Legend goes there is a lake
Made of the darkness of the night
Spangled with stars a comets' wake
Lit by pale silver moonshine.

This lake is said to be surrounded by trees
Rising their black boney fingers to the sky
Groaning, shivering in the breeze
Barely alive and waiting to die

When the full moon casts a ray
Upon the ---

for Mark Richards

It was a spur of the moment thing -    
     One message freed us from Tuesday’s calling -
The next offered a morning's sailing.  

So rather than spray water for Rocky's plants,  
     We skimmed over Carter Lake’s, crystal waves
With steady and ample winds at our backs.

Boaters and tubers speckled the waters
      While verdant foothills smiled assent
From every shore and horizon.

Captain Richards skippered his Flying Scot    
     Toward the far off shore before tacking our
To and fro way back to the mooring ball.

In years past Mark had captained the Health works    
     For all the good folks of Pennsylvania,
But this morning he guided a much smaller tiller.

So we sailed and sailed under fairest of skies    
    In a swift and charmed little craft
Mark chose to call, Spur of the Moment.

Robert Charles Howard

I am awoken from a restful sleep aware of the fresh air

the open window brings as she begins to sing

it is the sound of the loon calling me to her side

I stride towards the beckoning sound and her shore

as the door swings open to a new dawn and a rising sun

the early morning mist departing to reveal her beauty

she is glass like this day, stillness the allure

her stillness belies her truth that she can be rough enough

as I stand beside her admiring the horizon she willingly displays

my ears are attune to her lapping sounds,  my heart calm

launching my canoe I begin to paddle amidst her blueness

each stroke like the combing of her hair with twirls and curls

today she allows me to glide with ease yet she can also be a tease

the gentle breeze now professed can transform into a mighty storm

it is within her grace that she allows me this place of serenity

for she could as easily sweep off my serendipity with a rough sea

sounds of gulls take my eyes upwards into the clear blue sky

watching them soar all the while jealous of their ability for flight

a honking sound now has me looking to my right to catch sight

of a gaggle of geese in mid-flight her back their launching pad

and without warning there’s a splash as a fish leaps into the air

in search of its morning dish of insect and bugs, as it dives

back into the water, its sanctuary, its home I am reminded again

of her kindness that she provides in sheltering bays

her gentle waves taking me on a journey into the depths

of this lake they call Placid

Andreas Simic©

It’s a cool, Georgia, Wednesday afternoon - not quite 80°f. The sky is clear, and the sun is dazzling against the cadet blue sky. Its reflection is multiplied a thousand small times, creating glittering, broken mirror glares that ripple, relentlessly, across the water’s blue surface.

On the lake, if you’re not wearing polarized sunglasses, then you’re going to suffer - no worries though, we have drawers full of them. We’re on my parents' Tiara-43 ski boat, at anchor in the sheltered-cove of an uninhabited island. It’s windy, Leong and I, bikinied and fresh from the water, race shivering for our giant, Turkish-linen beach-towels.

Charles, a large, redheaded, retired, NYC cop, (who’s been my full-time driver and escort since I was 9), is our boat-captain (I am not allowed to dock the boat). Charles, a chef of steaks nonpareil, is working the grill and unconsciously swaying to the music. The aroma is mouthwatering, and my tummy is growling with anticipation.

Ashe’s “Another man’s jeans” is bumpin’ from the stereo, and I can’t help but feel this somehow beats going to class. As we wrap up and settle in our lounges, a green and white ski boat careens into view, about a quarter mile from the cove entrance.

The sight of it makes me smile. It’s going so fast that it seems to hover over the surface of the lake, only jerking slightly as the boat lightly touches-off the water. It zeros in on us like a missile, its approach flat out - perhaps 60mph (52 knots).

I knew who it was instantly - Kimmy - of course. I look at my watch - 3:30pm - she got out of school at 2:15 and must have made a hot bee-line for us using “find my friends” GPS telemetry to uncover our hidden cove location.

As the boat edges the cove lip, Kim cuts power - the boat heaves as it settles into the water and quickly decelerates. Charles, anticipating the approaching wake, secures things (spices and utensils) in the galley area. When the boat’s closer, I can see that Bili’s onboard too.

Kim and Bili are my two homie BFFs. They’ll graduate high school in 2 weeks. Kim is a small, pretty Asian American bound for Brown University, to study public policy in the fall. Bili is a tall, gorgeous, chocolate-brown Nubian princess who’ll attend the University of California, at Berkeley to study “financial engineering” - whatever that is.

When Kim’s boat is about 80 feet from us, Kim and Bili jump on deck, water-ready in bathing suits. Each girl, used to the boating-life, tosses an anchor - one to port, one starboard, and not bothering to look back, dive off the bow and begin swimming toward us.

Kim’s boat, which briefly seemed intent on catching them, jerks to a stop, like a wild thing suddenly restrained, as anchor lines catch.

When Kim and Bili draw along aside, they reach up with clasped hands which Charles uses, like a handle, to smoothly hoist them one-handed, as if they were weightless, in turn, from the water with long mastered ease - presenting them to me for squealing embrace.

As I excitedly introduce them to Leong - summer has officially begun.

Abandoned in place,
Time erased,
Sky in our arms,
Stars on the lake.

Fire on the beach,
Sensation on the rise,
Warm in the dark,
Candles inside.

Reclamation proclamation
made way out far,
We took what was forgotten
and made it ours.

Life have my heart drenched;
In what, I do not know.
Often I feel lonely; like branches laying on shallow water.
When the water is muddy, it’s difficult to see my heart;
When it pulse, ripples arise.
The moon is my sole partner;
Yet extending my hand — like life, illusionary.
Water paved where we stand,
Like sand, time drips through our grasp.
We as people are no different from common grasses.

The water makes me forget,
yet I remember
the waves lapping on sand,
except we haven’t had enough rain
in years for the lake to reach the shore,
this is my favorite place
but it feels just as tired as I do,
living up to expectations of the past
barely meeting requirements of placehood.
I’ve lost the special that once consumed me
dilapidated buildings and broken promises
link the memories between
place and person
deterioration reminding me
that I am not the only thing
searching for peace
and finding loss in its place.

ONE CRISP NIGHT in mid October, we went down the old fisherman’s trail, where the mountains meet the lake. This was before the trail had been maintained and tossed with wood-chips and at the time, it was a narrow mangled dirt path sporting thick roots and fist sized rocks at every twist and turn. You’d be foolish to not carry a headlamp and flashlight, for the woods were nearly impassable without them. We knew this, and we came well prepared even thought stumbling at points on the trail was inevitable. When we came to the light clearing in the trees, which was brushed with pine and spruce, and the tallest oak tree I’d ever seen, we sat down on two logs. They were wet through, and covered in patches of lichen and moss. Insects crept through the rotted wood, and night moths fluttered in the still air. Though half the world was asleep in their beds, and would stay that way till morning, the forest was wide awake under the crunching maple leaves.

We marveled out at the round moon, bright and pale in the sky. It hung regally, while it’s light shone upon the lake’s dark waters, holding our faces, holding the mysteries of the universe and the answers to any question we might have. Cradled by the natural world, we were. I’ve never felt as protected, since then, as I did that one night. It was as if Mother Earth cradled me in her own ancient hands.