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Below are poems written by poet Ingrid Showalter Swift. Click the Next or Previous links below the poem to navigate between poems. Remember, Poetrysoup is an environment of encouragement and growth. Thank you.

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Concord Massachusetts Passingways

glowing foot falls on dusted wooden planks
swinging around enormous trees 

I skirt quickly...trying to catch it...
I can almost smell us here... I feel it.....
you watching me watch us

holding hands as we walked...did we?
I can't recall
but the muster of us infiltrates the air of this entire town

I can hear us in murmurs
rattling like a marble in a drain pipe a couple of houses a way
rustles ...fabric moving gently in the wind
like a wash line of cotton sheets and t shirts

I see you in a white crew neck ...a softly worn one
your jeans falling slimly from your hip bones

but really you wore an unlikely peach polo and shorts

there it is again...did you hear it?
I know I just saw....felt ...heard

just the occasional wind catching and soft wind snap of cloth
and clothes

the water runs gently beneath the bridge 
almost silent unless you strain to hear it's ghostly whispers

murmurs ..murmurs...that is what we are here
even the light seems to fall around us our wake 
and our words cling to the very particles of everything here
they are milling about
a cocktail hour of our youthful voice meshing in with the sounds of flying musket balls

the dust is unsettled by all the foot falls
thousands many thousands of souls passing over this same history bridge
walking the same path to the gardens above..

How I love those English gardens...even as they are falling to crumbles
the aged perennial beds
the gates hanging askew...rusting 
gracious with age and elegance ...thread bare like a hand-hewn oriental rug flung down a century or more ago in a noble house
never cleaned or moved again...cemented with passings to it's permanent place as if painted there

a leaf floats by beneath the veranda on which I stand alone
my hands on the rusting railing
but I am utterly surrounded...shoulders jostled by long leftings
such that there is barely room left for me here

Across town there are two people in a field
small summer bugs flicker their wings around them
...I strain to see with them with my eyes but only see them flickering

now ...they are on the board walked swamp bridge
... hidden by drapes of green vines

Look! ...they kiss deeply 

but he withdraws...why?
she is left so hungry
...a hunger that will never leave her 
that is what has indented this place
like the embedded musket balls in the house across the street
revered in their silent testimony


Copyright © Ingrid Showalter Swift


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