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Blood & Ink
Sonnetsby Norman F Pollack
Written from 1987 - 2002 |
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Tears That Fall As Ink.The tears I cried erupted from my brain. My painful thoughts ran out my eyes and flowed As sobbing tears. That salty deluge showed The inner suffering and mental pain, Which if retained would send my mind insane. I try to keep thoughts in, but I'd explode Without an outlet for this mental load. Then, I'd be gone, and no thoughts would remain. |
Reply to A FriendYou ask my thoughts on travel - it's a pain! I drown in crowds, and cannot stand the rabble That fill Hotels and Airports with their babble; Bomb-like in my ears and in my brain. The suffering and cost exceed the gain: Lost luggage might be found amongst the scrabble And within foreign death-traps one must dabble. Will I travel more? No, thank you, Jane. |
SwimmingThree times a week I force myself to swim. Though I hate water and it's such a bore, I strain myself and afterwards feel sore; But its the best way to be fit and slim. I plough along and envy those who skim! Each lap I force myself to swim some more, And dread the changing room, where nude before Too many eyes, and jokes like, "Look at him!" |
Old and UglyWhat hope have I? I'm ugly and I'm old. My problem used to be that I was sick. I knew that I would not get better quick, But I believed - despite what I was told - That one day I'd be well. Through hot and cold I exercised, had treatment, tried to stick With hope, and not give up, through thin and thick. While time passed, and the days, months and years rolled.
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UselessWhat use is life to me or me to life? I have no joy in living: no desire, No dreams or hopes to which I can aspire. I have no family, no kids, no wife. And to those few who know me I cause strife: If I said I was liked I'd be a liar, I'd not be missed if I were to expire From lethal gas, a gun, a rope or knife. |
Blood and LeadI write this poem in blood, and now in lead, To make this moment last - blood outlasts ink - To share this feeling with you, so you think What I feel now. These words flow out my head And down my arm. They're written down, not said. This blood thing pushes me right to the brink Of feeling real, and sharing, like a wink, The knowledge we're alive, we are not dead.
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Were Mind and Hand At Rest.If I were dead right now, and couldn't write These words, I couldn't think these thoughts, nor could I push this pen across this pad, nor would I sit in pain, and suffering and fright, And watch my trembling fingers - through the night - Make inky scribbles on this dried, pulped wood; But be a cold, dead corpse - where once I stood - And not think thoughts, feel pain, or see the light.
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Defer Growing Old - by Staying Young!Shall I grow up today, and then grow old? Or try remaining young and immature? Each day, the days remaining become fewer And there's less life that's left - or so I'm told! I may yet end up food for worms and mould. But is the tide of time a fatal lure Bypassing life that's fresh, reborn or newer? While we just watch life's pre-drawn map unfold.
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To Smell But Not to SmellThe sense I know the least: that of my nose. When once I told a girl, "your perfume's class." She said, "I don't wear perfume. Take a pass!" I only smell strong smells: the scented rose; And my smells, like what grows between my toes, my arm-pits, round my balls and up my arse. Yes life that's blind to smells is not a farce Because it's secret and nobody knows. |
Written While Waiting for A 'Phone Call.The last three times I phoned you, you replied, "You beat me, I was almost phoning you. Somehow you must have rung because you knew You're on my list, and soon I would have tried To phone you." I naively have relied On your assertion, but today a new Technique will show if what you say is true And you phone if I don't, or if you lied.
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Heart and Soul
Are" Heart" and "Soul" concentric?
Don't say, "Not."
In every healthy being, both exist
And for continued health they must persist
Throughout each life.
Or can one be forgot?
And be replaced by fear of Hell (that's hot!)
or (what rot!)
As some do, who to me have lost the gist
Of core existence - blinded by the mist
Of prejudice, and all the pain they've got.
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A Conscious Being Known As me.What shall I do? I cannot sleep tonight. The work I've done has energised my brain. Each time I try to lie, I rise again And walk or drink or smoke or wank or write. This lack of sleep will be tomorrow's blight, When daylight comes and I shall suffer pain, Then, when I try to think, I'll go insane - If I don't get some sleep before its light. |
History's Great Lie
The greatest lie of History still remains
Untold, throughout the world, in any home,
And never taught in school of thatch or dome;
And after centuries, this lie still stains
Our history books. It gives false tyrants gains,
And fills their banks, as bees fill honeycomb.
This lie - for power - by the Church of Rome
Still causes human sufferings and pains.
The year we count as "one", was then and is
The Roman Empire's birth. For in that year
Augustus made the title "Ceasar" his,
which was his Uncle's name, to end the fear
in old Republic Rome. It's gone, but 'tis
the Roman Church that spreads that lie, still, here.
