poetryrepairs 15.03:027

PAUL R. DAVIS : The Empty Cup of Solitude is Always Full
PAUL R. DAVIS : River
D. B. COX : Late Night

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PAUL R. DAVIS
The Empty Cup of Solitude is Always Full

There are days when solitude is a heady wine that intoxicates you with freedom, others when it is a bitter tonic…. -- Colette When Admiral Byrd stayed behind in Antarctica, did he know how alone loneliness itself is, a hand that floats above the earth? I have known, seen, that hand white with sorrow wave at me through the window tightly shut. But how we wrestle with our shadows as Admiral Byrd did, intoxicated by the silent fumes, maddened inexorably, as we are by solitude and its stalemate. We talk, write, walk down streets where ghosts gather into form, where Antarctic snow becomes the foundation of rescue, where our snow restores our sanity and the seeing between us all.

poetryrepairs #210 15,03:027





PAUL R. DAVIS
River

Dip him in the river who loves water. --William Blake
The river is a string instrument. Its song is bread rising. In a flood of leavening a violin is born. The river has a blue face. Its mother begs forgiveness for the sin of a birth without pain. The river is a dangerous man. Its gun drags down the night. Souls of swimmers cross themselves with sweaty palms. The river is known by everyone. No one has really seen the river. No one has felt their bones, the river has a body. It has a life that needs no other name.

poetryrepairs #210 15,03:027





D. B. COX
Late Night

"I'm a Vietnam veteran. I gave America my all, and the leaders of this government threw me and others away to rot in their VA hospitals…" – Ron Kovic

just after
the last light
has been doused,
& the holy meds
have rendered me

temporarily oblivious
to the pain,
& putrid
night-smells
of the ward,

i can feel
the void
that stretches
out from my body
in every direction;

360 degrees
of seclusion,
as dead
as a disconnected
phone.

& sometimes,
i reach blindly into
that coal-black
absence,
hoping

my fingers
will brush
against
something
i can hold onto.

maybe
a wayward angel,
who might
allow a little
unaccustomed mercy,

 & lift me
above
these broken places;
back to the days
& faces,

i hadn't even known
i'd loved.
   

poetryrepairs #210 15,03:027







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