maggie goren writer



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short stories and other writing

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Do you think
we are so different…
dwellers in bricks
and mortar,
fires not struck
from sticks but whole trees
buried deep, pick-axed
by men crouched, ranked
in dank, earth-bound tombs –
dark labyrinthine hells that
without warning
cave in…

on warring men
crouched rank in trench,
with stench of fear
and fate
fouling the atmosphere –
beyond the mammoth sense
of stark futility…
without warning!

They too had paintings
on their walls:
cave dwellers bent on
etching immortality in
magic mark on stone;
minds fired to speak,
to reach beyond the possible,
shaft sky and burst
upon the stars unpiloted ideas,
baggage of hope.

Self-conscious in    
our picture palaces,
we grope for imagery to
satisfy old blindness –
signal hope.



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