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Ryn Dove Poem
I know I've been to Chicago,
But I only remember the snow.
I know that I've been to Albuquerque,
but I mostly just remember the hot marketplace
with dried chilies twice the length of my face.
I know that I've been to New Orleans,
but the stacked-house jazz-music French Quarter
and cold, sinking graveyards
and binging on three different types of shrimp and grits,
all silky smooth and perfect are all I can recall.
I know that I've been to Ashville,
but I can only remember drinking a chai milkshake
inside of a red double-decker bus.
I know that I've been to Montana,
but the sight of the grey-blue grass rolling
and a kite rising in the sharp wind
and purple mountains through the windows are all I can remember.
I know that I've been to D.C.,
but cherry blossom trees
and the white, too-intense eyes of 16th President of the United States
and the long illustrious halls of the Smithsonian are all that I remember.
I know that I've been to Nashville,
but all I remember is the thick pillars of the Parthenon
and the grassy slope that led to them
and the antique-glowing insides of a shop.
I know that I've been to California,
but all I can remember is the heavy heat
and riding high inside of a Dumbo at Disney Land.
I know that I've been to Myrtle Beach,
but itchy sand between my toes
and disappointment over forgetting a bathing suit are all I remember.
I know I've been to Greenville,
but all I remember is an archway
a pink glass sculpture in a park
and the perfect golden coins
and great tongues of orange-red flame
that swept across the turning of the leaves.
I know I've been to Port St. Joe,
but long beaches
and avocado socks
and chasing crabs across the beach at ten o'clock at night
and sandy marshmallows are all I can remember.
I know I've been to Montréal,
but floppy heavenly crepes for breakfast
and rivets of syrup flowing down
and the people on the streets
and a doorway with a man and his cardboard drawing of the city
and lingering beside him before running off are all I remember.
By car, by plane, by bus, by train.
Journeys that follow between footsteps.
Hotel rooms and a new bed for a week.
Been there once, then never again.
New, but blurring together now.
In the past, a memory.
Places are one, and then we're done.
Copyright © Ryn Dove | Year Posted 2017
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Details |
Ryn Dove Poem
the
art of
scraping
& flying
high, clear
in the panes
of expansive mirrored
greyness
begin,
in
a
ready
made city
of wonder
to explore
with unknown skies,
grey &
sparkling with rain
& black beetles
rush across the
distances of straight lines
along splashes
of yellow taxi backs
over the lanes and lanes
of traffic,
the honk beep
movement
carries
the faint taint of exhaust
in the back of your throat,
seeping in,
amid walk signs
& those reflective windows,
where,
up above,
in the foggy clouds,
where the rain falls,
hish hish
looking down upon this beauty,
near to where the moon dwells,
where nothing is as it seems,
& as the appearance of the city
from these great heights
belies its true soul,
which can be seen, walking,
on the city
drip drip
streets,
a display of where truth lies,
in arms as wide as the Atlantic
& as deep as the Hudson
who hides your secrets
the soul of the city is in the streets,
in the people
seen everywhere all through
everything,
a storm of winter coats & umbrellas
& and thundering click stomp tap pat click bum stomp feet
on concrete sidewalks
in a beating in time rhythm
of each heartthump
after heartthump
after heartthump
in a deep unending hymn of
forward & backward & towards
the past & future
smothering every one in pelting city slickness
from everywhere & everything
seeping into sewers & overturned garbage cans
& far away on the sure wings of steady weaving wind
high above & chasing around the ankles of everyone you meet
& caught between city air city turf city smell city people
all along the edges of buildings & inside their walls
with the wires & pipes & plumbing
inside corners & under thin loose floorboards
the sleety glossy city mist of patterns,
of sky on puddles &
the soaring stretch of their unseen peaks
echoed in driver’s side mirrors & sidewalk cracked on the edges
& window washers & hospitals & neon lights
bars & stop signs & store fronts & pickpockets
theatres & cellos on the corner & people living in alleyways
doorsteps & voices & walks home & hotels & apartments & fire escapes
they come together
all as one as all
to become the bits & puzzle pieces
that reveal
where the soul of cities truly lie
not high above,
but in the streets & in the lives
Copyright © Ryn Dove | Year Posted 2017
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Details |
Ryn Dove Poem
the clunky air conditioning
in the corner
clicks its way on,
percussive drums of
rainy-hands on tin roofs
rusty gutters
rattling in time
bum, bum, bum,
the leaky ceiling thumps
to the beat
as clear drops fall into
cracked, white, plastic
bucket
found on the side of the road,
abandoned,
three corners down
cars fly past below
adding their bloated roar
to the din
and the orange tabby from
down the hall
scratches incessantly at the door
yowling every
two or
three minutes
and the water drenching
the pavement and the people
sings to its own tune
as everything clashes and bashes
together, until the city is filled
with grey
rain music.
Copyright © Ryn Dove | Year Posted 2017
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Details |
Ryn Dove Poem
ancient water springs
next to the lazing Moccasin
upon the shoreline
Copyright © Ryn Dove | Year Posted 2017
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Details |
Ryn Dove Poem
Sandals-and-sweater weather
Rain-and-mushroom-growing weather
Freshly-flowered-flora weather
Breathing-deep-the-bright-clean-air weather
Like-water-after-minty-gum weather
Every-single-color weather
Open-all-the-windows weather
Flower-perfume-loosening weather
Briskly-blowing-breezy weather
Grass-is-greener weather
Pastel-tips-of-petals weather
Swinging-from-rough-boughs weather
Down-to-earth weather
Sprout-from-beneath weather
Breaking-sweet-awakening weather.
Copyright © Ryn Dove | Year Posted 2017
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