"headwaters" poems
*is it like a feather
is it now or never
our faces are neglected
our souls are introspective
gravity collected
space and time dissected
water is our mother
the earth is our shelter
a blessed sacred elder
lilikoi is my favorite fragrance
tastes like innocence
and you must respect her
amazing feelings to select
the headwaters call collect
protect our sacred mother
dance upon the other
call upon the winds
feel them on your skin
remove the falling stones
that cover up your bones
rest in love unknown
concentrate until it is shown
phone calls steal our happiness
accidents dent our marriages
darkness is our daughter
streaks of light and color
falling stars kept captive
we plant them in our yards
keepers of the spark
sisters of the sparrow
made of light and yarrow
feathers flicker softly
all our woven glory
givers of the heart
singers of the dark
if you wish to hear them
make yourself a part
of the symphony
lifetimes of abandonment
oh so quick to fill you in
on all the tragic stories
what if we ignored them
and stayed present in this moment
filling up our cups
simple days spent with simple eyes
kindness supplies our alibis
respect is valued
like a stream in our hearts
we are dipped clean
threads of beauty
borrowed from the scarecrow
next lifetime you’ll become
another source of hope
ports of pleasure in our seas
forever we are feeling these
hopeless ropes tying up our antidotes
confounded sounds mounds of hope
stereoscopes and isotopes
poets freely speak
seek islands of wisdom
on stormy seas of chatter*
Oct 24, 2017
Oct 24, 2017 at 9:34 AM UTC
Your borders
are mending fences
And false fiction
is the elevated
runoff of the headwaters
of your dreams
And the people black framed
in the cages
of the eternal moment's collapse
Will gather generating
candle light wisdom
of those
who deny existence
Sep 13, 2015
Sep 13, 2015 at 2:50 AM UTC
Zero One and modern blight
Travel at the speed of light.
We wondered on the Wandering Jew,
Or, in lieu,
Orthon, Urian or Lilitu.
We trepanned our empty skulls,
Searched our humours,
Were touched by Rulers!
Now troubling symptoms of want and need,
Have blighted growth of yesterseed.
Patient Zero left no lead.
East fingered West
(and vice versa)
Was Ireland really the cause of cholera?
Did Blacks languish in Tuskegee squalor?
We christened Mary, but drank the water.
Fracked Incubus and Succubus
From son and daughter.
Patient Zero left the slaughter.
We deprived women of their tea
To cure wandering womb hysteriae.
Deviances and leaking lesions
Were headwaters of women's *****
Patient Zero has no season.
The barber sensed it might be smell,
So our widened streets became a sulfurous hell.
And wastelands swelled
Where curled cats dwelled.
(no talk of Michelangelo)
II
Our children's blight has a techno name,
Like the rose, IT smells the same.
With zero tolerance I lay blame
On screens and phones and video games.
The world wide box stores flipped their lids,
Touching all who crawl the social grids;
From the base of Mammon's pyramid.
Now Jake believes he's a gangsta dude
Since posting whatever on You Tube.
Nothing to gain, nothing to lose:
No services rendered but expects what's due.
Inflated egos are a system symptom,
Clearing firewalls, reaching children.
Patient Zero is no phantom.
There is no tale of rat or flea
As cause of lost immunity.
There is no open sore to fester,
The Selfie is the X-ray picture.
Patient Zero is so much quicker.
In our gel of techno bliss,
On our elliptic petrie dish,
Bathed in more than we could wish,
Patient Zero will finish,
And with that whimper
All vanish.
Mar 8, 2014
Mar 8, 2014 at 8:53 AM UTC
It was so hot yesterday
My armhair sweat,
My eyes were looking
Through a plastic bag,
My teeth were saturated.
I found the wind
Beneath the Bluewater Bridges
At the headwaters of the St. Clair.
Here I can relax my skin,
Watch the gulls maneuver,
Like your kite, Aine,
Against and with the blusters,
Gaining dive speed to vault the trestles.
The sun is burning my bones,
My blood rushes at four knots
With Huron's mouth.
