Everything was black and wet,
there were bubbles,
the field was boiling.
Through the windows,
you'd just sink into it.
"Loosen up," the lake echoed,
"I'm sure as hell not going anywhere."
A flat-crested hill seemed to dance,
mountains unfolding into higher places
and looking over the lake.
The place was in sorry shape,
plain and simple.

My mind is its own body
of water, fluid emotion
at mercy to the moon
Sometimes rapid as
the churning ocean,
unharnessable, dams
each waterwheel I build
as if equilibrium was Hell,
& then
Sometimes vapid as
a stillwater lake, where
peace is dawn's ripple,
days' first surface breach
of a fish upon fly bait.

Would you like to talk about
The winding water
And its sprouting light?

Yes,

The one you can see at night
From the soup parlor by the river
That serves memories, carved inside
A polished mirrored platter
Which made the boys all bright
And washed them saner
Along its tide of deluded truth

Come,
Would you like to talk about
The winding water?

The home for a thousand soul
All wrapped up, though foul
In a confounded streaming wire
And there, strayed the traveler
For a good four-hundred-year old
With his face down, and stories untold

Would you like to talk about
The sprouting light?
From the lanterns hung
To adorn the tide long
From the flowers of the head
Wilted and and still drowned
By the name of the lil moon’s
All dead hopes

Talking about the winding water
And its sprouting light
The old traveller
And the years has passed,
our little moon killed itself
Just to know that light
Eventually looked beautiful
Shrouded in darkness

Say now,
All my darling—

Why would you talk about
The winding water
And its sprouting light?
Why romanticize a world
Dull and weary?

Because beauty is made up,
and we live for beauty?
Or because we live in beauty,
and life is made up?

Out the window the trees go by fast.
Never having the chance to know one
even by the looks of it.
The houses pass by quick and
the people in them never move.
There is no time to see what's on their televisions.
Drive by the Dennisville Lake and my eyes
are fixed on the egrets drying in the branches
of the trees at least half a mile out.
There's a beach in the distance where
the sun sets and it's more than picturesque.
Years ago, this is where I first learned to ice skate,
but now the lakes blocked off with guardrails,
I'm on a busy road, and there's no turning back.

-s.r.pikulinski

At Ellis Lake, an overcast Sunday afternoon.

A lake divided into two, oddly shaped bowls in the middle of the city, surrounded by a constant stream of birds, wind, and traffic.

A spotless white swan cleaning herself on a grassy knoll, ferretting out whatever filth lurked deep within her feathers, then smoothly sweeping her sideways bent head across her back, as if to remember the long forgotten affectionate touch of an absent lover.

A gaggle of four grey geese combing the lawn for food, waddling in unison side-by-side.

A line of five mallards barreling down the hill into the water.

A multilateral crescent of black and white pigeons receiving harsh dictation from a trio of angry snow geese strutting before them.

A red-faced duck slowly approaching in the quiet expectation of food, then the arrogant acceptance of the lack thereof.

The surface of the water at Garrett Lake
is a ballroom floor, the bluest of hardwoods.
Hiding itself within its leafy forest green walls, which
if looked upon closely, one would swear you can see the woods.
We blazed a trail past a fallen trunk,
presumably lightning struck
whose roots had twisted
into the shape of a moose
fallen to sleep or endure breathe no more,
past the row of trees split
by the trail. One side
Life, the other death.
We found our way to an elder pine
who wanted to be a pier
and dove down so we could
sit upon him, no longer on land,
legs dangling like a chandelier above the ballroom.

Gentle drops of Love
Slide down my heart
The foggy waterfall grows
When the drops gather in one.

The reflection
Of the crystal clear lake
Which resides at the bottom
Of the heart in tears
Is formed in the retina
Of the lucid eyes.

The lake is icy and cold
When the drops are frozen
To melt again in the warmth
Under the tears of Love.

The first smooch kiss
A spring night
Moonlit pastoral lake
Dancing elm, oak, and pear
Mild breeze
Courting song of crickets and katydid
Secrecy and silence
Standing close, smiling, and stirring
Our necks tilted on the right
One hand behind and one front
Thumbs caressing the face
And fingers
releasing the locks of your hair

Our hands massaging behind and front
The adorable landscape of love
Bump and *******
Belly and waist
Crossed legs
Delirious smell of the skin
Taste of your rosy lips and sweet saliva
The taste of one another
Outer eyes closed, inner open
My upper lip between your lips
Your lower lip between mine

Rubbing, pressing, *******, kissing
Small and big, short and long
Goose bumps and blushing
Breathtaking, timelessness, breathless
Uncaptured, indefinable moment!

A locked lake lies lonely,
deep beneath ice and snow.
Pieces of past still present
in delicate misty glow.
We wish to wake it.
We wish to know it.
I wish they'd leave it alone.

I think my mind calls it home.

i would drive to salt lake
just to taste the sodium on your shaky knees
to lick the inside of your eyeballs as they hover above me
for you to kiss where my arm bends and where your dimples are craters
for you to spin me over, ask me to take a shower
twist my neck into yours and say i don’t want to get my hair wet
a motel six won't know much about love like this
but i'll drop a few twenty dollar bills
so i can move into your body and whisper your name until you wake up
for you to reach across my spine and listen to our temporary neighbors
they'll scream out of love, don’t hit me, don’t hit me
and you hold your hand over my ear, and i'll fall back asleep
wake up early to make love, then drive to my job
so i can get paid minimum wage, enough to buy you a drink on a sunday night