"creekside" poems
I had some bad news to deliver,
So I took her to my spot
The bench under the tree,
With all its gnarled knots
The bench right by the creek,
Right where the turtles like to play
A sacred spot of rest,
And shade on sunny days
I sat her down beside me,
And prepared her for the worst
Something so horrible,
It had taken eight weeks to rehearse
I really wish he'd told her,
Like he said he would
Should have known an aggressor's word
Is rarely ever good
I told her all there was to tell,
I answered every question
And then I found myself alone,
Silence in all directions
She walked so far away,
That I couldn't hear her voice
My story then repeated,
To the person of her choice
I waited on the bench,
And then waited some more
I made a small bouquet,
From flowers on the shore
I tied it up with grass,
And set it to the side
Such a mindless act of beauty,
I'm shocked I didn't cry
Not a sound escaped my lips,
Even after she returned
From the feeling in the air I knew,
The meeting was adjourned
Less than one day later,
She sat me down backstage
Though her conclusions were ill-founded,
Her words stung all the same
Eight weeks of work and "it's not your fault"
She did her best to make undone
Not only did I encourage him,
But I broke the essence of our bond
My dishonesty, my silence,
Can never be forgiven
My every flaw as a friend,
Unasked for, yet still given
Her final words were pure spite
If I'd only told her that same night
But how could I have told her,
What I didn't understand?
In an effort to escape the room,
I may have kissed her man
Four months to process,
Four hours locked away
But I never knew peace,
until I made that bouquet.
Feb 16, 2023
Feb 16, 2023 at 8:57 AM UTC
7.17.14
I’ve come to meet you here, in some sacred place
to be here alone with you
beautiful waker:
luke deep eyes opening to the moonlight
awake
-
But not alone
because I sit with you beneath the thousand gazes of stars
I hold you close with my ears
this golden hour )))) between )))) trees,
throwing your voice
with the crickets
waiting
for the space between us to throw it back
-
Individual, but never separate at the smallest level of things,
sharing together the energy of multicolored levels
-
and we remember, making our way through the dark:
-
this world is unforgiving
and we were wild and alive,
in this place I have known you always
-
In this place, I keep for you
The secret of the leaves
We are not alone in our despondent footsteps toward a truer North
but, I will help pave a path for you and your losses
unfold the pages I had folded
kiss a bruise underneath my hand
relax with disappointed youth onto another
and tell me, that
you don’t enjoy being lost inside all that passes
it is here, this sacred place
we throw our burning hearts into the empty creekside
and we build better homes at the roots of trees
*the sky is no longer surrounding us
the birds look to one another to retreat home
we both put things in our pocket without noticing the other
a low roar of emptiness from one point to another
in the distance it is clear that all you know is relevant
and I say, to myself, these things,
and you say to yourself, these things
no one else could know*
and you would say; out loud
“I loved him”.
and I would kiss the silence that came after
because I still love too
fever in your honesty,
pulling teeth from the names you carry
woven in your clothes
I sit alone with you
spreading the silence that reaches from our toes
outward into the
dark
Aug 3, 2014
Aug 3, 2014 at 2:34 AM UTC
Not all secrets are locked up in boxes
Not all truths are so hard to find
Some loiter at the bottom of napsacks
Others in the pockets of someone else's jacket
Some are laced up in a stranger's shoes
or waiting by the creekside...
We are sleuths,
The Great Adventurers!
and hound dogs
searching and searching
I'm telling you,
All we have to do is get out there...
Jan 13, 2015
Jan 13, 2015 at 9:37 AM UTC
The babble of the valley Brooke
A rush- the flowing, liquid memory moving
Downstream.
Water; the stillness of
a puddle
A pond, the pooling-
scintillates & permeates.
A gentel lapping
against the creekside,
A skip-stone-scape beneath the wetness
Augments the heavy water
As nature's soundtrack.
Mar 2, 2024
Mar 2, 2024 at 10:15 PM UTC
What day was it, exactly
when you asked?
I'd never thought
not that far out:
But.
I want to sit by the mountainside.
Hear the brook every morning-
gather up river stones
build up a path.
Drive an old chevy truck.
Red.
With radio made for blasting.
I want a moonroof and plenty
of stars in the sky.
I want to see faraway places.
Hear funny voices say funnier words.
I want to visit-then
I want to come home.
To you.
I want to cook like they do in NY
And garden
and pick pretty flowers.
To grow older
and watch
as my babies grow old.
I want to visit pyramids.
Buy trinkets at Parisian stores.
I want to see Venice-
make my way
thru watery streets.
But then
I want to come home.
To you.
To that mountain.
by that creekside.
Feed the squirrels and watch red robins.
Write under a tree.
I might want to go west-
Drive down highways fast
stay up in Vegas,
Late.
Wear sparkly dresses.
Drink pricey champagne
close to the bay. Any bay
will do.
I want to find light in the India bustle
and color in Ireland's green
and then,
I want to come home.
I want four corners and
I'd love seven wonders,
But still-
I'd want to come home.
To you.
Sahn
4/11/15
Apr 11, 2015
Apr 11, 2015 at 9:28 PM UTC
Over the terra umbra belt of the western plowlands
Fog intense esplanades separate-
vital pasture from albedo creekside
Diesel motors varnish the misty sunlight-
divide
Hereford cattle demand the cucumber green
lowlands
Morgan hillsides carry eastbound into
the coming day
Apr 7, 2016
Apr 7, 2016 at 6:59 PM UTC
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.