I straddle the Shadow
To follow the birds,
Thinking of winter
I release a high-pitched laughing scream
That's carried back to the bridges
With my flapping shirt tails
Providing drag.
Jul 20, 2015
Jul 20, 2015 at 7:56 AM UTC
The Easel and the Tripod
She created from paints his capturing was done through a camera lens from the towering canyons of
New York to the windswept desert their love and fame grew proportionately how large can love grow
When it has such backdrops and talents fused together the height and strength of New York’s
Skyscrapers to the vastness and richness of New Mexico’s desert that is missed by most but through the
Eyes of Georgia O Keefe the dead items took on a vibrancy and life and through her husband Alfred
Stieglitz she was revealed as artist and beloved only as a man giving full vent to his heart and the
Emotions that were found there oh heart shine through this prism of painting and photography the
Lucid the albescence of pretext with brush and pallet and the keenness of eye to see into the depths
Give expression then adjust it in a minor way then capture on glass plates the indescribable desire that
Lies hidden but is the center of emotions intent none so inclined will ever weary this well tells of
Never ending depths a stranger will ever only be able to scratch the surface because the power of love
Truly is mysterious beyond compare to look upon another release all restrictions give command to
Decrement the probe will find only the enlightened exquisite inner and outer collusions that occur
Briefly but are ever after defined by that moment the merging of two into one by common interest
You have crossed the unknown unchartered waters but in them are found the most accomplished life
That can ever be found an easel and a tripod is a silent witness and a grounding point that energy is
Released across the span of the earth and touches the Cosmos and will call infinity home love started
Of truth will never be extinguished by time or eternity so therefore go into your own gallery of the mind
Stand at the headwaters of bliss it is time to celebrate undying love
Feb 7, 2012
Feb 7, 2012 at 7:38 PM UTC
the Mississippi starts small,
at the headwaters.
A child can cross
stone to stone, almost slipping
into cold water.
Sometimes they do fall,
but stumbling and soaking wet,
they finish crossing.
Now, these blue-gray stones
and clear rippling currents still
sound like their laughter.
Apr 1, 2017
Apr 1, 2017 at 2:47 PM UTC
As the water table rises you seep upward
a chilly ghost levitating
fluid limbs spread as the sun heats your body
water pools in finger lakes.
Etching ripples in their wake
water-striders wander the four directions of your surface
grass-kelp undulates, diving beetles plumb
in the hollows of your headwaters.
Lotus roots take hold and deepen
you rise slowly on north-facing feet
white petals burst through your visage
and a broad smile cracks your mud-encrusted face.
Ghost of earth future, risen.
Aug 27, 2014
Aug 27, 2014 at 11:18 AM UTC
It is all flowing uphill
back into the tributaries
into the headwaters
Life returns to its source
at the end
Chinook salmon spawn in their natal streams and die
their bodies nourish their young
who make haste to salt water
then return from the sea
to repay the favor
Uphill it is for us
a long slog, it seems
We are dedicated enemies
of entropy
unconscious
yet knowing our duty
So these are your instructions.
You must wake each day
and know it as a gift
never pause in worship
never cease your upstream struggles
until it is time
for such foolishness to end.
Grit and muscle
heart and will
life is short
yet sweeter still.
Dec 31, 2017
Dec 31, 2017 at 3:15 PM UTC
Walking along the river road
Was my friend and I
Along side in clear reflection
The Mad River gently floated by
While my friend and I
Spoke about loves
which had come and gone by.
When to my horror I did see
A child
a floating by
I dropped my back pack
And in to the river I did fly
Reaching down to grab that child
To safety, on this day, he would not drown as long as I'm around
I pulled him up and gently
I laid him on the ground.
Before we had a moment
Before a word could we say,
I saw another child
a bobbing, rushing, down fast this way
I jumped back into those frozen waters
I held her to my breast,
A sputtering
A muttering
I laid her on the grass,
There was no time to take a breath
Before another child down the river
floated my way.
I repeated my actions over and over
Went down to that river each time
Until as many children as I could gather
And lay them along side the river's
shallow shore.
