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Click hereThe fog rose up from the asphalt
So that it appeared to be an army of ghosts
Tattered and almost transparent
Guided by a wind I couldn’t see or feel
Marching right, some veering left,
Stragglers, confused, chasing to catch up
Standing above it,
The scene was so clearly what it wasn’t
Ghost rising from their graves beneath tar, sand, and gravel
Had I been walking with them, down there,
Among them
I wouldn’t have seen
I would have walked across their graves
Unknowingly
Blithely breathed their misty remains
And never realized that ghosts
Other than those in my head,
Walked in daylight
This poem was mentioned in the Archival Review thread, in a picking through Lit's archive of over 35,000 poems.
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Poetry is the last refuge of writers who can't write logically and concisely. This writer personifies that, and compounds the error with a limp-wristed poem about ground fog. Whoop de doo! A pragmatic (legitimate) writer would have condensed this whole thing to one short sentence: "Turn on yer fog lamps, Pa." LOL
Ron123XYZ@foreveranonymous.naturally
What a hauntingly beautiful rendering. Something especially lovely about this one.
I see Maria's point and rather agree with her. I think it possibly could be tighter in expression. But good, and very evocative, in any case.
it's good, but not great,and i think it has the potential to be a great poem. There are a few too many extra words ( like this comment),
that if pared, it would make the poem clearer and not tangle the reader in a mess of adverbs and adjectives.
This being said, I did enjoy the poem.
I'll never again be able to look at a warm pavement after a rain that raises these apparitions in quite the same way.
to see your poetry back again. A well developed metaphor of memory. I enjoyed watching this unfold, mentioned in today's new poem reviews