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They have been together,
give or take, for fifteen years.

Their marriage in the clasp
of puberty, its voice deepening,
its stubble sprouting.

Not long ago, shopping.
Necessary. Kid’s birthday.
It comes around quick,
like lunch, paying for the Ploughman’s
at the self-service in town
when the clock flicks to twelve.

Her right hand on his right hand.
They still do this,
though not quite as often.

Today,
he returns from work, wrenches
the tie out from beneath the collar
of a shirt she ironed yesterday.
Son, out.
Daughter, also out.

The fridge plagued with magnets
and a list; Milk,
                  Bread,
                  Eggs?
Inside, two beers,
sweating cold.
Later, he thinks.

How’s your day been darling?
We need to be at the school at six.
Oh yes.
They need to hear
how their progenies
excel at the expressive arts.
He hasn’t been expressive in years.

Hours expire.
Now his bare feet slide
under the duvet.
The wife reads a while,
Sunday Times bestseller.

Then she hugs him,
touches the skin she has known
since she was nineteen
at Northampton, literary sponge
absorbing Shakespeare and Joyce.

It is warm.
It is something
that has not changed.
The two of them are content.
They know they can
always have this.
Written: August 2018.
Explanation: A poem written in my own time. Please note that 'Joyce' refers to the former Irish writer James Joyce, 'Ploughman's' refers to a term sometimes used for a cheese and pickle sandwich in the UK, while Northampton is a town in England - the nearest large town to where I live, and also where I studied my undergraduate degree.
John F McCullagh Nov 2017
When the fire burns hottest, often heroes will rise.
We don’t know how it started; we can only surmise.
Somebody was careless; not paying attention.
A spark became flame; thus began the convection.

I was down at the pub with some fellas I knew.
It was five O’clock (somewhere)- we were having a few.
There out in the street we heard a commotion,
But as to what was the cause we hadn’t a notion.

We threw open the door to a pitiful sight
Sure the North end of town was already alight.
Twas no use going home. My house was now Tinder.
Still now’s not the time to go off on a ******.

Jimmy the barkeep said “It pains me to say,
But fellas- the fire is coming this way!”
We all raced to his cellar for his hogsheads of ale;
determined to quench the flames; we swore not to fail.
Though some of us wept at the waste of good stout,
we wet down the walls and we kept the flames out.

All the structures around us were lost to the blaze,
But thank God and Saint George that our tavern was saved!
Though our names be forgotten, our deed lives in lore;
Surely no one fought fire with Guinness before!
Based on a supposedly true story.
Jordan Gee May 2022
I grew up along a gravel road
in a refitted freight house once owned by a slate mining outfit
my backyard was a rolling sprawl of giant scrap-heaps made
of spent
or unusable slate
some slabs were as big as a tool shed;
mossy promontories jabbing and jutting like dull honey- badger quills
poking out of the hills
as they sprawled in their
heaps and their heaves
and their gullies.
it was a regular shangri la for a couple young boys born in the early to mid 80s
our own private wilderness;
adolescent paradise.
sometimes I would look up from my backyard to
the tops of those slate hills and
I would see my friend Joe.
he  was older than i was and I looked up to him and
I craned my neck
looking up to him then
standing at the summit of a slate hill,
hands on his hips
perched and
hiding behind his silhouette-
the Northampton County Sun setting on behind him
blood orange scarlet and
purple gray blue were the colors of those feelings back then.
time ticked on
the way time does.
my parents got a divorce and I moved across town
there were no slate hills in that backyard
and the slate company chain linked all the hills that remained
and so there stood
a fence between me
and the wonderland I once knew.
Joe died unexpectedly some years later in  
some obscure forest of
one of the Virginias
together we nurtured some regrets suspended in between our
childhood and those
terminal woods.
together we held some memories like beads strung along a strand of silk
translucent pearls like drops of dew
condensing
out there somewhere on the
eternal web of the akasha
unknown to even Indra
unknown to all but us.
couldn’t hold on any longer
had to let it go.  

my brother gave me a pencil cactus
it seemed to flourish in my care
I had been neglecting my own needs for years
not sure I knew what my needs even were
but that cactus needed water and light
and this much i knew
and this much i provided.
it turned a red color down near the bottom of the stalk -
looked it up on google;
some kind of pencil cactus rite of passage.
after the reddening
it becomes then the stick of fire.
we were kicking up dust
over all the trails
fading on behind us
we acted like it was eyes forward only…
towns I used to know, sinking without blinking
absorbed in the horizon on behind me.
I acted like I couldn’t take my eyes off the rear view.
we pulled up and parked on
another
orange
lane
me and my stick of fire.
we landed in a
townhouse -
plenty of legroom
even had central air.
I put the cactus under a window
on the second story
didn’t think about the air vent on the floor
blowin all that dry air
and my stick of fire
withered and wrinkled up
and it shrank and shriveled
I couldn’t bring it back
and i tried
but i
had to let it go.

