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Shayla V Jul 2012
I want to be the stones to your riverbed,
pipeclayed satellites
so that you move forever about my body
and I sturdy along the soft banks of your heart.

And to the softer parts,
to the dunes worn by rushing water and starfish,
sulking and easing their way under your skin,
as they do,
to those submerged shores
I want to knead,
smoothing over every inch of you
until you forget how heavy debris can settle.
[04-23-12]
Jonny Angel Dec 2013
Thai smoke swirled,
uncoiling snakes
reaching into Heaven,
lungs exploding,
ecstasy released.

Harmony we found,
us herbal warriors,
brilliant,
enlightened smiles,
high-fives all around.

We sped in slow motion
across the emerald sea,
only to be stopped
by a jailbreak
blaring
so loudly
on FM radio.

It was silly,
us on the bridge,
******,
bewildered,
looking around
as others drove by
sober.

We laughed till
our buzz blew away
with the fading traffic.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=oMFYs3gfgis
I love Thin Lizzy...."Jailbreak" is classic!
vircapio gale Jun 2012
let me structure you first:
there, now, ready, fly my owl
granting vision logic,
guiding thoughtform fair.
what softness in the earth gives way
to waterway, what forceful gust of air
to final quench of earthy thirst...
such unseen pyschomancy dusts
the wing-stroke of your flight,
and weathers well my musing trust;
you see with ancient zero eye,
and die to my dull interpret edge;
like a certain volcano jumper's
ox of oats and honey you
coat the stone of time to
symbolize my rhyme. hold,
softer, still, i do not need to cut
or pluck or forge with harshness --
your shrill screeching from the cage
of lines here summons more
than Athene's gavel ever forced.
otherwise than writing, you wait...
cradled darkly, unknown priorlife
of avadhuta colors mixing in,
of whalesong faintly felt
like stegosaurus moans,
like city-ships to overreach and then to rot,
forgotten tattva vidya shastra
forgotten sukha,
Megbe, Tirawa, Awen, Asha, Ichor...
(अवधूत avadhūta) is a Sanskrit term from some Indian religions or Dharmic Traditions referring to a type of mystic or saint who is beyond egoic-consciousness, duality and common worldly concerns and acts without consideration for standard social etiquette. Such personalities "roam free like a child upon the face of the Earth" (wiki).

अव 'ava':

favour; off, away, down.

धूत 'dhUta':

shaken, stirred, agitated; "rinsed"; fanned, kindled; shaken off, removed, destroyed; judged; reproached; [neut.] morality

अव-धूत 'avadhUta':

"shaken off (as evil spirits)"; removed, shaken away; discarded, expelled, excluded; disregarded, neglected, rejected; touched; shaken, agitated (especially as plants or the dust by the wind), fanned; that upon which anything unclean has been shaken out or off; unclean; one who has shaken, off from themselves worldly feeling and obligation, a philosopher; [neut.] rejecting, repudiating

\|/

tattva-vidya-shastra:

"discipline of knowing reality" (one modern sanskrit term for philosophical enquiry -- the language having no straightforward equivalents for 'philosophy' or 'religion')

sukha:

skt. for happiness, comfort, ease, pleasure, bliss, light, space.
    fr. Su(good) & kha (“sky,” “ether,” “space,” orig. “hole,” particularly an axle hole of one of the Aryan’s vehicles, thus “having a good axle hole,” while dukkha meant “having a poor axle hole,” leading to discomfort

Megbe (African):

life force exists in blood and bones

Tirawa (Pawnee):

'force which moves all things'

Awen (Welsh):

"(poetic) inspiration"; also considered a force or
energy forged from an indivisible source that is the power behind the
physical

Asha (Avestan):

'truth', 'existence', 'right working', "the decisive confessional
concept of Zoroastrianism" (in Vedic language ṛta). "The correspondence between 'truth',
reality, and an all-encompassing cosmic principle is not far removed
from Heraclitus' conception of Logos." (wiki)

Ichor (Gk):