Norman F. Pollack
April 1999
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Some People Think I'm Mad.Some people think I'm mad. So, if I'm mad What sort of madness should I entertain? |
AddendumAddendum to a po m writ before In which, in order that the words would scan I did not start the thoughts where lines began; But now I feel my guilt and must write more So that a clear intent I can restore. I said there that I was an insane man, But reject all the madnesses I can, Nearly all of which I do abhore. |
On Being A Vegetarian.It's not my role to preach or tell you howTo live your life, or tell you what to eat, But let me tell you why I don't eat meat: Though raised an omnivore, for decades now I will not eat a fish, fowl, sheep or cow. It's not just how it chews, or what shape feet, Or whether it can cheep or growl or bleat Or if it gives a bark, neigh, hiss or meow.
It does not matter that they are not wise,
Norman F Pollack
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My Ontological Status Derives from YoursNow, shall I dedicate these lines to you? Dear Reader, it is you for whom these words Are written, and although it seems absurd Surmising your existence, it is true That, although I am ignorant of who You are (nor caring if you're cool or nerds) If this is never read, then I have erred Sustaining thoughts that no one ever knew. |
Science and Religion are One"The Name" - all Words - It is all Unity. Out there is just one truth. One world is real. And yet each person knows that what they feel Is true, not false, and what they know must be. Each thinking mind has an ontology. Some hear their truith while they, in silence, kneel, Or in Muezzins' call or Church-bells' peel; And Science says, "the truth is known to me." |
Ode To Forgotten PleasureWhat greater tragedy is there than this? If pleasure is a good thing, not a sin, And joy unbounded - life lived with a grin - Is recommended, it would be remiss If one lacked conscious knowledge of the bliss. But if to find that joy you must begin Intoxicated, then the state you're in May mean the joy you'll find you'll also miss.
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Farewell to a FriendA poem titled: "Farewell to a Friend". We spent sometime together through the years; We shared our hopes and dreams - failures and fears; On meals of beer and pizza we did spend; To each a few possessions we did lend: While each put arguments that neither hears; And hid our pains, as men, concealing tears; Not thinking that one day our bond would end. |
To Erato
This Book in Verse, I dedicate to you.
The thoughts within should please your Royal Mind,
And join our Souls and Hearts as One. Please find
Enclosed some poems. These are just a few
Of What I had to say; you can look through
My twisted consciousness; then, wend and wind
Your way through my ideas. Please be kind
To one who says his love remains true blue.
But now, My Love, Wife, Inspiration, Muse,
Please understand this fact that you don't know:
(It is an ancient truth and yet its news)
My love is fickle, and in time I'll go,
I will return, as you're the One I choose,
But, like all men, my love will ebb and flow.
Norman F Pollack
June, 1999
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Introductionary PrefaceThe Preface to the Introduction is The place where you, Dear Reader, start to know Where I have been and where I plan to go. |
Studying EnglishMy English homework takes up so much time!I wonder why I'm doing VCE; I don't know what the benefits will be. Not using knowledge gained would be a crime. A greater purpose than to write this rhyme Must be in store, to justify for me This effort, but I cannot, so far, see A single reason for it. And yet I'm
Learning how to write and how to spell,
Norman F Pollack |
Inflected Thoughts ExpressedWhen I write thoughts as words I do rehearse Their sounds, for when I write, the rules are flexed To choose which sound and which idea comes next. To emphasise them both might make it worse, With writing that's verbose or else too terse. Those seeking deeper meaning will be vexed By trying hard to deconstruct my text To find more sense than words within my verse.
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Memories of Unwritten Poems.Where are the verses which I did not write? The thoughts, ideas and passions I forgot. They touched my soul, but write them I did not; Once thought like stars they faded with dawn's light. Some were profound - a few had real insight, Though most were silly fun and some were rot! They all are lost to time, so who knows what Ideas have shared that unrecorded plight.
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Writing in VerseIf I had a message, prayer or curse,I'd want to write it quickly, not take days To find these complex rhythms, and strange ways To rhyme the words. When short, succinct and terse, The meaning's clearer; nothing could be worse Than clouding meaning in this word-bound haze. This rhyme and meter were an ancient craze That's best forgotten. Do not write in verse
When there's a point, or substance to be said.
Norman F Pollack |
Anger and DistressMy anger at injustice is repressed. Like everyone I suffer shame and pain, But unlike many, I do not complain; I'm grateful that with life and health I'm blessed. Within my silence, I can hear the rest Who whinge and moan, then whinge and moan again, complaining, in a way that is insane When life does not deliver what is best. |
Why From Freemasonry I Must Be FreedThese lines of words, which you now start to read, Are not intended to dismay or pain You, but to let my guilty heart explain Why from Freemasonry I must be freed.
