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Megan Hammer Feb 12
As I listen to Otis Redding on the harbor, boats named after people float around;
Boats named by fishermen who think just a little too much.
They come out everyday like Hemingway Jrs; the old men and their sea.

December does not feel right here: It’s not the same without a Chicago winter,
But this harbor’s got my father on my mind.

He used to run numbers for a local casino & now he writes numbers in a sudoku box on Sundays.
The days of wild adventure on the streets of Germany are what he sees when he looks at his beer mugs.

and when he’s had a little Heineken, Marlboro, and a spin of his record player,
I know that no one else should be in the room.

He shows his thoughts in photos: His winters spent coming back home to feed his family,
Keeping warm in a house with one heater, snow, noses blown in hankies, Uncle Frankie,
Harry playing jazz in the living room, and walking to school in the cold.

But there are no photos of him - and there wouldn’t be -
When he snuck away to the harbor with his friends.
We tend not to talk about them anymore, but he still remembers where they lived.

And sometimes, I catch a glimpse of him - with his Heineken and his Marlboro and his music -
I catch him as he smiles in hiding while his eyes confide in a light I do not see,
And when I do,
I know that my father is still on that harbor.
Rexhep Morina Sep 2018
eyes clouded,
only in my dreams I can truly see,

see you as you are,
see me,
you see,

my dreams of us
is what we should be,
let the clouds clear
so we can see clearly

open skies,
my eyes
reflect you
as you are,

see you as you are,
see me,
you see,

you are,
without a doubt,
a endless sensation
that resides in me

affection I feel,
love, I harbor,
a part of you in me,
infinity.
After almost a year and a half, I decided to venture back into writing, I almost had forgotten the relief, the feel of finishing a piece of poetry, pouring my self into something and, what creating something was like.

I will most definitely keep on writing, keep on sharing, keep on pouring whats in me. It is a great way of meditating, speaking to the reader, and releasing any bottled feelings.

Enjoy.
Alice Lovey Jul 2018
Even if I waited, as I would,
On the harbor of the sea from which you've drifted,
You are the Captain of your driftwood.
I am a Lighthouse.
Standing on its own, but beckoning a safe return.
Kewayne Wadley Mar 2018
Having to forget you is a misconception.
I understand that things happen and these things we often have no control over.
Consequence.
Watching the boat leave it's pier is one of the most beautiful things.
My honest opinion.
The beginning of new experience.
The sensation of watching the odds disperse wave after wave.
Love happens.
It hurts a bit.
Being gone so long.
Docking other places, under different lights.
Finding that every city has a different sound.
A different smell.
It hurts knowing that you've docked somewhere new.
The same flow of emotion parted by the hull of your coming.
A new home.
A new place to rest your fears.
It takes courage to open up.
Thick ropes tied in knots.
An ever changing world.
More advances made in the world of travel.
How we get from point A to B.
It doesn't mean that I don't miss you.
Leaving my rope on the dock of the harbor.
Free to come and go as you please.
Having to watch my boat sail away.
The chance of knowing you may never return.
The same intimacy we shared given to someone else.
It's the same understanding that hurts tenfold.
Knowing these changes must be made in order to progress.
Going out on the town to find myself back here waiting for your return.
Relating to the tears of the ocean.
A new experience we both separately share.
The nights spent alone in wait.
The pier lined up with different ships and boats.
None of which are never you.
It's impossible not to miss you.
Holding on to your beauty, grace.
Waiting for my ship to return.
Knowing that it will never happen
when north
weird hep
exactly danced
grassy knoll
she'd wake
in bed
there then
flee Bondi
thereafter that
dramatize her
skin tan
with splash
of coconut
thus vacation
only hinder
her stay
here again
A vacation downunder
I am a Harbor
Moss-covered barnacles
are my legs, and my back
is drenched in fog.

My wooden walkways creak,
and the wind makes me
groan with loneliness,
though life stirs underneath,
in waves.