ἰχώρ is the ethereal golden fluid that is the blood of the gods
and/or immortals
island poet Aug 2019
green island privilege

we thread our way through the Johnstone Strait,
where every landmass, largest and smallish,
all islands, so this particular three-island-man is comforted and
comfortable in his surroundings, in his skin,
in his watery rivered veins

the outlines of myriads shapes, assorted puzzle pieces of earth adrift,
fitted sheets, awaiting assembly upon the magic of water,
fitting the continuously moving puzzling frame, accepting all,
mutually funding each other for each must, by definition,
define each other

the sky allows itself to be glimpsed, “yes, I’m still blue,” it teases,
but sky is busy bathing its undersides, in gloomy whites
of a bubble bath, of a deep morning mournful fog,
we underneath, observing, bestride a double sided fir and pine forests corridor either-sided of our the cold calm watershed,
a green privilege

fog above, touching so lightly our green tree waterway enclosure,
just as a human caresses his truly beloved’s cheeks, so so softly,
the fog sitting on top of the treetops, kissing, allowing that,
but no more,as the day is now only hours young,
disallowing mature sunset romance

close enough to touch, the fallen branches that people the shoreline and I, marvel at my privilege, my history, how I came to be
witness to this moment, testifying to the luck of life, cris cross continental running from European Black Forest persecution,
Spanish inquisitors, whose auto-da-fe cris cross burnings earned them no truth, no fame,
where racism hatred made my tribe an official inferior kind,
worthy of extermination, yet, here I am surviving to be arriving
to the serenity of this goddess Columbia moment in natural embrace

but here again, at this second, still excoriated as virus-privileged,
aligned this time to the guilt of my skin colorations,
guilty genetically, in my nation of 99% immigrants,
which confuses us,
for we, our troop, victimized by quotas, ghettos, crafted laws,
once upon a time burnished, now burnt by our successes,
we asked for nothing more, fair play,
a chance to win but never by stepping on the backs of others,
are told, no, no, guilty by chance,
cause you won the oppressors color coded lottery


the sun keeps on battling, though now late afternoon,
its glare, no fair, makes me squint to see the horizon,
a thin lucent bright line, who knows how far away,
it challenges me, saying am I not the sun to everyone,
leading you to new islands, green end zones for anyone
to touch down, leading you back home to where you shelter
anyone who asks, a new horizon for anyone comes to me,
giver of words, my inspiration family history shared for anyone,
I adjudge guilty, your privilege was earned, by the exile you’ve endured and the truth of your island green privilege,
and the trees, in unison say, hallelujah selah
Scott Howard Sep 2013
Cincinnati is a family
town where cookie cutter
houses are bunched up like
sardines painted in pastels and
white. Where East and West
only meet in the
middle of downtown.
Orange barrels dot
the potted streets and
neon clad men work
in 90-degree humidity
just to earn a lower class
income.
The Queen City’s throne
is the revolting Ohio River,
a murky green waterway
filled with monsters and
dead bodies.
Polluted streets are
flooded with homeless caravans
mimicking
sewer rats and everyone
wants a smoke.
People worship a Bengal tiger here,
Oh, and pigs can fly.
Kelly O'Connor May 2013
Returning son, his daughter at his side,
imagines now the men who once amassed
the limestone locks to straddle the canal,
an obsolete image from an eldritch past.

On a ritual hour of summer dusk,
if you should know precisely where to stand
that ghost of Syracuse can still be seen,
a rotting timber craft trapped deep in sand.

Mosquitos drone their hungry mother song.
The two upon the towpath, side by side,
survey this stagnant waterway where once
their ancestors lived and worked and died.

The silt entombs the boat’s untimely end –
how many years before the blasts of steam
sent veins of iron shooting ‘cross the land
did this canal boat capsize like a dream?
K Balachandran Apr 2015
Most of all. it's the truculent desire hardly shielded,
creating whirlwind, shaking the woods of my mind,
then insistent fingers in an ****** day dream,touch
intimately to arouse my hood, those  robust waves
inch forward to my shores, I shudder,again and again,
like a sea swell, in an intense want, we are engorged,
a mania for the moon, slouching behind the clouds,
your eyes had always spoken gently, yet brewed storms.

I sense a wish that yearns culmination in my invasion,
full luscious red lips, smeared with the spices  of amour,
their own symbolism eloquent, as wet they are, whispering yes, yes
coal black eyes can't hide the eagerness, they peer,
your body, now so tender has a tremor,anticipating my touch,
you are ready for a journey together, to the far deeper ends
an impatient waterway, aren't you,awaiting my row boat,
for a fervorous exploration together, through the watery canals
A wild cow defecates in the waters of the fledgling Liffey,
as it eeks oozes and seeps from the sheep **** of a Wicklow Vale,
running to the loo through the coronation plantation.

