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Poetry

Poetry is more
It is the insistence of cold sweat
It is, put simply
the beat of my soul

Shared poetry

so much depends

4/16/2016

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Picture
Three hundred and eighty-one days
the buses stood idle
and I wonder of James
Did he sit around playing card games
while the wheels  of his bus
and the status quo rusted
and the rubber slowly perished
A bus seems such an unlikely place
to take a stand

She wasn't as old as you think
and no more weary than usual
but she was tired
of the way things stood
as she pulled a quilt
of quiet resistance
up around her chin

And her husband forbidden
to speak of the case
forced to throw his job in
and the phone kept on ringin'
and the voices were slimy with death

Three hundred and eighty-one days
they car-pooled or walked
sunshine or rain
and the woman considered
​least likely
to make the wheels tremble
remained in her seat, didn't shout
and everyone listened cause
every so often
quietly speaks the loudest

Kathryn Ross  April 16th, 2016

(title 'so much depends' taken from the first line of 'The Red Wheelbarrow' by William Carlos Williams)


Copyright Kathryn Ross   2016
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    Kathryn Ross
    Rossi@serenebeliever
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