Acapulco Nights

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  • Lost Love

    Acapulco Nights

    In the stillness of a soft Acapulco night, a solitary guitar is strummed,

    the notes caught upon a cool breeze are carried to la playa,

    where I lie with my sweetheart,

    The sound, pure as crystal, falls gently upon the waves and is swept out to sea,

    Brown fingers still play upon the strings and new lovers have taken our place,

    But the music still comes to me at night.

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    Poetry is not an expression of the party line. It's that time of night, lying in bed, thinking what you really think, making the private world public, that's what the poet does.

    Allen Ginsberg (1926-1997) U.S. poet.

    fritz1’s Poems (11)

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    The Man who Lost His Place 0
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    An Ode to Beauty 1
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    Acapulco Nights 0
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