The descendant of the brown bull of Cuailnge moves on to the next waterway of Ireland.  What fun.
By a dank , stinky waterway
Blowing off all my care
Swarms of tiny black insects
Biting me everywhere
Around the bend so listless
Hovers a barge's spotlight

Now I was feeling cold as a stone
So I knew that it was time for me to go
I roared down the highway
To that trucks diesel smell
Seeking shelter in the middle of the night
Somewhere , where they treat you well
A red light dangles from a window
Lady Nightly is leaning against the door
She says, "Won't you come on in and I'll
be your ***** ."

Oh , welcome to the Hotel , Alabama
Such a secluded place , "such a secluded place"
Such a must see place
Book a room at the Hotel , Alabama
Put away your fears , "put away your fears"
She'll be waiting there

She'll twist your time so swiftly
Make you taste all of her amends
She knows all the right moves
If not she'll call in her friends
The moon ago was arising
She covers all of your bets
Pure pale skin in the moonlight
A taste I can't forget

I call up the dispatcher
"I won't be in on time"
Lamenting he said ,"Where are you this time?"
But his voice just got more distant
As I turned away
Forgot all about him as I dove back in bed
(Then she turned over to say)

"Welcome back to the Hotel , Alabama
Such a lovey place, "such a lovely place"
Always has a place
"Welcome to the Hotel , Alabama"
What a pleasant rise , "what a pleasant rise"
No need for disguise

My senses now reeling
Gin and tonic would have to suffice
She said , "Once , twice , now let's make it thrice"
There in the muggy bedroom
We were joined like a beast
We slapped our steely bodies
But couldn't satisfy it in the least

The rising sun glared at me in the face
She was standing by the door
"Y'all have to stop by on your way back
And I'll give you more"
"Oooh , aah ouch !" said I to the lady of my night , "It's more than I perceived .
You got a facebook page , one that I could like ?"
(And all she said was),"It's time for you to leave"

So welcome back to the Hotel , Alabama
Such a distant place , "such a distant place"
Such a must see place
Welcome back to the Hotel , Alabama
What a pleasant rise , "no need for disguise"
You can always book a room at the Hotel , Alabama
Such a lovely place , "such a lonely place"
Such a distant place . . . . . .
A nickname I had when I drove trucks was Alabama .
M Vogel Sep 2023


"They've outlawed it, you know.."

       "Outlawed what, Sweetie"

"The  Unknowable--
that which cannot be  defined
  or easily explained away..
That which cannot  reduced, down
in to something  more palatable;
  Or maybe diluted-down
in to  that which  one could drink
..without it bringing some form
    of dis- comfort"


She is looking down;
Woven into her hair.. all things
edelweiss,  suddenly begin  
   their wilt

  ..and  all along the waterway
  are those coming towards her
     to smother
                    .
You will hold on, my Beautiful
(or maybe even turn  to face
for the first time, with loaded gun)


--But Beautiful girl was never  meant
    to go loaded
(..And her beloved Rooster Cogburn  said
that she's no bigger than a corn nubbin)

    My beautiful girl
    locks and loads, anyways--
Because the Mason-jars  
she was forced to  pour it all in to,
     were never made  big enough
         to contain it.

There's a small stall  at the  swap-meet..
on Thursday and Saturday  mornings,
  she rents a space there
      Her wares,  true liquid Gold..
   (when a jar  becomes sold
   no hidden-thing will be  needed
        to sustain it)

  .      .      .      .      .

Quiet hearts  are never meant
to reveal themselves
      Some words (in this world)
      were never meant  to be spoken

You'll see now, beautiful Angel--
that this Rare-Jeweled heart  of yours
  is not the only-one,
                perpetually Broken

Some gifts, the world
may never  be ready for.
Lip-Kissed,
may I be the one
to help  get that
un-ready World, ready--
(so very well fed
    yet still;

  so very slowly,  burning)



Some beautiful Heartbeats
are so very much worth dying for


        ...  And I,  myself ;  

                        I  am  turning..