Exhausted, now I stood
My friend sat on the green green grass
a crying to that noon time sun
We looked at each other in desperation's
silent hum.
One more
Two more
Three more
Four
A floating and a struggling they did come.
I didn't know what else to do
But I started running up the road
I knew the headwaters were
Up the road
Just a mile or so
or
so I thought.
In the distance I heard my friend
Calling my name in despair
Thinking that alone, I had left him there
To fight this futile battle.
To the headwaters I needed to go
To find out and stop this parade
Stop who was ever
Throwing these poor children
To the hell of the Mad River's
Watery grave.
The headwaters are just around this last bend
My friend's voice still echoes
The children's cries are sounds
Sounds I will always hear.
When I get there
I will tell you what it is
I found
I found awaiting there
Throwing all of these children down
for in this life to drown.
From the snow caps a melting,
The desert's valley floor
Through the farms
Past the city streets
To the ocean's mouth, it's final release
The Mad River flows
Taking our children as it goes.
Dec 24, 2014
Dec 24, 2014 at 10:20 AM UTC
Thump...thump...thump
capillary, vessel, anhydrous pump
inward pressure abounds
beat upon beat, heartfelt sounds.
Thump...thump...thump
guttural, airless trunk
chips down
nowhere surrogates sordid frown.
Pivot, about face...right...nothing
again...backwards...nothing
right face...nothing
forward...again...still nothing.
But there is always blood...
pumping... headwaters flood
pounding fear...
something... always lurking near.
As the root word is Latin
communicate... fatten
language of the word
rarely ever heard.
Excepting
idle transduction.
Talk to the birds.
Apr 18, 2014
Apr 18, 2014 at 10:36 PM UTC
To my Dead Mother,
To my Dead Father,
It's your son here,
Not your good daughter
They say the Evil men do lives on.
What did you do dad?
Why was I born?
Am I really yours mum?
And not the Devil's spawn?
I am ****** up
A drug abusing reprobate
No Moral compass
The landscape of my mind is desolate
I enjoy getting in fights
I enjoy stealing
I dream of ******
I care not for human feelings
Do as thou wilt
I learned from the best
As above so below
Dad you piqued my interest
I am ****** up
Because you were
My streams of debauchery
Fed by your headwaters
I need attention
But you're dead
I need compassion
Your corpses stay rotted
So I'll keep being me
Keep being the best bad person I could possibly be
You had your chance to save me,
But ultimately Mum and Dad,
You made Me....Me
Jan 17, 2015
Jan 17, 2015 at 8:15 AM UTC
The St. Clair flowed
Towards Erie,
As we walked to
The headwaters,
Where Huron emptied
So seemingly endless.
On Sunday drives
I never noticed signposts
Flying by.
On the court, Love,
I crouched, amazed,
At your service game,
Never ready for
The backhand.
Idle times lead
The girls to womanhood.
I'm left with celebrations
On celluloid,
And digital grasps
And loosening fingers.
Feb 15, 2015
Feb 15, 2015 at 11:58 AM UTC
My Beloved, your empathy is infinite
It is a bag of compassion that never runs out.
At the rarest of moments when it’s empty
When I am undeserving
Your silence is louder, there is always plenty.
Forgive my life of avarice that rips your strings!
But…how can a hole make one whole Beloved?
For your leaks endlessly trickle like a stream
Soothing desolate lands into meadows
And yet miraculously, there you still are
In the headwaters!
My Beloved, how bountiful is your empathy?
It’s a bag of compassion that never runs out.