Jan 29, 2011
Jan 29, 2011 at 5:45 PM UTC
Beautiful Whitetail bucks , resplendent in Winter coats , statuesque along the hillside , ever alert in morning fog , complacent in the heavy cover of the Georgia woodlands , courteously striking a pose at Dusk , quite aloof in my own front yard ..
A crown prince of the ruminant kingdom at the edge of suburbia , revealing their breath on cold Winter mornings , leaving their signatures with rub marks and snorts ..
Commanding the fields of Spring and Summer , gorging themselves on brown oats , green grass , blackberry , fig and wild plums ..
Our wondrous native 'Knights of Hill Country' , panning green , picturesque pastures at the close of day , grazing for edibles along quiet country lanes , peacefully bedding beside creekside , Sun warmed hayfield , placid pond and mirrored lake ..Along Moon lit valley's , apple orchards and fire breaks ..
Nov 27, 2015
Nov 27, 2015 at 10:48 AM UTC
Beyond the rusty and almost illegible "NO DUMPING" sign, lies the old dump. Beyond the first layer of recently deposited ******* leftovers of the occasional hobo alcoholic or teen partiers, is the heavy underbrush, a thicket so thick. Beyond that, you begin to get into the good stuff. Waylaid remnants of yesteryears all bungled and tossed about, with plenty of new inhabitants (hatchlings and their recent refugee Canadian geese parents) calmly making good of what surrounds. Lots of rot, as it all sits creekside, gives malodorous inclinations of fishy remains, the raccoons' and martens' cast-offs. Beyond, and beyond further that, if you have stomach enough and don't mind mustering about with muskrats, is a nifty cache. Trinkets are found amongst heaps of broken glass in the beyond beyond regions. Whole or only slightly chipped vessels are gold. Especially, ones that may say, "Dr. Whosie's Whatever Wonderful Tonic Water." Those are the best.
Amongst a treasure trove as this, in its paragon of days gone by, is also a seepage of what may not be as good as the good doctor ordered. It is arsenic, and other carcinogenic pollutants, things unheard of, that would make your molecular epidemiology stand on end. Things an Industrial Revolution left behind, the not so pretty things we find, but do not see. Seepage that sinks into water, under our skin, into Leukemic bones, and beyond words' worries of families affected. Beyond all this, is us, and by stirring it up, we are given a question. Is it better to leave what's left behind in its depths, or are we to pull it out, likely spreading more about, as well as what may be residually left unfound, or do we just stop and think? And maybe get a new "NO DUMPING" sign. Thank you for allowing me this whine. This has been my dump.
Apr 19, 2017
Apr 19, 2017 at 8:39 AM UTC
*A deadly task at hand , see the November broom sage conforming with the lay of the land
The smooth stones are secure in their creekside homes
Adolescent Crepe Myrtles abide in the company of elder Oaks
Every plant allotted soil and very much aware of their place
Under the ever meandering compression of man with a valuable lesson of humility and grace
Behold the wall builders , the ceiling setters , the clothed and the rambunctious
The soil breakers , the ravagers , the fire starters , the problem
solvers mingled with the war mongers
The breath of creation fueling their thirsted conflagrations
Behold "the thinkers" , destroyers and the manipulators* ..
Oct 24, 2016
Oct 24, 2016 at 4:29 PM UTC
*Call me 'the nonchalant' in Springs blue eyes
Her favored son come to partake
of sweet wine and honeycomb , of tenured
pine and hardwood laced in spanish moss ,
of willow ponds long since crossed
Tempered breath about my neck
Anoint these weathered feet in May oil and myrrh
A crown of 'suckle , **** grass between teeth ,
cascading pools beside her creekside beach* ...
Mar 2, 2017
Mar 2, 2017 at 6:27 PM UTC
down, down,
water rushes happily,
gurgles and splashes and trickles and drips
as it feeds the mosses on the stony creekside,
too slick to walk there,
too beautiful to approach,
a place meant for witnessing from a distance,
not to be touched,
only savored by the ear and eye,
hidden back among the hemlock,
where only those with enough daring can go
and feel the presence of Nature,
her empowering spirit,
and the sense of peace She longs for,
as the water falls down,
cleansing and nourishing my soul and Hers.
Jul 7, 2015
Jul 7, 2015 at 7:42 AM UTC
*The sound of millwrights at work shall remain forever
The turn of the wheel will mingle with white shoal harmonies ,
topwater perch eruptions and birds of every color and euphonic song
Crystal waters displaying painted stones shall remain secured twixt creekside shrubbery , centurion oaks , sweet gum , juniper and tall evergreens ... Native grasses and vivid wildflowers will grace the Cotton Indian shoreline evermore*
Feb 19, 2017
Feb 19, 2017 at 8:55 PM UTC
*The dirge of Whippoorwills along the riverbanks
Lapping dark waters onto Cattail shores , Carp
roll topside o'er the shadowed montage , the final
hour of Summer Sun
Natures many musicians proclaim the star rise
Mayflies dance the surface like silver kites
Black , blue and orange yesterdays , night breeze
touch of Fall August ways
Oak , Maple silhouettes with calling Dove
Yearning for home* .....
Aug 6, 2016
Aug 6, 2016 at 9:25 PM UTC