Poem: “The foul stench”, notebooks, Jim Stallings

The foul stench

Of soul meanness

Those who spoil

As daily sport

Joy of put-down

Envy of success

Of the real kind

Requiring heart & passion

That staring into horizon

The gaze that frees

And waits on knowledge

The shape of things to come

Like cloud masses from Canada

Weather of a changing kind

Sending the faint-hearted in doors—

There to await their polar fate.

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Filed under flash poetry, poetry, prose poetry, works in progress

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