--Look out, Mama, there's a white boat
   coming up the river
With a big red beacon
and a flag,  and a man on the rail
I think you'd better call John
'cause it don't look like they're here
  to deliver,  the mail;

And it's less than a mile away
I hope they didn't come to stay

It's got numbers on the side,  and a gun
And it's making big waves

https://youtu.be/-yzOpjQsXvk?si=nNaMXxzqjLtP_DPf
.
Marshal Gebbie Aug 2023
Everything is BIG here.

Meals are big, bums are big, cars are huge and the skies are a million miles wide.

Janet and I are travelling in the Northwest of the United States of America, spending time with Boaz and Lisa in Idaho, Steve Yocum in Oregon and Greg and Linda in Washington State.

The trip is a "quickie" in that we are fitting one helluva lot into just three weeks duration.
Never in all my days have I seen such huge quantities of food served up in restaurant meals, plastic bags discarded, American flags fluttering and all the young, blonde girls in tattered, impossibly short cut offs and sleeveless tops talking loudly, incomprehensibly at a million miles an hour ......Just blows you away!!
Monstrous pickup trucks, Rams, Broncos, big V8s travelling the freeways continuously. Sheriffs, troopers and Road cops all wearing firearms on the hip, in their souped up pursuit vehicles parked on the roadside shoulder, eyeballing everyone as they pass, with a mean, accusatory glare.
Out on the range there is a million square miles of nothing but sage brush and basalt rock....and searing, baking heat.
114 degrees in the painted desert of Moab. Beautiful though with vaulting red sandstone cliffs and rearing stone arches against the blue-est of blue skies.
Standing pillars of ancient sedimentary rock born in depositions laid down in vast oceans of bygone eras, millions of years ago.

History is painted vast in this immensity. The gigantic and abrupt catastrophic inundation of a vast and deep inland sea, swelled suddenly by floodwaters of rivers diverted by lava flows from subterranean fissures....Unimaginable torrents abruptly released, gouging out ancient lava beds to create gigantic waterfalls and deep, sheer sided chasms.

Cascades that constituted the biggest river flow ever known in the history of the planet, washing away everything from the epicentre of the continent in Utah through Idaho to the Pacific ocean in the rugged coast of Oregon. Such was the Bonneville flood of 12,000 years ago illustrated today by the gigantic chasms created in the beds of basalt and rhyolitic larva throughout Idaho and the fields of massive, round, house sized boulders strewn from the floods origin near what is now, Salt Lake City in Utah to the coast in Oregon, a thousand kilometers away.

The two weeks stay with Boaz and Lisa just disappeared in a flash. They took us down to Moab painted desert, Zion National park, the Craters of the Moon, Monument National Park and up to Stanley and the Sawtooth mountains by the mighty Salmon river. Janet and I took advantage of a couple of push bikes hanging in the garage and spent most days cycling the local trails and visiting Starbucks for a celebratory cappuccino or two....Those bikes saved our bacon, walking trails in that heat was ******. Great hospitality enjoyed here. watched reruns of Sopranos on Boaz's 70 " SmartScreen TV and enjoyed Arnie's escape from postwar Austria to Mr Universe and fame and fortune @ Hollywood with Boaz whilst enjoying chilled margaritas in the hot tub.

The camaraderie of meeting an old mate of 45 years past, Steve Yocum of Oregon  a fellow writer and author. Both of us intent on shooting the breeze, putting the world to right. In some ways a sad exercise in that no longer can either of us make things right for with age upon us, neither has influence. We can huff n puff n blow the house down....but it seems, nobody pays the slightest bit of attention. The penalty of age is invisibility. The relief in it all is that, really, nobody actually gives a hoot!

Just two Old Dogs letting off steam..... it's rather cathartic actually! Thanks to Stevo, Ian and lovely Heidi for the accommodation, great hospitality and warmth.

