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I like it
that my plush-lawned neighbors
can see the 1963 Chevy Corvair
resting on its side
in my yard.
Across the driveway
the cracked full-length mirror reflects
its missing muffler,
its rusting tailpipe.
I throw bottles in between them.
Pieces of brown,
and green glass.
Inorganic garden.
This poem recently won an honorable mention in a competition sponsored by the New Hampshire Poetry Society.
Used here with the author’s permission.
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Robert Manchester lives in New Hampshire, surrounded by leafy trees, stone walls, memories of Robert Frost, and lots of living poetry legends. He's been writing and publishing poems for 50+ years, but quite prefers writing to submitting, so seldom gets around to the latter. Robert confesses that he likes to write edgy poems about the "underbelly of life--the junk cars, tumbledown trailers, goat pens in the front yard, and the like," though he also likes haiku and, of late, is experimenting with syllable and meter.
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Jo:
I like this poem and didn't think I would. Exploring the "underbelly" --TY
Posted 11/16/2011 12:40 PM
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lincolnhartford:
Thanks for the break from pretty poems. Think I will consider some local possibilities. Lincoln
Posted 11/16/2011 08:37 AM
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KevinArnold:
Somehow this fits with the occupy movement; a habitat's desire to say the opposite of what a manicured suburb says, that something is rotten in the state of Denmark.
Posted 11/16/2011 08:32 AM
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