Norman F - Pollack |
Who Populates the Labour Barbecue?Who are the people in the A.L.P.? Who populates the Labour Barbecue? I went one time with someone that I knew Who hoped I shared his solidarity. I stood around and drank an ale or three And watched those "bonza blokes" eat, drink and spew! They claimed that they were "workers" and "true blue", But what I heard was not what I could see.
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Note to a Junkie's Mother
How can you sleep at night with what you've done?
"Mature", "Intelligent" - you are self styled
And by your son's behaviour you're reviled:
You cast aside the web of sins you've spun.
You think you know it all and have begun
(Unable to perceive you are beguiled)
To force your false, fad theories on your child
And make the world a nightmare for your son.
NormegusMarch1998 |
A Poem in HTMLI'll write a po'em in H. T. M. L. So: <a href="MY_WORDS"> to YOUR IDEAS </a>. That anchor led to my worse fears, Or else to someone with some trash to sell, Or to some pervert, where none hear us yell, (In CyberSpace its no use shedding tears.) Be warned, that evil comes and danger nears, But that's not what we hoped the Net would tell.
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A Theological Argument.To reach "Olum Abah", the "World to Come" (which might be real, if that's what you believe, or just a thought that's easy to perceive: I hear the scientists all saying . . "Um?") when added up, your good aspect should sum to more than that about which you should grieve. So when its time - from life - for each to leave, with Universal Harmony we'll humm. |
My Alone PoemAlone within my inner mind I sit, While round me is a world I see and feel And smell and taste, and which I know is real, But in which I don't ever seem to fit. Some foods I eat and love, you think are shit, And for me, your food would not be a meal, But its not food that prompts this little schpiel, But thoughts I should retain, bit I'll not quit.
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Blood & Ink
I write this poem in ink and not in blood;
The words will last but writing sheds no pain.
Yet what are words?
But thoughts that pages stain.
In ancient times, they punched their words in mud,
But when it rained, the books became a puddle.
Writing with my blood might help my brain
Know what I felt was true, as I attain
Communication with you - Not a dud!
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Awake Now?
Could I have been asleep for 50 years
Since my dear Father dropped me on my head?
When I think of the useless life I've led!
With pain, confusion, suffering and tears!
Instead of joy or hope, I just had fears;
For all I mattered, I could have been dead.
How strange to find myself alive instead;
A waking, reborn adult now appears.
So, suddenly I'm asking "Who am I?"
Is it too late to learn to live like me?
I have no guides on whom I can rely
But I need help to know what I should be.
What should I do, twixt now and when I die,
For, suddenly I'm live, awake and free.
Norman F Pollack
September, 1999
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Friday 26th July 2002The things that must be finished by this week:One BAS for the dear ATO (It takes so little time, but I'm so slow) And then I'll file things for which I might seek; Perhaps I might repair that scary creak Upon the stairs outside, and then I'll go, And do some other things that I don't know About right now - or if I said, you'd freak!
Tonight begins my day of perfect rest |
Let My Creatures BeThis Sonnet was inspired by a new pad of paper. Yet not by just the paper but also by the tree that it was made from, and not nust the tree but all the animals and birds that used to make their homes in the tree. Is all that now exists this paper? Hopefully, when trees are cut down, the ecology that inhabits them is saved.Like all Sonnets, it has fourteen lines in two verses, with the traditional rhyming pattern, except that the second verse has all the lines rhyming, which is unusual, and a single word is broken by the verses, which is intended to convey the way the forest is cut through by big boys with chain saws, eradicating everything. I'll write a poem for this brand-new pad; Yes, even if it doesn't have a brand, Which doesn't matter. On the other hand, When I began this verse, I only had The paper for a purpose, which is sad. Now, let's make sure that we both understand We all can live together in this land: It's wrong that some are working to erad - - icate poor creatures - just like you and me. These words - not mine - some creature's, who was free Until its home was felled for what you see. So let us all together hear this plea From the ecology that was the tree That is this paper: "let my creatures be!" eNormus Tered 3 August 2002 |
Old ShoesI'm sad because I've just replaced old shoes; Two pairs have been thrown out: one black, one brown; Worn out from years of fun, and work in town, Preventing every cut, graze, sprain and bruise. The loss I feel is like some tragic news; New shoes should lift my mood but I am down; Instead of smiling feet, I wear a frown; No winning thrill, I've just been told, "you lose!" Is sorrow eased if they are thrown out fast? And, these new shoes fit well and are smart too! Like love and pain, good footwear does not last But fades, just like the lessons I once knew. It's hard for me to let go of the past When future plans and dreams and hopes are few. Norman F Pollack March 2003 |
