South Carolina    1990 -    
3 days ago

I hit her with my car late one evening.
The details are wedged
in the pleated cushions of the seats
and snubbed out periodically
in the dusty, old ashtray.

At first, I thought it was the usual
vehicular homicidal fare:
a small cat or spooked deer,
where I'm only momentarily upset,
and then forget about it until
the next fleeting tragedy strikes
unexpectedly, like they always do,

but this was different.
She was different.
A fully capable woman,
who was living on the run.
Who was she running from?
My gut says she was running
towards, and not away from.

It all happened very quickly,
like it always does.
I hit her clean.
My windshield cracked
and if you look closely,
you can still see her
in the splintered glass.

I want to go check on her,
but I know she isn't there anymore.
She ran out in front of me,
I had no choice.
It's not like I wanted to take her out,

but no one will believe a man
who left the scene of a crime.

  7d  Dustin
7 days ago

She knew well
the manner of giving,
knew not to ask
and how to survive on smiles
amid the indebtedness,
an affliction from a childhood obligated
to some person, preacher or other
And with not a kind hand among them
she found duty bred fear in its resistance.

Love always ended like the rains
that turned the pavements black
where she'd run
all plimsolls and pearls
wearing pain like purple
undergarments that caught on fickle winds.
She wondered if they
ever noticed the off-notes
like when her legs moved out of tune
and did they feel her bristle
on their faces of expected gratitude
or see how daubing her
with their concrete greys of added responsibility
only sheathed her
in a pin stiff frost of non-negotiable.

All she ever wanted
was to be receptive  
and (not just) responsive
but just got lost in the  doing,
feeling her way
through sex and vice
with words that didn't suffice,
losing sight in the toughs
of their what was and wasn't enoughs,
where bitter losses were lonely
and negotiating on her knees
never did feel good.
that neither their sunshine nor rain
would quench her thirst,
she reasoned that she'd always struggle to
accept their claims to her Love
while she still owed it to herself.

Mar 19

Looking back
lying with you
in your camper
our retreat
by the despondent lake
spring sleeping
beneath wintry omens
your restless legs
twitching and pedaling
towards the horrors of war
the fate of peace
an endless barrage
by the permanence of loss
I so desperately
needed saving
though no one
was more deserving
than you

but you wore
a maternal gown
and a future
I wasn't a part of
because the past
is the present
and the present
was pregnant
with tragedy
and aged wine
did taste sweet
as we listened
to prophetic blues
meeting in the middle
for sad parlour games
below a spoiled
broken moon.

  Mar 18  Dustin
Jonathan Witte

In her dreams, the docent
maneuvers schoolchildren

down museum corridors,
shepherding their bodies

into evacuated galleries
where nothing changes

except the patterns
of nails hammered
into plaster walls.

She speaks pedantic
falsehoods until one

by one the children
disengage and find

themselves a constellation
of nails upon which to hang.

A renaissance takes time, but
not as much as you might think.

Come midnight,
the museum is full
of masterpieces.

And though the works
of art make her weep,

the docent is inspired
to study each small frame
for a brushstroke

that might signify
the break of dawn.

  Mar 18  Dustin
Mar 18

he claims to me
he is ready
for more, something else
choosing his casket
or the next bottle
of booze to guzzle

in the mornings
sometimes he'll talk to me
sing or send poetry
whisper in a barely awake voice
or smartly
in coffee's clipped

at times
cluster, he warns me,
though he said
he's broken free

pulled apart the marriage
of his workaholic
to his alcoholic melancholy remedies
spoken token oaths broken
sober stolen from memory

there is happy
in the air of his bend
and the train whistles
tracks clacking
he hears
in his head, rhythmically

pull me
to him. he says he's ready
for the
dirty open road. it's where
he met me

where addictions
can die
and control of motion
is the fuel
and dreams
are whispered to dawns
and to the starry evenings
as poems.

Mar 14

I walk empty-handed
with pockets full of presence
so carefully contained
too precious to give away
too tangible to let slip
through my fingers
like the Arabian sands
I wade across
with balmy secrets
that I keep only for you
during frigid nights
I see a mirage
woefully whisper with the wind
deceptive or sincere
I can't afford to pretend
Siren of the sand
with blackest hair
like the shadows of space
and hazelnut eyes
I could drink from
skin bronzed
from the smiles of the eastern sun
I must meet you
but not before I cross the Red Sea

I never once thought I would receive the daily, so this is quite a surprise. I wrote my first poem sometime in March 2016 and joined HelloPoetry last December. This site has been a huge blessing to me and I appreciate all the continued support from some of the loveliest people I have never met. This is for you all. Cheers.
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