They pulled you out between White’s Mill and Currier Street
about a mile from the bridge where you parked.
The river is warmer
than it was in March
when everyone was looking
and putting up signs
and later on, looking
less, checking on Facebook
to report what your mom
said, connecting the dots
to fashion a lede.
You were “Missing Athens Man.”
Knives in the wood
after a knife-throwing act.
A stain of old pain
in the rearview reflection.
How come we hadn’t
learned the lesson?
You left your keys in the ignition.
There was goodness there. In the swell.
Everyone shouldering hope and doubt
on competing scales.
It seemed the proof you were looking for:
if life has worth, people will fight for it;
if people fight, living is worth it.
It made sense, on its face.
You had a great smile.
I could see your mother’s hope in it.
You wore your hair long
and it made you look vulnerable.
You probably would have hated this,
but “sweet” is the word that springs to mind.
This world is hard on the gentle boys.
And I keep trying to recall if the
pizza delivery guy had long hair
or short, the week before Christmas
we got pizza at work.
Why should I want to put you there?
What could it possibly matter?
Your mother said she’d come for you.
Just hang tighter.
Once the weather turned,
I ran the section of the bike path
that bends to the river
forward and back and forward again,
pacing myself to its muted rhythm.
Its crooked spine, infrequent joggers.
The birds were sharp—soft—all together,
both at once. The wind in the grass
was a woman’s dress, a mouthful of milk
on a taut clothesline
Rivka Zorea's New Poem: A Sorrowful
My son plays baseball on the fields nearby.
But you were a rustle
in the thirsty brush,
drawing my thoughts as my
feet held the line
because I saw the men huddled
across the bank--
sonar trawling, sirens off.
The water flashing
in the sun.
There and back,
I took the bridge,
culling the edges with my eyes,
reading the gaps between the lines,
seeing the eddies bubble and
froth, disturbed by the dead limbs,
big rocks, uprooted trunks.
Trespassing on something
that wasn’t mine.
Even now, not sure
what I’m doing here.
But you see how absence becomes abyss
and you think, God, how do they carry this?
I absorbed you. Not impulsively, not all at once,
but incrementally, with the herd.
We swallowed you in desperate sips.
You sank in, like tea, leaving leaves at the end.
An archetype with a shape
pulled from the caves.
The lost son. Come back.
Your brother has killed the fattened calf.
For you. Come back.
Won’t you hear?
I want to take your picture
down, so that she won’t have to.
I want to hug my children tighter,
preserving their shape in a better forever.
We never learn.
It never makes sense.
You needed more time.
Pain is a bridge.
The paper said
you left a poem behind.
It’s April now. Winter was hard.
The lilac is late this year.
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A New Poem From Poet Angelee Deodhar
I will be gentle
as I hold
cough wracked form
croon some nonsense
sooth you to sleep
caress your limbs
press them gently
give you a drink of juice
sponge you gentle...
will you do the same
for me, son
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Poet J. Matthew Waters' Latest Poem
flash powder ☊
what have I contributed
to the cause
keeping the music alive and
I’ve given up aerosol sprays
how much more do I have to give
that constant humming in my ear
is that just a warning from
my guardian angel
or simply a reminder
how those widely admired
can easily be swept away
like a night owl’s prey
absolution doesn’t exist
in the blink of an eye
and even if it did
no act of contrition could
prevent anyone from
seeing the light
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Two Poems From Mikels Skele: The Dark And The Light
A small desire
(coffee, maybe pastry)
A Herculean labor.
A drama worthy of greatness,
And I, only ordinary,
Yet, it arrives:
Mousse au chocolat
Je n’sais quoi
A small, unassuming demi-tasse,
Ordnance as yet
What I Got
I got my book of riffs,
My bebop hat
Stuffed on my head
What I lack is bread
I got the skinny pants
I drive my Mini past
The twilight boulevard
What I lack is gas, man
What I lack is class, man
The mojo ain’t workin’
The jerky aint jerkin’
What I lack is a clue
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We Warmly Welcome Poet ayaz daryl nielsen To VerseWrights' Pages
The Tao of Brokenness
A broken hub, thirty spokes
without a center
The wheel couldn’t turn nor
remain upright if
it was to be used
The clay pot with a crack
across the bottom would just
drip and seep, even
if it was needed
An old homestead without
windows doors roof flooring
or the people to
claim it as home
empty of emptiness
because of brokenness
lack of usefulness
each, in its isolation,
of broken existence
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The Latest Poem From Poet Marie Anzalone
I saw you clearly tomorrow,
and I will search for you yesterday-
this. This is trying to find
Neptune colored ethics
in a world that is just learning
of the full spectrum of gray.
When a man admires a woman,
he praises her beauty. What
recourse is for woman? There
is no measured “goodness”
equivalent, for defining a man.
Only to see the way light hits
the water at full midnight, when
boundaries between whatifs
dissolve in a soft closely draped fog
I wear like a garment I can hold tight
with one hand, or let fall as needed.
When I sit quietly, I remember
a future with you; and if I look
real carefully at the horizon, all
possibilities remain with the arrival
of each last Sunday of the past decade.
Read the poetry of Marie Anzalone
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Poet Amy Billone And A Moment of
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