The cool atmospheric relief of the serene and calm, Puget Sound in Seattle, Washington state gave welcome respite from the intense heat of the interior and the serenity of our cottage accommodations and startlingly beautiful garden surrounds. A forest of conifers and deciduous trees harboured gardens of blooming roses, hollyhocks and multihued cone flowers, emerald lawns carve swarths of sunlight in avenues of deep, green shade....a delight for the sunburnt brows of yesterday's heat.
Woken by the bassoon blast of the passing early morning ferry out in the waterway, to stroll out to sit at the very edge of the sandy, pebble beach and gentle surge of the deep, clear saline waters of the magnificent Puget Sound.
The peace of early morning crisp cool air, a seascape of moored fishing boats on mirrored waters, the distant Olympic range rearing to its' full 7,000 ft against a powder blue sky left us quite breathless with the utter beauty of it all....add to that a lovely breakfast offering of fresh berries, kiwifruit slices and yogurt and a chilled glass of fresh squeezed orange juice...and we absolutely, couldn't want for anything more. To Greg and Linda our love and thanks for giving up your beautiful bed, travelling us around beautiful Seattle and being our airline coach to and from Portland. We shall return the warm hospitality next time you hit NZ and Taranaki.

Vulcanism has dominated the terrain in Idaho, Montana, and Utah. Continental drift westward of the land mass has brought about a steady transference eastward of the massive geothermal hot spot which currently lies in Yellowstone park and which is the source of all volcanic activity within the park..
Idaho, in ancient times, wore the volcanic mantle of the region in having truly gigantic rhyolitic ash and magmatic eruptions. These cataclysmic eruptions emptied deep cavernous, subterranean magma chambers which collapsed under their own weight leaving vast circular calderas in the landscape. Subsequent plate tectonic activity caused deep faulting allowing huge flows of sticky magma to surge to the surface like searing hot black toothpaste, spreading across the plains obliterating all evidence of the rhyolite caulderas, surfacing the state, to this day, with millions of acres of hard black basaltic rock.
Here and there, rhyolite has wormed its way to the surface building gigantic domes, over the centuries these have weathered leaving statuesque, dramatic flat-topped mesa scattered across the landscape.
Altogether a truly unique and enthralling terrain for visitors to behold and one which reveals a dramatic insight to the volcanic and tectonic violence of the recent past and gives a definite air of mystique to the beholder.

In a land of 360 million people, supermarkets are downright huge...and they contain the spoils of the nation's plenty.
Acres of dazzling variety... and cheap by international standards. The very best of prime beefsteak, sides of pork, Alaskan cod freshly caught and displayed in rows of chilled enticing exhibit. Every possible vegetable and fresh picked fruit known to man in piled pyramids of brilliant, colourful display. Beautiful ornate furniture, beds, mattresses, tiers of car tyres of every conceivable brand and size, wheelbarrows, fertilizer, fresh flowers in mountainous display, ***** in barnlike chillers. Supermarket trolleys for giants..... and gird yourself for a marathon hike in collecting your basket of groceries...and give yourself half a day....you'll need it!

America has momentum, huge momentum. Across vast tracts of country lie networks of highway. Multilane concrete that tracks mile after mile carrying huge trucks with 40 tonne loads. Incessant trucks, one after another,  thundering along carrying the lifeblood of America, merchandise,  machinery, infrastructure, steel, timber and technology. Gigantic mobile freezers hauling food from the grower to the markets. Hauling excavators, harvesters,  bulldozers and giant Agricultural tractors. Night and day this massive source of production careers across the nation transporting the promise of America, the momentum which drives the Stars and Stripes onward, ever onward.

On the margins of the cities of Portland and Salem the unhoused gathered in squalid tent communities. In the beautiful city of Seattle I saw many down and out unshaven, untidy individuals with hopelessness in their eyes, pushing supermarket trolleys containing their sparse possessions. I drove through rural communities, some of which, reflected hardship and an air of despair. Run down dwellings in need of maintenance and repair, derelict rusty vehicles adorning the **** strewn frontages.
Not 20 kilometers away in Ketchum and Sun Valley Idaho the homes were palatial in grounds tended by gardeners and viticulturalists. Porsches and Range Rovers graced the ornate, rusticated porticoes. Wealth and privilege in evidence in every nuanced nook and cranny.
America is, indeed, a land of contrasts, a land of wealth, privilege, and plenty..... and yet a land that, somehow, tolerates and abides a fragile paucity which emblazons itself, embarrassingly, within the national profile.

On a hot day in Twin Falls, Idaho, I walked into a huge air-conditioned sporting goods store specifically to look at guns....and in the long glass cases there were hundreds of them. From snub nosed revolvers to Glocks, 38s, 45 caliber even western style Colt 45s and the ***** Harry Magnum with the long, blue gun barrel and classic, prominent foresight.
In the racks behind the counter are hung fully and semi-automatic rifles of myriad types...all available for sale providing the buyer has appropriate licensing.
In a land where mass shootings proliferate weekly, I ask myself....does this availability of lethal weaponry make sense?