Ships arrive at the worst hour,
full of regrets and suspicions,
and aches and envies,
and troubles and fears.

I welcome angry sailors,
the worst of all mankind,
to drink at my tavern,
and dangle their feet
off my docks, and
stare at the sea.

They look
east, north, south, west
to home,
and will never return.

Some men are bustling airports;
they welcome millions a day,
and millions a night,
see them off to other skies
and do it all over again.

But I am a Harbor.
I keep my vessels with me forever.
I guard them with an icy peace.
And relish in the slap of the sea.
And bathe in the salt of the wind.
a Norwegian
fjord did
cut their
axel's hairpin
in the
row of
tundra that
Lapland was
their arcane
balloon on
Aegean shore
if Barents
Sea burgeoned
dialect herd
yelp in
Mike Pence
with accord.
Tony Oquendo Aug 2014
I took your hand and held your pain
close to my heart whispered your name
and shared your joy while all the while
consoling the sorrow behind your smile
A reflection on true friends who don't need to comment, criticize or judge.  Who will laugh while you laugh and all the while hold close your pain and never let you go.
Frank DeRose Dec 2017
"December 7th, 1941--a date which will live in infamy"

So began Roosevelt's address,
As the eyes of a nation
Watched the skies,
Wept,
And fought.

Less than an hour after Roosevelt's speech,
Congress declared war on Japan,
And entered into World War II.

And so our boys left,
Fighting the good fight

And so Rosie flexed,
And patriotism soared,
And planes rained down barrages of gunfire.

I was always taught today's date.
December 7th, 1941.

My grandfather fought in World War II,
And in my house,
Today's date lived--
And continues to live--
In infamy.

You can imagine my surprise when,
Upon walking into the public high school where I work,
The flag prostrate,
Halfway between sky and earth,
Students did not know the date.

I asked the classes,
60 or so students, in sum,
"Who can tell me why the flag is at half-mast today?"

They looked at me in confusion,
"Half-mast?"
"What's the date?"
Maybe 6 or 7 raised their hand.

One in ten students knew,
And while I was disheartened,
I was not altogether surprised.

So I posed the question to my coworkers,
"I've been conducting an experiment today,
Asking students if they knew why the flag was at half-mast"

Of the 15 coworkers with whom I spoke,
5 could tell me why.
10 could not.

"Why is it at half-mast? I don't even know..."

"Let me see, what's happened in current events recently?"

"Oh? It's Pearl Harbor? I didn't even know we put the flag at half-mast for that."

How quickly we forget.

The second largest attack on American soil in our history,
The greatest catalyst for our entry into the greatest war in modern history,
And we don't take notice of the date?

For shame.

What will our sons, daughters, grandsons and granddaughters know?

Will they recall 9/11?
Will they remember it?

Will they relive it each year,
The way we so painstakingly do?

Will images of planes and falling men flee through their minds?

Or will they forget?

"Oh? 9/11, is that today? I didn't even realize."

Sounds preposterous, doesn't it?

And yet, our grandparents couldn't conceive of a time when we wouldn't remember Pearl Harbor.

"A date which will live in infamy."

Or will it?

Be advised—
History has its eyes on you.
Mary K Oct 2017
Its midnight.
The water laps against the docks
Moonlight shines in ripples across the calm harbor
Laughter and music drown out the song of the night.
Everything is right in the world.
A camera flash:
Time stops moving
Everyone is frozen in place and if the world were to end at this very moment
And this is the last scene before the credits roll
It wouldn't be such a bad ending
To an imperfect story.
But the flash lasts less than a blink
And time continues to move
Ticking in time with the cicadas in the trees.
Its not summer
But it could be
There's a warmth in the air
And a feeling of utter weightlessness
And both radiate from the small crowd
Of familiar people
Laughing alone in a dark, sleeping world
illuminated only by the moon and the stars
And the flickering dim streetlights
That line the night.
Nothing is ever perfect
But this scene
Of this night
In the park by the water
Feels distinctly like magic.
And we are alight.
Feels good to be home
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