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spysgrandson Aug 2018
drought dry only a fortnight, and no trace
of the swimmers--not a bloated bass or a skeletal carp
only a few lily pads burnt russet by the sun

all else, perverse interlopers from modernity:  
bullet banged beer cans, truck tires,  
and the ubiquitous bottle water plastic
waiting patiently for the next ice age

no sign of one fish that emitted a last gilled gasp here

deep beneath the bed though
progenitors rest, theirs and ours,
antediluvian, Permian, as permanent as the word allows
my footfalls above them today
tomorrow silent where they lay
Oran Gutan Dec 2012
snow ribbons the night behind blinds, white
crackle over vinyl, black in ravines
undulating silt whisks the sea, bed
conversation of springs, yawn
to sleep on a twin mattress, turtle,
interred: orange branch to grove floor, hear-witness
flutes in unbearable dawn unposessable, flesh
and lavender stir in sleepy eye beds, rosebuds and breath
condense warm on rickety panes, chipped
beams stray suspended through poplar clouds, dissolve
avocado in manila teem, damp hush to skin folds, pores,
unseen burrows, pawed and pinhead heartbeats, meek
but if in unison: rainfall tremendous on canvas cover, sinuous
as the shanty cat spine, lilting: raking grain to wispy tail, cursive
trickle over creekbed washboard scrubs, whisper
sudding lace over iris-leather bed, wheat
murmurs iridescent in squint-eyed flaxen wind.
Astrobaby Aug 2015
pretty lips with snakelight smile, pretty man with a dusklight bite,

pretty long ago with a soft robin egg blue, (but oh, thats long gone,)

pretty toes and a pretty cottage in the hills, (also, long long gone,)

pretty hair and pretty creekbed, (oooooh...)

and pretty and pretty and
We have a sizable job before us poets

the serpent used a poem so sweet and subtle

Eve's swoon was akin to Elvis' adolescent entourage

lyrics that could talk you into wanting to know more about

how to talk using lyrics that could talk you into wanting to

know more about how to talk using more of a language

that operates the mind, that speaks to will itself.

and Adam, like the Junior High sympathetic, waiting by the phone

wondering what she does when she's out of sight,

finding them in the clearing smiling with casual familiarity

only to say, 'Oh, hey, where have you been, care to meet my new friend?'

and He, obliging since he already knows that what she likes,

He ought to find well and good, enjoys a chat and a snack with

this beguiling stranger who seems so learned and worldly.

our duty to redeem the artifice, to turn the mechanics into a

tool for what will come to be understood as good, the aesthetic that governs,

where the dust in the creekbed shuffles similarly to a star devoured by gravity,

light in the dewdrop with the fragrance off the petal, the song and the wing

together in the tree, the telling of a tale in weight and measure,

brushstroke and letter, the definable math, the falsely fathomable organic

randomness, precisely ambiguous, colossally specific, superficially profound,

is tasked with using the design, generating every nomenclature through metaphoric

action, the most real thing, the underpinning, the scaffold, the Tao.
Timothy Mooney Jan 2011
Who was it carved these lines
In ancient hand
Faded now
By sand and wind
And patient Time?

Whose voice on chiseled stone
calls on to us
Covered now
With mossy virtues
Lost,  unknown?

Should I now in my crewel
of saddened heart
And remorse
Add a stitch
Of love eschewed?

Should I wield stick and stone
And worry down
into this rock
My ****** tale
Of love unknown?

And ages hence, some thousand years
when this creekbed
sits up high
Will some fellow
read my tears?

No.  I will let my fingers roam
these runic forms
Singing loud
The loss we shared
Beside this stone.
copyright 2011 T.P. Mooney
Justin S Wampler Apr 2016
I stepped down into the creekbed
from atop the gravel path leading off into the woods.
and found myself at peace.

It was brief,
but for a moment I couldn't feel her presence
even though she was right behind me.

The shallow water slapped my ankles
and I stood fixing my pants as I scanned my new horizons,
noticing her clear reflection on the water.

Alas, as I turned to offer her a smile
I saw her look down and drop her hands,
putting her phone back into her pocket.

At the time I thought she was disinterested.
Just checking facebook.
Or texting her real friends.

Yet I was glorified whence I discovered she was just taking a picture.

Taking a picture of me.

Me standing in the water,
me scanning my horizons,
and me forgetting all about her.
Mike Essig Sep 2015
By  Diane di Prima*


Extract the juice which is itself a Light.


Pulp,   manna,   gentle

                    Theriasin, ergot

like mold on flame, these red leaves

bursting

                    from mesquite by the side

of dry creekbed.         Extract



the tar, the sticky

substance

                    heart

                                of things

(each plant a star,        extract



the juice of stars

                                by circular stillation

smear

            the inner man w/the coction

till he burn

            like worms of light in quicksilver

not the false

            puffballs of marshfire,      extract



the heart of the empty heart

                     it is full

of the star soul that paces fierce

in the deeps of earth

                       the Red Man,

                                                 healer

in furs

            who carries a club

who carries

             the pale homunculus

in his belly.

                         For you are angel, you call

the soul from plants



                      or pearls of ambergris

out of the grudging sea.

                       Extract arcanum.  Separate

true Archeus from the false

                       the bitter

is not less potent—nor does clarity

bespeak truth.



                        Out of the heart of the ineffable

draw the black flecks of matter

                               & from these

the cold, blue fire.

                               Dry water.   Immerse

yourself

              though it be but a drop.

                                                           This Iliaster

flowers like the wind.

               Out of the ash, the Eidolon of the world



Crystalline.

                  Perfect.
Man Nov 2022
you'll take advantage
till the creekbed dries
crushing roses in your hand
and they would've wilted away
anyway,  you think you're so much bigger
I've got news for you
you can barely measure up
to the men next to you
you cut a small figure
and every time you open that mouth
all respect for you just dives south
***** no-good stinker
Grace Ann Sep 6
I've been letting these feelings of complacency linger for awhile now
avoiding the process of acknowledgement like it's an overused hobby in my freetime

and it's rare for me to act--
instead I diminish and allow myself to curl in on myself
rather than facing head-on the things I fear

I am weak like that--
weathered down by time like a stone in a creekbed until my sharp edges are smooth--
only good for skidding above the water and sinking down below--
my obtrusive nature nonexistent,
only useful to those searching for me

but I've been sitting here complacent--
letting the rushing of the currents wear me down,
and I find I am tired of it's constant freezing presence
sitting beneath the crystal waters--visible to those searching for my stone,
waiting for the helpful hand of someone brave enough to seek me out
waiting to fit perfectly in the palm of their hand

and maybe I'll find that I've found purpose again.

— The End —