Feb 25, 2016
Feb 25, 2016 at 4:52 PM UTC
Never Alone
It has always been to show your open palms was a sign of peace how much we need it today when there
Is such cruel and destructive behavior and there is another instance of the palms having special meaning
It always been the bane of human kind as they say you could be in a large crowd and still be quiet alone
In fact the theme of this piece will talk about our very existence comes from the fact we were made
Because God was lonely so from empty longing and resident power that could do something about his
Reality he knelt down and from the basic of material he created and started the great wave of human
Kind as can be expected He would know what would continue to trouble and haunt his great work so he
Included this in His word a bedrock foundational statement firstly never will I leave you alone secondly I
Have engraved you on my palms and your walls will always be before me so in all that makes up the
World at in the best there is at times great chaos but with the wind of trouble at a fever pitch stop and
Look and see where you are your place is tucked away in the mightiest fortress of all in the very palms of
God silence the voice that says I am alone unknown and unloved the headwaters where any and all love
Originates has you personally fixed he that cannot die or lie has you bound to him if your mother would
Forget you He says I will take you up you are mine no one can take you from me only you can break this
Unending boundless love we were giving a mind use it as it should be defensively in times of isolation
Bring to bear reason the gateway into the kingdom that is not of this world and does not pass away you
Mean everything to Him you were bought with a great price let yourself be carried away by this mighty
Swell bound on the wings of love there isn’t anything you can’t surmount even death holds no fear for
You it is just a step from limitation to boundless infinity founded on the pure foundation of love that is
Endless
Jan 9, 2012
Jan 9, 2012 at 6:47 PM UTC
Rivers are flowing within.
Swollen tip has been toughly aching,
Numbness seems to be dominating
Yet continuously finding the headwaters of river,
Running through, flowing permeably.
Grasping as it wonders when it will be truly found,
Crying out heart’s true deepest desires. Trudging up a steep trail,
Freudian slips as tongue’s weeping,
On other hand, thrusting the tip of one’s iceberg.
Apparently consumed over its power
But giving such soothing impalpable warmth of a lover.
Lying on seabed of embers,
Head over heels, asking:
Am I wandering in a milky dream again
Or is it just the caffeine that rushes through me at the moment?
Jan 3, 2017
Jan 3, 2017 at 9:31 PM UTC
(slaves)
we are a conquered people
but we walk freely as servants
our masters are not at peace
for they know what they do
yet before us they stand
as we weep for our loss
or exult over our victory
and though they are of Caesar
we give that which is God
(supper)
we wash in the headwaters
the water that cleanses my soul
we harvest the vineyards
the wine that became my blood
we cast seeds into the fields
the bread that is my body
we listen to their promises
but a voice became the word
we cannot speak of the image
the ritual looks not upon idols
(kolam)
she made chalk from rice fields
all are invited except evil spirits
lines and circles for prosperity
tomorrow another will be drawn
(death)
is there injustice
speak to me
purify myself
non-violence
until the bullet says no more
(resurrection)
she drew two needles
two needles that cross
two needles that mend
the eyes cast no stone
(desire)
they wear only robes
all desire has passed
the moon guides them
upon waters with no home
(pilgrimage)
seven circles against time
kissing and touching stone
prayers where they stand
drink water from the well
(incorporeal)
how to describe the ocean
to a baby that cannot swim
when we cannot see the edge
nor all that lives within its womb?
all we can do is reap its harvest
by drawing fish in the sand
removing them from the nets
and from baskets made full
(love)
no heaven can accept my sin
no hell can accept my goodness
i can only tell you how I feel
though what I see is you
and what I know is me
you have become like the stars
as beautiful and distant
as grace is to a man like me
Jan 3, 2017
Jan 3, 2017 at 10:11 PM UTC
Gather and concentrate
all inane trivialities
of a superficial world -
Make an assemblage of the shallow
trifling nonessentials
describing the tedious rounds -
That which daily contributes to
irascibility, animosity,
elevated blood pressure -
Group these ever-present torments
into a single image
held in supreme contempt.
Then cultivate a gentle scorn
for even the act of contempt,
the very inclination to contempt -
Wholly displace
the despised solitary image
and resentful reaction -
Demystify and purify
the reflection perceived
only
in the headwaters -
Make lucid and sharp
the awareness that is
oblivious to
entanglement.