The aching beauty of the mountain country in Northern Idaho, Oregon and Washington state cannot be overstated. The Sawtooth mountains, the Cascades, Mt Ranier, Mt Hood and the Olympic range. Ridgelines of towering conifers as far as the eye can see, waves of green deciduous running down to soft grassy clearings with boulder strewn, rushing streams and the cascade of plunging waterfalls. The magnificence of the natural beauty of this rugged, heavily timbered mountain country just defies description being far, far isolated from the attentions of man.

To happen upon this country from the far distant reaches of the South Pacific is a culture shock, to be suddenly exposed to the extreme largess. It is difficult to calibrate, hard to encompass, impossible to assimilate....but the people encountered warmed us with their generosity of spirit, their willingness to welcome travelling strangers into their homes....and, of course the invaluable time we spent with our family….and for these factors alone together with the huge magnificence that is this........
GRAND AMERICA.
We are truly, truly grateful.

Janet & Marshal
Foxglove@Taranaki.NZ
Kuzhur Wilson Jun 2014
Our house was a 12 year old Lancer car

Sitting in its congested patio,  
Beheld the sky

That sky spilled over the sky
Stars squirmed and threatened to jump down immediately

We were like the children beneath the mango tree who do not rush to school
Even after the last bell

The wind may blow any moment

Our house was a 12 year old Lancer car

Descried the sea
Sitting inside its smoke-filled, odorous kitchen

That sea overflowed the sea

The fish swimming along in the deep asked, “coming?”

We were
Like the fisherman waiting for the snakehead murrel
Though it is noon and he is hungry

The sea fish do not know
The grooves of tears and the little waterway

Rainclouds can arrive anytime

Our house was a 12 year old Lancer car

Saw the woods sitting near its un-curtained window


Those woods got darker than woods
Trees pretending to cavil for my being late

Moonlight clear and fuzzy amongst boughs

Us, like fireflies watching ripened paddy stalks

There are wounds that are hidden
A lightning can strike any moment

Our house was a 12 year old Lancer car

Sitting in its spaces coarse otherwise
We quenched each other’s thirst and hunger
Argued
Prayed
Perused the holy book

Often, while no one watched,
We fed the dolls
Sung them lullabies

On these occasions,
I went out pretending that I wanted a smoke

Thereupon, between us
Sky sea  woods.
Translation : Anitha Varma
Hot box a cigarette , sawmill gravy and country ham ,
Entrenched in the morning paper , dishes scrubbed , drumming of pots and pans ! Blue collar people with somewhere to be , buoy's chained to the bottom of the sea ! Sweet black ribbon covered in fire ants , May honeybees , wildebeest crossing the wild African plains..
White smokestack dens of endless toil , black tar factories , dead fish waterway , boiling star infrastructures !
Biscuit , tobacco , hot coffee welder , plumber and electrician
Caviar , flounder , after dinner mint doctor and lawyer ..
Goody powders ,  soda pop cures , work induced migraines for
societies  'riff raff' , high atop steel skeletons , life hanging in balance .
Xanax , blue cheese , marriage counselor soccer moms , yoga , wine party ..Young people lie in their own blood , candle light vigils are like all others . Repetitive anguish falling on deaf ears , billion dollar football stadiums , homeless freeze to death , Good Morning America focused on the Grammy Awards or someones *** , Miley's tongue , Scientology or Donny and Marie !
Bath salt possession , teenagers are shot full of bullets , Kelley and Michael promote Hollywood garbage , their so ******* cute !
Copyright November 5 , 2015 by Randolph L Wilson * All Rights Reserved
The bold waters of Indian Creek polish skipping stones , cool waters
harbor Yellow Perch and Smallmouths , all manner of aquatic fauna ..
Sand bars glisten in the afternoon light ..
A chorus of nature's musicians sing to the coming of night ...

