"paddler" poems
A lone paddler
within rumoured holy waters,
blessed by the touch
of a vacant apathetic god,
she gaped mutely like a halibut,
lips parted comically in a silent wail,
the clockwork functions
of her jaw,
forced teeth to reacquaint as sisters,
grinding together
in discomfort,
as lukewarm fluids rippled
around her thighs.
In this silent act of cleansing,
sin's hallmark should have faded
from her skin,
still her father believed
'her to be the devil's young'
due to scientific witchcraft,
her concoctions to lure demons
to their dinner table.
'I'm doing this for you, darling.'
her father reassured
with an earnest glint in his eyes,
madness paced hungrily,
encircling pupils in a territorial manner,
delusions of God himself watching
over his daughter,
with tears streaming down golden cheeks,
repeated within his fragile mind.
Unsure, the girl remained standing,
the embodiment of Mary
with her arms spread like angel wings,
did she dare disobey
her father's wishes,
and feel the leather belt against
her rear,
or reject her own troubled heart,
for her father's sake?
May 9, 2012
May 9, 2012 at 4:19 PM UTC
A
splash
overtakes
the stern and
rocks grind the
gunwales. Quick to
maneuver, draw draw
draw, easing the boat into
calmer waters; pause. A deep
breath to regain focus and scout
the stream ahead. White water, boiling
foaming writhing as it is forced reluctantly
along. Trout shimmer under the warm sun
cutting effortlessly through the brisk water.
Disrupted and scattering they flee as a stroke
breaks the surface, bubbles rise off the paddle
ascending like the decent of snowflakes falling
falling falling to the surface above. On this ground
blanketed by freshly fallen snow, water bugs dart
back and forth more quickly than the eye can see,
disturbing only a slight dimple below. These too
flee as the water is broken, cut in half, by the keel
of a slender hull sliding seductively over the surface.
The pace hastens. Unified, the paddler and boat
react and flow as one. Tipping forward over the
brink, the canoe shoots forward over thrashing
snow. Quick right. Dodging a fallen weathered
tree. Quick left. Swooping past a rocky isle.
Whitecaps breaking and eddies twisting, a
sirens song, drawing the boat closer.
Violent spray distracts from the call of
the sirens and the canoe is buffeted
from side to side rocking perilously.
Waves reach up in a welcoming
embrace as the boat quivers.
Regaining balance it soars
onward, leaving the
anguished water
with only a
fading
wake.
V
-AM
Jan 14, 2016
Jan 14, 2016 at 3:43 PM UTC
A wide, wide lake
And a paddler.
Moving in no particular direction,
just keeping
Above the glassy depths.
Paddling,
praying it never tips.
Praying so hard,
And still; the wind picks up.
The paddler turns around
oh, so, slowly
and moves for shore.
Chest burning,
water on fingertips, (tip?)
waves getting higher.
Swallowed lake water
up the nose.
The Paddler
sinks to the bottom.
And kicks off!
Wading Home to the Unknown.
Jul 19, 2014
Jul 19, 2014 at 9:17 AM UTC
Mark seemed to have it all,
a beautiful wife,
two strapping sons
& he was always out to have
serious
good clean fun.
A hellacious paddler
& consummate fisherman,
always teaching his boys
a higher standard
& fulfilling
his honey-do lists.
So naturally,
it came as a big surprise
when he asphyxiated
himself with carbon monoxide
in his own driveway
during broad daylight.
It tore us apart actually.
At the funeral,
his wife told me he had seven stepfathers.
I never knew that,
but maybe,
just maybe,
he thought he was a failure
when his wife filed for divorce
the morning of his departure,
and he couldn't live with that.
The thought of his own children
growing up like he did,
it must have been hell.
Perhaps
the mystery will never be solved,
but just the same,
all I can think about
is the damage,
the other hell
he left behind.
Apr 20, 2015
Apr 20, 2015 at 4:47 AM UTC
if you can try
to cast your mind
to times gone by
left far behind
those days of yore,
aeons ago,
long before
men kneaded dough
before time begins,
before internet,
when man wore skins,
and a woman, corset,
those days when Luddites
meant English weavers,
'n churches were tight
with avid believers
when a Yankee still dreamt
his country was golden,
a queen, monarch meant,
if quaint and olden,
when people still dialled
to each other on phones,
implied lazybones [that idled]
when they carped on about drones,
when block was an obstacle
placed in a road,
canoe, pointed vehicle
by one paddler rowed
when catfish a marine creature
dwelling in sea
and cloud a sky-vapour
that veiled clarity
when tweet was sound chirped
oft by a bird
and old text was a script
inscribed on a sherd,
when RED was a colour,
as indeed was blue,
e'en then, my dear fella,
we still knew a thing or two.
Aug 3, 2022
Aug 3, 2022 at 6:13 AM UTC
I am a Paddler
Who has no
Canoe, or oar,
Or even a
River to cross.
May 8, 2019
May 8, 2019 at 11:56 PM UTC