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katewinslet Nov 2015
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Marsha Singh Dec 2010
I pretend that your poems and 
my poems go
slumming in disguise;
carrying on in dark doorways
of riverfront bars—
tipsy, telling secrets,
spilling out into the sweet-smelling
night,
libertines 
more in love 
than they were before.
maggie W Feb 2019
It almost feels like summer,
breeze at the dusk, killing mosquitoes.
It feels like
Taking a stroll on National Mall,
On a summer night in front of Lincoln Memorial.
Playing Frisbee riding bike
On the meadow in front of the Capitol.

My summer in the capital
With you, him and her and them and myself alone

It feels like the humidity in the swamp, with jazz playing in the background
It smells like crab cake and french toast, out from the diners I frequent
It looks like the summer sky, cloudless, your eyes

The meadow the ducks, summer dress and birkenstock.
Brunch, breeze and bike, followed by more bike rides along the riverfront.

Sitting on the marble stairs of the Supreme Court
Dipping toes in Reflection Pool

Summer in D.C. oh how I much do I miss you and adore
Summer is a state of mind and so does love
But you never fail to give me the feelings of those above.xxoo
love letter to dc, ode to summer
Cool are the streets before sunrise
I pedal my daily route through downtown Kalamazoo
Past the Art Institute and Civic
And out through Riverfront Park on the Valley Trail

Across the river on M96 I head east toward sunrise
The road is slightly dampened by the dew
And the trees on each side of the highway stand tall
Framing the sun as I make the first curve slightly east-north-east

In symmetry, the sun lies between the trees
Above the road, floating round, brilliant
Just inside the zone of a photographer's eye
The sun, the road, the trees, the mist – all ablaze in orange.

A dangerous time to ride so close to traffic
The lenses of my glasses scatter the light in condensation
I pedal hard to pass through this section
And ride into Galesburg stopping at the lights

Passing through town out Michigan Ave
I cross the Kalamazoo River but stop for a moment in stride
As the cold air nudges swirls of fog to dance on the surface
Lit from behind by the rising sun, golden, quiet, ghostly into the distance

Out onto my last few miles where the road is rough
It climbs out of the river valley up two hundred feet
Into winding country roads away from most traffic
And closer to the farms and woods

The air is now heavy with the dampness of the woods
There is only the breeze I bring with me
I crest a hill after a long climb but I do not coast on the slight reprieve
As there is new and old roadkill serviced by carrion birds in the mist

I am at my destination on another beautiful morning and I think
What wonders have I seen that my peers miss in their race on the highway
What smells of wild garlic, split oak, and musk of raccoon, skunk, and possum, and sweat
What satisfaction I have as I shower off the cold, and insects, and ride from my skin

August 20, 2013
Kalamazoo, MI


Riverfront path, lined with trees
The Temple, fresh flowers and incense
Peculiar the fragrance
Sound of Incantations and ringing bells
From a different time
Distant, yet so closely familiar
The memory of this place
wordvango Mar 2017
all the hearts the best sunrises the
firmaments
the stars above
the us below
tomorrow and memory
a birthday surprise
the widest smiles
a handshake
a close embrace
the condolences when you have lost someone
a walk along the riverfront
the willows branches crying eternally
the new child born
the old wise sage
the sweet grape
the sour days
a new moon's rise
a sliver of
the last month of spring with
flowers bloom
the births of hope
I bequest you
all I have ever cared about
and hope it is
enough
Chris Chaffin Jan 2021
Daydreams drift into vivid memories,
shadowed thoughts of "remember when"
grow bright with a gasp
as I dip my feet into the icy river.

The new road used to be old riverfront
and the only travelers were ducks and geese.
We skipped school and skipped rocks,
chased each other with lightsabers
made of twigs and fishing twine.

I flex wrinkled toes and dig further
into the cold sand, feel the pulse
of the river mingle with my own.
A toy boat flounders on the shore,

its torn sail flapping in the breeze.
I rescue it from the rocks,
patch it up with twig and twine
and set it free.

— The End —