a giant scooped me in his hands
he was massive
40 feet tall
the war horns blew in the distance when he walked.
he
cocked back his hand and tossed me
through the air
on over the horizon
i was surfing the high skies
on thermals and the slip
streams of vultures
and peregrine falcons-
all of us then dive bombing
all the skinwalkers
like a 2 dimensional love spiral made of
peaks and valleys
and deep trenches swimming in the waters of the
mystic arts….
I held the sun in my hand for exactly one moment
but i blinked and turned
back into a clanging cymbal
a vessel of divine prophecy
going on babbling in tongues.
now a raptor eats my liver every day at noon.
I heard the sun rising in my hands for only just a moment
it was warm and held me in a present bulb of space
I breathed it in
and held it
before I had to let it go.

the architecture of
the Wyoming Valley downtowns
are like frozen songs
crumbling into puddles in a *** hole.
the steam engines and the breakers
are empty skeletons
and dry leaves.
weasels and other vermin making homes inside of holes
the soul was laid off in the vacancy
conflagrations once able to burn down entire cities
at the top of golden arche, and
now the place smells like the smothered ashes of a
single
dwindling
ember .
I yearn for a smooth good-bye
you go ahead and talk and then i’ll go-
yet i ****** up another one
open throats and
another
wire barb in the
neocortex…
I had high hopes
but I had to let it go.

I had high expectations of an early grave
“here lies such and such”
stiff in the long stillness like a possum caught inside a headlight
what a relief that would of been in the brimstone of my twenties
but the roosters kept on crowing
the morning sun kept rising
shining
death away
the big sleep was a false hope
had to let it go.

By Jordan Gee
Had to let it go
ahmo Oct 2016
march 9th, 2016
five dollars an hour,
copyrights are not ensured agoristically;
minimum wage is ensured by those who ignore the hazel in Yemeni eye sockets,
ribs barren.

October 22nd,
i cannot afford the heat anymore.
i only get drunk so that i may eat ***** without hearing your hymn,
screaming into my ear-plugs like evolutionary theory.

Northampton, Massachusetts-
i wore sheep under my eyes and grey on a heart-sick scalp;
we were all dying and my cerebellum was a private-eye detective, searching for color in a world so plastered in binary that orange and Green-Rainbow never sang emotion in G major.

I am dying, too.

reciprocity is the least common denominator of "I promise to think of your interests later."

August 2016,
my hair is silly putty and this couch has transformed my spinal column into haplessly frozen shoelaces,
tied together.

snowfall, 2016,
i love every single Yemeni and
the cold stings like index, middle, and thumb grazing lit firewood.
Johnny Noiπ Nov 2018
American poetry, the poetry of the United States,
arose first as efforts by colonists to add their voices
to English poetry in the 17th century well before
the constitutional unification of the thirteen colonies,
although before this unification a strong oral
tradition often likened to poetry existed among
Native American societies. Unsurprisingly, most of
the early colonists' work relied on contemporary
British models of poetic form, diction, and theme.
However, in the 19th century a distinctive American
idiom began to emerge. By the later part of that century,
when Walt Whitman was winning an enthusiastic
audience abroad poets from the United States had
begun to take their place at the forefront of the
English-language avant-garde.

Anne Bradstreet (March 20, 1612 – September 16, 1672),
née Dudley, was the most prominent of early English
poets of North America and first writer in England's
North American colonies to be published. She is the first
Puritan figure in American Literature and notable for her
large corpus of poetry as well as personal writings
published posthumously.

Born to a wealthy Puritan family in Northampton, England,
Bradstreet was a well-read scholar especially affected by
the works of Du Bartas. A mother of eight children and the
wife of a public officer in the New England community,
Bradstreet wrote poetry in addition to her other duties. Her
early works read in the style of Du Bartas but her later
writings develop into her unique style of poetry which centers
on her role as a mother, her struggles with the sufferings
of life and her Puritan faith.

Guillaume de Saluste Du Bartas (1544, Monfort – July 1590,
Mauvezin) was a Gascon Huguenot courtier and poet.
Trained as a doctor of law, he served in the court of Henri
de Navarre for most of his career. Du Bartas was celebrated
across sixteenth- and seventeenth-century Europe for his
divine poetry, particularly L'Uranie (1584), Judit (1584),
La Sepmaine; ou, Creation du monde (1578), and La Seconde
Semaine (1584-1603).

Relatively little is known about Du Bartas’ life.
Born in 1544, Guillaume Sallustre descended from
a family of wealthy merchants in Montfort (in the
Armagnac region). His family name later became
‘Saluste’ rather than 'Sallustre', perhaps to invite
comparison with the Roman historian Sallust. He
was possibly a student at College de Guyenne in Bordeaux
(Michel de Montaigne’s school), and studied law
in Toulouse under Jacques Cujas: he became a doctor
of law in 1567, and subsequently a judge in Montfort
in 1571. He gained the lordship of nearby Bartas
(becoming Sieur Du Bartas) on his father’s death in 1566.
He married Catherine de Manas, a local noblewoman,
in 1570 and they had four daughters together: Anne,
Jeanne, Marie and Isabeau.
John Bartholomew Mar 2020
70 miles from the beautiful English coast
Some days that's the only place I'd rather be the most
Throwing chips to the gulls whilst sat outside with a lovely chilled beer
Not thinking what's the quickest way to Northampton from here
Or to drive west and dream over the Irish Sea
As there are other places where I'd rather be
But maybe it's just this and its stuck in my bones
Middle England is me and time to get used to it being my home

JJB

— The End —