- fr
May 25, 2019
May 25, 2019 at 4:42 PM UTC
Trap music and sad rap
Nightclubs and bar crawls
Culture streams are visceral
Don’t get carried away
Emojis and acronyms
Twitter mobs and Tinder
Paddle hard right
Watch out for the rocks
Pop idols and fashion
Cam girls and pornhub
Hustle and swag
Image and pride
History’s mightiest riptide
But I’m not in the throng
I’ll be on shore at the headwaters
Watching it all flow out to sea
Nov 28, 2019
Nov 28, 2019 at 12:25 PM UTC
It’s a matter of knowing
What seems only sadness can comprehend
That a smile is all that can part tears as they fall
Like rocks in a mountain stream riverbed
Swiftly steering the wash along its way
As only a stubborn will to live can
The only voice that matters, the oceans call
Not despair, but happiness instead
No matter how distant
Through faith that can apprehend
The belief, not in sorrow
But in where shells are floating
No longer living for the shores reach
Instead, embarking upon new lands
Gazing at the revealing stars
Whose glow reflects not tears of pain
But the way a smile learns to swim
In unfeeling headwaters
Where only the strong know how to mend
Oct 10, 2016
Oct 10, 2016 at 11:10 PM UTC
On clear days it rains buckets,
swelling the headwaters
and the algae blooms gluttonous.
Rufous clay breaks into wider trenches
and the towhee flashes away.
You never flinched when I crushed your hand
on that first day on the ****** rise before a charging
buffalo sun, gnat swarming my wild panicked eyes,
giddy with each hill blue upon bluer receding.
I'm a woodland kid, baby, creek crouching
with roots and canteens of sassafras
in the leopard light and leafmold;
the wannabee Tarzan swinging
on wintercreeper vines.
I'm the scurrying rat in the stormdrain,
taking the shortcut home for supper.
But there you were, straight as loblolly pine
in the canyon lands of Chicago, prairie drifted
in with the drifters and the hawk winds
of winter to find the woodland kid dragged
blind before the gridiron sky.
Two rivers led nowhere, two rivers
and a chance confluence of running
merged and pooled in a one bedroom cave
on Belmont, hatching our tadpole dreams,
fattening the swimmers with mustard greens
and gaudy hotdogs.
When we crested the banks,
on the continental divide,
one to the woodland, one to plains,
the water ran as waters do,
and as in each great story,
the boy follows the girl,
to the ****** rise before
the charging buffalo sun,
where you held my hand
and I saw the sky for the first time.
Aug 8, 2019
Aug 8, 2019 at 4:49 PM UTC
I am older now
And I have reached the mountaintop
But I am not ill
Nor is my time short
No more so than any other sane man
If that is how I may be able to live
Rational
Hopeful
Sober
I carry nothing on my back
No deeds to draw upon to quench my thirst
Only a mind full of conscious humility
And regret
My silent face is a sign of contemplation
For vanity and pride die where the air cannot be set on fire
My heart beats slowly like a peaceful creek
Fed by unknown headwaters
A confluence of spirit and silent motive
I see how I have measured myself wrongly
For what glory upon which man may dine
Is of benefit to my dead body?
I desire only the destruction to a legacy of pleasure
For now I see the journey has just begun
Each plateau of discovery
Met by one of even greater challenge
Where men of ******* echo their stories
I made haste from the dangers of the unknown
Where men of privilege boast of their medals
I lingered with what I have always known
But what concern was it to the clouds that gather above me
For their charge is to rain and thunder upon every man equally
But what is equal to one who must shame those with an umbrella?
I will not have the use of the tools upon which I relied
For they are as beneficial as a feather for a rebuke
Or a cane for forgiveness
My legs have reached the end of their useful life
And I have no wings
There is no emotion that will carry me beyond my excuses
Grief, joy, bewilderment
None can avail themselves of purpose to me
We are all walking on a grade of sliding pebbles
Some of us realize it more than others
We all live with uncertainties that can happen at any time
But what is uncertainty when the top of the mountain is all there is
Is it the uncertainty of our marriage to disappointment
Or how to live born into ******* whether enslaved or ignorant
What we must find within ourselves is the discovery
For the mountain is only another obstacle before the doors of freedom
To be free
It is a choice
Right or wrong
To believe or not
To know where another man may fail
You may succeed
And to know the full measure of another man lies within your patience
And your desire to give him all the time he needs
Jul 5, 2016
Jul 5, 2016 at 4:26 PM UTC