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Click here“It’s a slow winter tide, this life.”
whispers Tim, frost on his breath.
I think he meant the frozen waves
that crash along in the Bering Sea,
churning wicked shards of ice
over, and over.
He wasn’t much of the talking type, Resin Tim,
so I take my own liberties with his words.
I try to find poetry in his silence
and his frozen, empty chest.
The deckhands like to joke
about a day when Resin Tim ran out of bait,
supposedly he ripped out that pulsating organ
and cast it into the sea instead.
I can tell though, from his human moments like this one,
that his permanent winter actually came from the same day
when he got his name, from the scorned bride
who’s picture is proudly hung at the stern
but is never mentioned.
The same day the Resentim set sail for good,
and Tim first started to resent himself.
Very strong, but just a little rough in a few places. With a touch of polishing you will have a jewel
This is really really good. You drew me in from the first 2 lines. actually the title is what got me in for the read.
Best tItle of the Year so far
good work, needs some minor tweaking but overall, wow! I am impressed
m
a great prosey thing you did here. its so good that i'm almost...almost feeling that twitch in my one calloused fingertip, you know, the one i write with.
you are high up on the list of kick assedness.
curt
and some judicious editing can give this poem just what it needs, imho. Recommended in the New Poems thread on the Poetry Feedback and Discussion forum.