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Zieroth David Dale

Born in November 7, 1946 / Canada / English

Zieroth David Dale poet from Canada was born on November 7, 1946 has 77 years. Poems were written in Modern age mainly in English language. Dominant movement is existentialism.

Top ten poems Zieroth David Dale

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... we smash upinside all nightafter hours of visitation have safelypassed and the dark leads usaway ...

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Crows do not have Retirement

... ."There are no words to capture the infinite depth ofcrowiness in the crow's flight.."--Ted Hughes, Winter PollenCrows do not have retirementhomes to go to when finallytheir wings break downNo one takes them inwith a sigh and sayssit here for a bitwhile I bring youa cup of raw wormto help keep your headswivelling, on the lookoutfor fledglings or the dead,the eagle making youflock and divethat white untouchable pateNo one guides them gentlyinto their last years,takes account of theirfinal movements or hearstheir calls, their stout beaksopening without soundas if thirsting,their inky heads againstthe starchy white linen,constant television nearbyThey fold up in the curbin the August heat,the sheen gone from wingsThey no longer liftout of the heapno other crow will touchnor even admit,passing by withoutan exploratory peckleaving their own kindto gulls, rats, worms, the municipalityTo keep the blackideal of ravenousnessalive, they hop and lift offand cruise past windowswhere old men catch their flashand are sent off dreamingof their own unequalled speed and gracethe guns they once heldin their long arms and the damagethey shook from the air ...

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The Fly in Autumn

... Yes, the light once more comes down at lastthrough cloudsto warm my blue asshere on the yet green nettle leaf, summernear the bear plop, and we the speciesbest at finding dung, in the end lightor in the glow of an early planetAnd even so, my wingscarry me, and what thinnessupon which to rely ...

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Glenella, Manitoba

... enoughfor a place on the map of the worldin the post office), that Winnipegis where the world begins ...

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The Man Who Invented the Turn Signal

... ne like you,someone who has brains and handslike yours, good at signalsI can pick up along this road ...

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The Options

... When you diehere are the options:everything or oblivionA centre of light and around itall you love, those deadand those abiding stilland each holdingan object of endearmentyou lost long agobefore you came toknow and be simultaneouslyat lastat restbeyond wordsOr else your cellsstop their chemicaltalk, the neurons say noand their warmth leaves younot with blacknot even the absence of black--nothing of earth's up, round, biomass, spanjust the nonexistenceyou tried to conjure onceby closing your eyes andsleeping, except that dreamsfired their figmentsacross space at youand your muscles strainingWhile we livewe pick one of these optionsto live by, and neither is understoodthe way the robin in the tree iswho speaks to us of March lust,the way water and clouds arewhich tell us to walk outinto the day, how to stepon grass and mud and feel the pullupward and then sag an hour laterdown, we with our little timeand our ideas and our blood ...

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Sorrowful Friends

... long, I'll meet each on the street, one hereand another there, on separate days, in a different year ...

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The Village of Sliding Time

... [EXCERPT]one skeletal husbandstood by the corn fieldas long as one summerwhile a wife burned her fataway, never moving from her bedafraid of the doctorspeaking fasther own tongue thickeningher sons woollenand silent by the doorcoming to take her handall their eyes fillingexcept one ragedagainst his father who neverbought the dresseshis mother once wantedbut no morepast the worrythe heart softeningagainst that manbecause she knewhe would follow herone day in the potato patchpassing down into the blackworked and reworked soilto taste the mineral that he wassharp, iron, foreigntiny crystal stones on his teethlittle white micas he hadcombined with shit from the animalsand built rows ofraspberry canes, fencesbuildings so tallthey needed rods even higherto pull lightningdown around the wallsand into the blackened groundmuch like the kindhis sons picked him up fromand then laid him back intobesides his wifeand where his sons tookfamilies to trim and plantdisturb the fat snakessliding into spacesat the edge of the gravenearest their motherwhere the headstonemost needed repairand where they were beginningnot to believe the Biblicalphrases and consolationschipped in granite.Àæ ...