Thinking Back on the Twin Towers

A pre 9/11 picture and story of a trip to the towers got me thinking about America’s heart and resilience.

the twin towers of the World Trade Center in N...Ripples on the Hudson

Ripples on the Hudson, waking just behind
giants in the distance. Life was so much fun
speeding on the southern coast, I did not mind
ripples, on the Hudson.

Twin New York icons were basking in the sun,
unaware that evil lurked in skies, unkind.
Holding on with all, but in a day were done.

Now, upon the water look at what I find:
A tower rising, united as one.
In our hearts we won’t forget. What’s left behind
ripples on the Hudson.

Roundel’s, being one of my favorite format, lend themselves to playing with words. I used those words to put words to picture when reflecting on the awesome prompt at Poetry Pantry, this week. I hope that Mary finds my poem to do her picture justice.


About ewdupler

Gene is an avid outdoorsman, loves reading and is known to put pen to paper (well, he types) as an amateur poet.
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7 Responses to Thinking Back on the Twin Towers

  1. Mary says:

    Gene, indeed your poem does my picture justice and moves me greatly. So sad really to remember those icons on the Hudson, which are no more. But a new tower does rise. Some day I hope to see that one too. American definitely is resilient. Sad that our country HAS to be, but could that our country is. Thank you for this tribute in the form of your poem. I also answered you on the Poets United blog site.

  2. A thought-provoking write about the events of that horrible day. I watched a documentary about it just a few days ago. Will never forget the events of that day. Mary’s photo makes one’s heart ache, in memoriam.

  3. aprille says:

    I’d forgotten about Roundels, getting them confused with Rondels.
    But this is a lovely form, melodious with the refrain and an unexpected combination with the subject. The ripples on the Hudson are a great find.

  4. A nice tribute, Gene. Memories should never be allowed to faded.

  5. Reflective, the poem itself reads like ripples lapping the shore of some distant memory; it’s hard to believe it’s been twelve years.

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