It drifts as time moves
The concentration the same, the fluid stretched thin
Going from lake to creek
Lakes compound stagnation
with benefits of submersion
with risk of drowning
Beware of drifting
a base deprived of sun
Creek is movement
Life is passed through
Traded for flow and conservation
Calming, no splashes
Feels white, Visible trenches
Gather your footing.
Time is key, purpose fatal
Each becomes the other
Only if the path is given
Evolution of matter
Calming of peril, Understood change
The muck of the chest
runs babbling through the ditches of skin and bone
against the pressure from
Erupting in a
Brilliant burst of
Melancholy. Seldom does the
Noticed. These bones
Will soon begin
To rust, laid
Placidly atop the aching
Blades of grass, soothed only
Chanted promises of
A bitter tongue
Safely lodged within the moist mouth of
Abrupt reconciliation realigns
The spine as the
Soil remains ever
You couldn't believe
so quiet could be the croc
its eyes a wise sage
scales rigid rock
lay frozen on the mud
no flies could stir
stubbornly in trance
sixteen feet in size
dumb cool in creek
in the hermit's guise
lamblike tender meek
pounce it does when needs
not preys on what eats not
the human hunter feeds
on hatred and whole lot.
Down beside the creek I sat
Listening to its rippling water
Taking in the serenity of the scene
On and on its water flowed
Listen to its beautiful song
The beauty of a moment
Captured in solitude
Listening to the melodious stream
The nostalgia of a golden day
Sitting beside the creek
Listening to the birds chirping
And watching the sunshine
Softly fall to the ground
Ferns grow beside the creek
And little tiny flowers too
I love the beauty of the creek
I often find my spirit
In the silence of the trees
Drawn on a canvas of late October.
My walks have led me
To a strange, cold scenery -
I close my eyes, tender the breeze
Of falling, mourning leaves.
And I'm falling too, gently -
Caressed by the air once more,
The led sky will gore
My skin into rusty pieces,
My sight in creases,
Before I breathe out,
I've also found my heart.
Dry, thin...thin and weak,
Lieing on the ground -
Diving into the sound
Of crushed agonies
The silenced pains,
Under my feet -
And I crushed it...
Crush it again,
For I must keep walking
Through this morbid creek,
This feeling of horrid stalking.
I've lost my life in the silence
Of forgotten, closed eyelids.
The horror... I can't stand
The breathing of sulfur air
In nightmares, in prayers
Of a crooked soul on a leaf,
Falling, dieing, sinking in
This painting of quiet trees
I used to hold within.
We sat in the overlook above the Serpent Mound
in the heat of that garish July afternoon,
sunlight scorching our pallid skin,
like rays through a magnifying glass,
till we could endure no more and
sought the shroud of skyscraper elms ---
halfway houses of leaf, bark and cellulose.
Minutes before we'd signed our names in the visitors book,
like giddy high-schoolers autographing a yearbook,
recording our wayward lover's sojourn
to a site the Hopewell worshipped in celebration of existence.
For what purpose do we worship this ground?
I wondered as we walked beside the curving icon,
that undulated in rolled earthen coils down the slope,
sine-waves loosed from a colossal oscilloscope.
Are these coils symbolic of our future's meandering relationship?
Her exploring hand upon my butt
drew me from thought to evaluation of this unexpected caress.
But for the heat, I'd have shown her what idle foreplay begets!
Great Serpent, this was not Eden's carnal karma
acted out in a second Genesis! ---
though a symbolic egg spews from your mouth.
Influenced by the Creekology*
The beer cans decorate my dulled land. I’m jaded by the un-bothered creekers. Cigarette butts speckle my ground like confetti on New Year’s Eve in NYC.
I flow rapid as I turn corners, slapping against rocks, carrying the beer cans of those too arrogant to bring back their own trash; allowing my minnows to swim in and out cutting their fins and scales on the aluminum forcing their crimson into my waters.
The tulips and daffodils that have been planted for me try to bud every spring, but are normally stomped down by visitors who stumble their way back missing my trails and making a ruckus waking my flowers from their slumbers.
At least I have my dedicated creekers. The ones who actually care about me and organize the cleanups, even though they know it was not them who left their old cups to fester in the sun. Nor were they the group that sharpied my rocks with names and poorly drawn pictures.
I have been here for years to assist the new college kids to finding their batch of friends. I have seen many come and go but I have always taken the satisfaction of knowing I am helping young adults when they need a place to be left to their solitude.
I watch the poets drinking their beers jotting down their thoughts it notebooks that will never be read, the photographers that dip around me and take their pictures.
They hang around and listen as the warm breeze rustles the earth around me until the time comes where they pack up Their trash in their back packs and turn to walk up my paths, just leaving the other filth behind them.
And for that, the ones who appreciate me
are even still
no better than anyone else.
There wasn’t a lot of love to lose
Between Joe Brown and Brent,
Their farms lay either side of a creek
That now lay dry, and spent,
They used to talk in the early days
When they had no axe to grind,
But Brent came back with a bride one day
Who had been on Joe Brown’s mind.
But Joe was slow in the love-me stakes
While Brent was a bit more flash,
He’d cut on in at the Farmer’s Ball
To the girl with the bright blue sash,
While Joe walked off to sit on his own
And wait for a second chance,
But Brent hung on and dazzled the girl
Right through to the final dance.
The courtship took a matter of weeks
Then they came new-wed to the farm,
And Joe was down inspecting the creek
As Brent showed Jill round the barn,
There wasn’t a fence between the two
They used the creek as a line,
‘The land to the west is yours,’ said Joe,
‘The land to the east is mine.’
The balance wasn’t so equal now
With a new bride over the way,
Joe would have married the girl himself
But hadn’t been game to say.
He soon withdrew to his farmhouse, sat
And wallowed in his despair,
He’d been so set on marrying Jill
There was nobody else out there.
The Autumn rains came on with a flood
And the creek had begun to flow,
Brent stayed at home with his new found love
Not even a thought of Joe,
While Joe lay plotting to get him back
He’d teach him to be so flash,
And walked on up to the top of the creek
With a shovel and old pick-axe.
He felled a tree, and shovelled some stone
To block off the old creek line,
Watched the water form in a lake
Then rested, taking his time.
He chopped a hole in the old creek bank
The water washed it away,
And formed a new creek bed to the west,
And wondered what Brent would say.
When Jill got up at two in the morn
The tide was flooding on through,
In through the back door of their house
And cutting the house in two,
Brent went roaring up to the hill
Astride of his old half-track,
‘Have you gone crazy, Joe,’ he cried,
‘You’d better be putting it back!’
‘Too late, too late,’ said his surly mate
‘The creek is forming a bed,
And anything to the east of it
Is mine, the agreement said!
So move your things to the west of the place
For the east of the house is mine,
The creek that’s flowing right through the house
Will be the dividing line.’
Brent went muttering back to the house
And divided the house in two,
He shored up all the rooms to the west
As the water came tumbling through,
While Joe sealed off the east of the hall
Made sure that his rooms were dry,
While Jill looked over the barricade
At Joe, and started to cry.
‘Why have you done this thing to us,
What did we even do?’
‘He cut me off at the Farmers Ball
In the course of a dance with you.
You never gave me another chance,
I was waiting to propose.’
‘But I would never have married you,
Brent was the man I chose!’
Brent went over and burnt the house
On the other side of the creek,
There wasn’t water to fight the flames
So it smouldered there for a week,
The farms are empty and vacant now
Two creek beds, dry as a bone,
With Brent and Jill now living in Nhill
And Joe in the scrub, alone!
David Lewis Paget