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Davina E Solomon Jun 2021
Blessed are the poorly, for theirs is the kingdom of mudflats

The dispirited streak turgid waters
sinuously, through unsettled feelings
in the wake of boats shedding
filaments of fuel,
sheen on a turbid infusion
and the cordgrass nods a resilience
or an apathy as the silt settles
on their Piscean gleam

Blessed are the pure in heart for they shall see a salted heaven

Angelic Menhaden of the Atlantic,
are silvery stretches of scale,
dulled in death under a festering sun
and the retreating tide of dying waters
brined in ocean, freshwater spirited
to secret spaces, some dammed crevasse,
now  tumultuous  fate in a salted heaven

Blessed are those who hunger and thirst for righteousness for they shall be filled

At the Tabgha of this intertidal palette
Cattails whisper beatitudes
latched onto the tails of wind gusts
and the plovers descended
in a litany of  bird song
amassed like the manna
trailing  tidal waters
as the sea swallows herself.
Blessed are the herons, the mallards,
the geese. Time is measured
in the passage of fish that
cycle themselves through the innards of birds

Blessed are the meek for they shall inherit the rocks

The meek Menhaden, leaped
onto the rocks that hemmed the inlet,
escaping the hungry habits of herons.
They inherited Earth in agony    
pounding a rocky surface,
but the air I swim, had no water.
I prodded these  Menhaden of the Rock
to the fringe of retreating tides,
and they leaped to die once more
to breathe water that had no air

Blessed are those that mourn, for they shall be comforted

Blessed is the discomfiture
of my brackish tears
that streak marsh faces
as fish struggle out of dead water.
I take comfort I don't inhabit
tainted places or do I take comfort,
all places are the tint of poison,
the gleam of a genesis of sorrow
The fifth of June has been designated as World Environment Day by the United Nations. Today, in fact, will inaugurate the UN Decade on Ecosystem Restoration (2021-2030), a global mission to revive billions of hectares, from forests to farmlands, from the top of mountains to the depth of the sea [1]. Pakistan is the host country this year for the official celebrations. As we are aware, the protection of the environment and its restoration is of utmost importance given the damage to our environment. Today, helps highlight that our well being and economic development, are intricately and intimately connected to the health of the environment in that, World Environment Day, gives us an opportunity to learn more about our ecosystems, cultivate broad and enlightened opinions, encourages responsible conduct by people, their communities and their enterprises to help preserve and enhance our habitat [2].


I chose to write a poem on the Atlantic Menhaden, fish that are an important part of commercial fisher and in estuarine habitats . They are filter feeders, consume phytoplankton and zooplankton and constitute the largest landings, by volume, along the Atlantic Coast of the United States. They are found in coastal and estuarine waters like in the Hackensack Meadowlands [3]. They are harvested for use as fertilizers, animal feed, and bait for fisheries including blue crab and lobster, are food for striped bass and other fish, as well as for predatory birds, including osprey and eagles. Menhaden are silvery in color with a distinct black shoulder spot behind their gill opening [4]. It was late (November, December) last year that I spotted a lot of dead fish in the Hackensack river. It was reported then, that it may have been the lack of oxygen in the water [5] It was only in April this year that species of Vibrio bacteria were suspected as having caused multiple ***** failure in the Atlantic Menhaden [6]. In any case, high levels of contaminants in rivers, along with sediment make up for low levels of dissolved oxygen in the water in summer and along with the bacteria, are a threat to this variety of herring that are important to many other species that make the Hackensack their home.

Read more at
davinasolomon.org/2021/06/05/on-world-environment-day-beatitudes-for-the-dead-fish-that-inherited-the-mudflats/
Audrey Howitt Jan 2012
i stand at low tide, heart receding
my toes squishing gushy sand
tiny skyscrapers rise up and fall
toes press downward
seeking purchase
i look out and see the mudflats
teaming with the small creatures of life
digging their way deeper
to find a tiny surge of water
the solace of home
a thimbleful of water
so trivial
so significant
my heart lies thirsty
as I dig down further
seeking my own surge.
copyright/all rights reserved  Audrey Howitt 2012
Davina E Solomon Apr 2021
And the knowledge of the hedgerow plant, I found embedded in leaf veins ... like in mine, etched along blue lines of a notebook. In the ripples on the remnants of water that pooled, before the mudflats claimed them are the striations of  ol'butot near  Naivasha. His stories tell of caves, a gleaming obsidian of a pre historic introspection. Do forty day fasts suffice to exorcise the springs of sulphur or the forced baptism of a flash flood washing six souls to Hades ? The sun glinted at me through a narrowness of fate, a gorge of interminable seconds and I marvelled at the strata of time in a warp, for it blurted out a moan.

