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Poetry by Shigé Clark

"Let the battered heart rejoice"

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job

Though He Slay Me

The hackberry chars, but will not burn.
It turns its back, defiant to the fire.
It won’t be lost to ember and to ash,
it lasts beyond the pyre.
It will be itself, and nothing less –
if greyed and shriveled from its form.
It says that living wood is best
and will not be reborn.

The birch erupts to instant flame
and fumes – it burns a golden bright
and is consumed. It flings itself
in flakes against the night
and breathes full to its core. The pain
of crumbling is barely more
than life, and for
all its ash and ember, it is nothing less
than light.

Workin’ Overtime

He’s workin’ overtime
Far passed what you’d call end of day
Because when clock-out time comes, there’s
No magic to whisk work away
And only him to bear the load,
And no one else who cares to stay
And who can blame them? It’s not like
It gets them extra pay.

– s. Clark

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