"Bay, Bee Doo, Bee Dee"I'll write this special poem to be read, With sounds (and silence) counting: one, two, three . . To be or do? Be? Do? My thoughts are free And what are words but thoughts that someone said? Yet my free thoughts can not run free, instead I keep these metric feet obediently. Some say there's something silly wrong with me Because my verses have a style that's dead. The rhythmic sounds of spoken words can give My verses something simple to appeal To all the types of listeners who live And don't just hear a beat, but also feel: Be like a baby, do be dismissive Of what the words mean: sound is all that's real. Normus e-normus@tered 21 July 2002 II |
Quest TestPlease write this down, it's a dictation test. Can you transform my thoughts into a page Of written words? It won't test sex or age, But separate the dim-wits from the rest. Amongst the curs d rabble, some are blessed With brains. (You need not be a sage!) Don't say we are all dumb - that's an outrage! This test will find some thinkers; that's my quest. There must be people who can understand Me, and are not out for their own foul ends. Where are my soul-mates in this barren land? I yearn for friendship, but it all depends On matching intellect. This test is planned To find minds like my own: then I've found friends. NFP 24th July 2002 |
Share Watcher
A world of bulls now, soon a world of bears,
The options I should buy are puts, not calls;
Dare I admit, though, I don't have the balls
To speculate in options or in shares?
They're up and down, like flights of crazy stairs,
Just like a plane that soars - until it stalls:
Sometimes the market rises - then it falls;
And if one wins or loses, no one cares!
While writing this - not doing - there's no gain,
But its much safer, if I just observe;
Avoiding both the triumphs and the pain.
Yes, I admit I do not have the nerve!
So out of it - a watcher, I remain,
While others ride that roller-coaster curve.
Norman F. Pollack
March, 2000
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To a Silent, eMail, Mensa, Book List.
Is this a non event or am I here?
I haven't seen a message here for weeks!
Perhaps a "Brighter" Mensan finds or seeks
Who's lurking here: and are they far or near;
And do they feel compassion, shed a tear,
Know all emotions, both the troughs and peaks?
Or are they just a bunch of silent geeks,
Who think they know it all, and have no fear?
But who am I to question who are they?
I read less, and know less than most of you.
I do not have a single thing to say,
But use up lots of words as if I do.
Real truth cannot be written in this way;
It's something that one day, we'll know we knew.
Norman F Pollack
August 2003
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Plagued by Problems
Here's a poem with a plumbing gripe
About the man here now, fixing the sewer.
I will not move to somewere bland and newer
Just to get a perfect piece of pipe
That needs no man, machine or other type
Of help. A place to live that's clean and pure
Where water flows and problems are much fewer,
Is harder than to change a tiger's stripe.
These problems are the wages of my sins!
Half of the time I'm lying sick in bed,
Or fighting on with jokes and jests and grins
These problems that are real, not in my head.
We're plagued by problems from when life begins
Right up until the moment when we're dead.
Norman F Pollack
May 2003
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The Dental Splint
My visits to the dentists are a mess!
I wake and worry now all through the night,
Concerned this plastic splint does not fit right.
His idea of my bite is just his guess,
And dislocates my jaw. It is far less
Than what I think should be my ideal bite.
Oh! Sorry me! To suffer such a plight,
And have my Dentist cause me this distress.
The jaw position that I had before
Was very wrong. I suffered pain for years.
The muscles round my face were always sore;
To eat or talk too much would induce tears.
But this attempt to relocate my jaw
Gives no relief and plays upon my fears.
Norman F. Pollack
August, 1998
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Friendless
I'm sitting silently at home alone,
With not a place to go and not a friend.
Is this the way my sad, short life will end?
No one to hear my final lonely groan?
Perhaps for unknown sins I now atone,
And suffer now for ways I did not mend.
Perhaps its true, for me the fates intend
A lonely life for acts they can't condone.
But if I'm punished this way, what's my sin?
Should I be ignorant of why the fates
Preserve the solitary state I'm in?
I have no lovers, family, friends or mates
Or any type of person to begin
Into my empty life to infiltrate.
Norman F. Pollack
August 1999
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When I rejected you . . .
Is this another letter I won't send?
With all the thoughts I'm much too scared to say
I'm writing them because I think I may
Post it to you ~ or do I just pretend?
