beyond the written lines, speaking of the length that regret stretches on well past the life of material objects. Well written!

    • HINES

      Thank you Christy. It’s great to be able to hear what others get from a poem I’ve written so I thank you doubly for your response. It’s also great to receive suggestions (just for future reference) so don’t be shy. 😀

  3. HINES

    Thanks, Simon. I am on a similar journey, reading loads of poetry. I”m finding that the more I read the better I write. Something about seeing the various ways people shape ideas and express them- the short falls as well as successes- acts as sort of a support system for me. It boosts my courage and pushes me to write more; something I haven’t done nearly enough of.

  4. claudia

    it’s good to walk into these new worlds and leave the old behind..i like the images you create here..a lecture on psychology in just a few words…never look back

  5. I love this – it speaks of the energy left behind – the energy which doesn’t need language, but plants itself in images and feelings – just like we are supposed to be stardust, so the sands of the earth become our heart dust. Once I walked on Slapton Sands in England, no knowing where I was or what had happened there before. I kept hearing the crunching of many boots and felt the fear and pain of leaving. That night in the local pub, I found out where I had been. It was the beach where so many Canadian/American soldiers left from to end the war (D-Day in WWII) and many never returned. The sands still remembered, 40 years later. You could have written this poem just for that moment. Beautiful, haunting writing.

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