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the poetry of Charles Fry

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16 February 1995

the faces on the side walk pass me by

no i do not claim
they are ALL the Same
many have unique touches
like plastic instead of leather
or wax instead of plastic
(for certainly wax is more easily molded
to please the changing crowd)
(leather on the other hand
can endure the most viscous sand storms)
(but the plastic cries out loud
for its scratch resistant strength)

nor do i blame them
for i know how hard it is
to find a Real face;
looking back i see mine
molding and jumping and changing
such that many an observer
likely thought is was making a face at them
(but Truth be known
i guess it was really me who the faces jested)
so we all go on living
trying some how to find an elusive Reality

 Here's one for ya.   go find yourself.   late again   skys passing wave raining clouds and offer healing sun   où es-tu   dim Mornings in the underground   memories   squirming on the bath room ceiling   open   the faces on the side walk pass me by   life and living   Song of Peace   from Time   the Mountain   My Father   so i painted a red cross on my chest   my living eulogy   my plastic house   alone again   frustrating   the Song of my heart as it grows and changes   In Dark Brick Dungeons   clanteba mortillia   Lonely is   my call to this Omnipotent generation:   friend (and, by now, even brother)   my PCC   Our Garden   Cognoscente   The Home   careFree   the Children   full moon   if I were a Painter   For You   Caterpillar March   Prison   As I Went Walking   Norwegian Cockatrice Lampposts   Departure   or   The Falling Apple   Peace