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Locket

By Robert Cording Poetry

You carry our son in a locket
you hang around your neck

each morning, a way, I guess,
of carrying what isn’t and what is

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My Mother’s Visit

By Richard Jones Poetry

My mother was the first pianist I ever heard. All through childhood I was spellbound by her gift, her virtuosity. Now I welcome her to my house, show her the grand piano, and lift the lid to its full height and glory. I ask her to join me on the black bench. At ninety my…

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