Jonathan

We are underwater off the coast of Belize.
The water is lit up even though it's dark
as if there are illuminated seashells
scattered on the ocean floor.
We're not wearing oxygen tanks,
yet staying underwater for long stretches.
We are looking for the body of the boy
we lost. Each year he grows a little older.
Last December you opened his knapsack
and stuck in a plastic box of carrots.
Even though we're underwater, we hear
a song playing over a policeman's radio.
He comes to the shoreline to park
and eat midnight sandwiches, his headlights
fanning out across the harbor.
And I hold you close, apple of my closed eye,
red dance of my opened fist.

by Jeffrey McDaniel

Comments (16)

o poet, I offer you a great salute. excellent.
Clearly Bukowski is writing from experience here, and rather nicely I think. There is so much pain in his work, so much that is personal that I am drawn to it like a moth to a flame. And we'll all burn in hell together.
Stealing is stealing and also plagerism, I once was at a different poetry site when I saw that this woman so called wrote a poem but she stole it off a well known poem and changed a few words. This poem you wrote is what I call pure poetry written from you graceful hands Charles. thank you for sharing. I firmly believe in all that you wrote.
Hello your such a wonderful poet. Hope you to be my friend. Im already a fan of you. Thanks
next time take my left arm or a fifty but not my poems: I'm not Shakespeare but sometime simply there won't be any more, abstract or otherwise; there'll always be mony and whores and drunkards down to the last bomb, A very nice poem. Thank you poet.
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