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Sunday, November 10, 2013


When is a stick not just a stick?
When dancing in the hands of a master.

The alphabet attends the poetic dance
as single letters longing for embrace.
The writing stick soon finds rhythms
as the dance of verse begins.

The colors bleed from the rainbow’s end
Upon the canvas created by man.
The drawing stick redefined
in the understanding of one.

The orchestra stands by ready for flight
to carry love’s passion into the night
The rhythm stick sways to and fro
directing the rise and fall of notes.

Or the stick could be the magic sword in the hands of its inspired childhood master…

© Nov 10, 2013 ~ DBC, Duke of the Arctic

NOTE: photo is a random internet find

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