You never give me back the things I lend
And haven't even started to repay
Past loans and now you ask for more today
But will you ever read these words I've penned?
When I rejected you, you had a hit.
What motive caused that self-inflicted pain?
Is it a threat: I pay, or you won't quit?
Or else you hope that pity might yet gain
Another loan from me? No! Not one bit.
And yet I hope good mates we will remain.
Norman F. Pollack
May, 2002
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Hopes For My Nose
It's time I wrote a verse about my nose.
Not the sense of smell: the site of pain,
Located just below my frontal brain.
Next Tuesday, Noon, my Surgeon will expose
The changes he has wrought, which no one knows,
While shattered bone regenerates again
And nerves regrow, though just a few remain.
What shape awaits? I dare not pre-suppose.
The person each believes himself to be
Is true, hence change portends a mental change.
Soon I'll invent or re-discover me
(From what can be in Physic's numbered range)
And feel, with nature, love and harmony,
And not be viewed by anyone as strange.
Norman F. Pollack
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How do I Break the Law?
How do I break the Law? Here are some ways.
There's lack of diligence: I'm just plain lax.
I will deliver punches, kicks and smacks:
When hurt, no Law assists; my blow repays.
Of course, our days are spent in drug filled haze
To cope with Bureaucrats and painful backs,
But some things we don't do are: cheat on tax,
Nor do we kill, rob, lie or start a blaze.
The Law begins where private morals end:
What's good, the Law is not required to see.
Our lives are ours, however we intend
To "do our thing", and be whom each might be.
No Earthly Monarch, Government or Friend
Can stop our Spirits soaring. We are Free!
Norman F Pollack
July 2002
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A Verse of Hate
I'll vent my anger in this verse of hate,
And rant against those whom I see as vile,
And spew this animosity and bile
Upon them, starting with men I called "mate"
Who used me (while I thought we could relate)
And denigrated me with tricks and guile,
With disdain and contempt behind their smile
While they pretended they thought I was great.
But worse than them are those I should respect,
Like Medicos and members of the Bar,
And Bureaucrats (I mean those who collect
And spend out Taxes): wounding from afar,
By harming me and leaving my life wrecked,
While I don't even know who those cunts are.
Norman F Pollack
September, 1999
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Save Albert Park
Life's pains and problems are too much for me;
I want to laugh but all that comes are tears
That blind, and drown and magnify my fears,
So I sink deeper into misery;
Because there is one problem I foresee
That fuels all other problems, and that steers
Them, raising every other problem's gears;
And that great, awful pain is the Grand Prix.
We're deafened and we're deaded by that race,
Which threatens life and limits liberty.
The Parliament's no use, nor a court case,
And who sees yellow ribbons on a tree?
The race could have been in some other place,
And left the People's Parklands all stay free.
Norman F Pollack
March, 2002
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To All Other Jews
An Open Letter to all other Jews:
Judea can exist again right now.
The way is very simple, this is how:
The World is what we want to think; we choose;
We have the freedom to invent "the News"!
If they' won't have it, then it's I' and thou'
To turn the wheel, to build, to pull the plough
Alone - yet not - as when we sit in pews.
Let Judah rise, as a Theocracy.
Jerusalem its Capital, both East
And West united, with equality;
A city silent, like axles in grease;
Let others live betwixt, and let there be
Joy, love for others, Fear of G-d and Peace.
Norman F Pollack
August, 2002
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21 July 2002 IAround me is a world of theft and lies, Where wicked men succeed, and "might is right". They lie and cheat by day as well as night, And act like "gods" with all that word implies As though their power on earth came from the skies. They tell us that the world is black and white And only they can lead us to the light And on this lie the populace relies. Why don't more people value what is true? Instead of living artificial lives That serve a sect or tyrant or some new Fad, fashion, trend - though none of them survives! If everyone sought truth, not just a few, We'd have a world at peace where beauty thrives. Normus e-normus@tered.com |
Autumn Alone
Another poem for an Autumn day.
Alone, just me, myself and I, this "we"
(Whomever "I" or "me" or "we" might be)
With pen and pad and many things to say.
But every person has his or her way
To speak unhindered (rightly, also free)
So while we are all speaking, who hears me?
And yet my need to speak won't go away.
I'm really just an ordinary bloke!
Although I am good, some things I do are bad
Because I'm human, just like other folk.
Stop blaming men, the brother, son or Dad,
And making us the culprit - or a joke -
If we're not perfect: that's what's really sad!
Norman F Pollack
April, 2002
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What Woeful Wrath is War
What wicked waste and woeful wrath is War!
Is there a future for this world we love?
Norman F Pollack |
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