Love spoke in nuanced layers of molten flow that crawled to stillness. Can I not say that stone speaks? A couple of hundred years back in time, self titled discoverers  had seen land that had not been unseen by the thousands who lived for thousands until then. So yes, the strata spoke to me, like the striations in the leaves and the lines that were everywhere telling stories of interminable seconds. Time grooves like a death valley in an engraving, etched like a memory of that which has never been, ripples on sand, circles on water,
Anything can trigger a poem, this one dominoed into Hell’s Gate Park in Kenya. Down below, a random photo I took inside, a few years earlier. It was strange, there was hardly anyone there that day, except the hot sun and a tiny array of grassland herbivores.

“A sparse region of natural beauty, Hell’s Gate runs west of the ancient lava flows of Mount Longonot, a 9,111-foot-high extinct volcano dominating Lake Naivasha and the Rift Valley. Combined with Longonot and Naivasha, the region forms a unique sanctuary for bird and animal life. It has been a longtime favorite of hikers, rock climbers, and nature lovers” [Ref~https://www.csmonitor.com/1985/1203/ohells.html]
Al Drood Mar 2018
I wonder if someday, he thought,
perhaps someone will maybe notice
that I stood here?

He stared across the endless,
quaking mudflats,
steaming beneath a hot, young sun.

As his feet began to slowly sink,
he crushed some lowly creature
gasping for breath beneath his heel.

Sighing at all creation and the report
he must now send to his superiors,
he unwittingly left his mark.
On a fossil discovered in 1968 near Antelope Spring Utah by Mr. William J. Meister. It appears to be a fossilized boot or sandal print. What makes this fossil even more unusual is the trilobite fossil in the "heel" part of the print.

The wearer evidently stepped on and crushed
a living trilobite!
Nigdaw Feb 2020
out on the mudflats
washed up by an angry sea
a shell remains
parched by the sun
a little bright paint
to remind whoever bothers to look
of the colour they once had
hauntingly beautiful shapes at dusk
ghosts with shrouded faces

Silt
there to block the estuary
a danger to shipping
of no use to anyone
but foolish romantics who see
the glory days gone by
a little sense of history, reverence
to the way things used to be


when they're gone
another age will discard the waste
of lonely  forgotten souls on the shoreline
Javanne Jan 2019
I am not a good person
I will not tell you directly
What I am thinking
And I will only vent
To a shadow replica of you

I am not a good person
Nothing you say will
Suddenly cleanse my true nature
That is seeped in mudflats

I am not a good person
I am vile and dreadful
I am nonexistent
I have no true opinion
On anything that is said
I think only of my own struggles
Which are comfort to
one that is as dreary
As I

I am not a good person
I keep telling you
But you don’t believe me
Why? Because I
Smile and belly laugh at
Everything around me?

I am not a good person
I am dishonest
With you and I
And I should be
In hell
For every thought
That has crossed my mind

I am not a good person
So do not fall
For my smiles
I am no angel
But deceit in disguise
Devon Brock Jul 2019
Longer rivers run to the sound
where the commerce plays out
its jangling game.

When once we were mountains,
no more than bare bluffs now,
each jutting a finger of mudflats
untrod and untouching for the tide
has turned once more, lifting the drift
and carrying our past verdant
intrepid days into the sea,
upon the waves, to be spat
onto another shore strange
with blunt shell, burnt pebbles,
and the neverminds of the locals.

But perhaps it is in our nature to weather,
to erode, to spill our alluvial fans
to any passing angler who'll listen,
perhaps the boulders we tumbled
to our own demise are no more,
no more than jagged or smooth grains,
packed, pounded, arranged
for the foot of a marveling toddler
on her first time at the shore.
Loose lines, mudflats

the lonesome sparrow sings.



The walls around Eden

are gaurded by…

half peace melodies

where rivers birth

my saddest songs .



Cinders in the moonlight

romance sizzling in the desert

has moved to the Tundra.

Pulled by the oppressive

dream of heat lightning.



Trying to silence the

Rivers music.



Screaming eagles ate

the Coyotes howl.

Recessed from the icy

pain of spoiled humanity.

Rivers of sorrow.

Rivers of pain .



Waiting in the reeds

to sacrifice my soul.

Yearning to caress

your intelligence.

Lost in your magic

the flower yet

to be named .


Lamenting that I will

never know your mysteries ,

your melodies

nor the essence of your song .

Your gentleness

or how you found

the way you love .

While Its a loss

I can not know

still it haunts

the River of my soul.



The beating cross

the burden I bear .

Singing out my

saddest songs.

— The End —