The life current of Georgia flows along this vital artery ..
Creek Indians fished , hunted and bore testament to their precious waterway ....
Full Moons still recall the laughter of young native American children along her banks ...
The shouts of intrepid spear fishermen haunt the calm Summer air ,
twilight becoming harbinger for many a ghostly tale on beechnut silhouetted darkness , mosquito ravaged nights ....
Creek hunters running from Oak to Pine , whistling messages along the banks ... Bobcats howl on foggy Dawns while Herons hold still , forever maintain their silent watch ..
Copyright February 16 , 2016  by Randolph L Wilson * All Rights Reserved
inland waterway



I joined the rowing boat in the middle of the dry lake
when a dust storm came whirling around screaming nasty words
and the shoreline disappeared.
The captain came down from the bridge wanted his lunch
but he had to wait till the wind stopped which it did
in the afternoon.
I walked ashore, at the cafe, they knew about the order
the captain had sent a text message.
I eat the food here, and I said no point wrapping it up-
Driving home helicopters were using my lake as a training ground
no, there would not be an inland waterway here
no matter how much it rains the lake will only be a soggy hole
but how to explain this to the captain.
jiminy-littly Jan 2017
isn't it time

for penitence?

I just forget everything

and don't talk to anyone

except for you, dear Lord, you are my ball and chain

having died and come back again I get to look back
watching old movies of myself,
sleeping last night off, leg twitching
dreaming of moving along a motorcade of immanent death

one by one getting flat tires, running out of gas, suddenly the battery
dies

I get out of the car, look around, and see, to my surprise

a loved one's love looking back at me, twisting in the wind, empty, alone, drunk,
its my father or mother lifting my brother or sister from the back seat to the front, carelessly driving, ceaselessly swerving

towards the waterway

if it wasn't for the guardrail,  we'd all be dead

time is a ritual now, and it hurts to come back to life, to feed the living,
to get dressed in day-old church clothes, to hit back, as one sneers at being sneered at, I pick up the Daily and skim the headlines, Lost and All Alone, A Stranger Takes a Dive, toss the rag and head to work, fixing to lie to my boss about being sick, about tasting olives, about who I am.
Senor Negativo Jul 2012
To your owned basement of the air
From hearing my earth giants,
You make benign the aery introspection
For chiral black and white caves,
Blue floor boards, blue electric pans
Hear this last business, is outside
Blank walls, stagnating a corporeal
Chamber of dazzling originals,
      Densely deserted.
                  But airrenters
Buy other peoples bean sprouts, a singularity of stripes,
Foreign war.
Such nothingness destroys
Your earfull of shadows a living being
Earfulls, which, the content, wouldn't conceal
Life for caressing boughs of every waterway;
Death, someone else's solid stays at home.
Colm Jan 2019
There is a cave
Within a cliff
Beside a great waterway

And I don't know
That it exists

How the ocean moves and carves it's way
Without me watching it every day

How the caves of mind turn ever in
In their unexplored and unannounced way
Caves
SE Reimer Jan 2017
~

from the dock he calls her name,
now beside he grasps her rails,
deftly steps aboard her frame,
to loose her lines of mooring.

leaned o’er, he shares his secret hopes,
ocean breeze her mast is callling;
then wings are spread with hoisted ropes,
the call of ocean’s blue alluring.


he guides her through the shallow drafts,
gliding faster, hull and ballast,
like seabird’s cry on wing, her craft,
his touch responding in devotion.

she heels about now, lunging forward,
together ’cross the waves;
he, the author of this poetry,
keeps rhythm with each changing motion.


they float above the salty spray,
white sails, her wings, a swan of grace;
in fading light, ’cross waterway,
her highway now a full moon bright.

his bearing set for emerald isle,
she tacks to follow compass lines;
together tame the ocean’s wild,
in flight as one to form their rhymes.


from high atop her outstretched form,
he guides her body through the night;
shifting lines to feel the storm,
like bedsheets thrown, arched and open.

then far above this watery bed,
her canvas flows with watercolor,
of sapphire, jade and ruby red;
a sunrise o’er bejeweled ocean.


sailing on,
in stunning sight;
as one they sigh,
in heavenly flight.

~

*post script.

unwinding from the first work week of the new year and a chaotic Friday night commute, these out-of-the-blue, out-from-the-blue lines strike me as i hear strains of Chrstopher Cross crooning his 1980 classic, “Sailing”, from my dear wife's Pandora station, aptly named.  

“Well, it's not far
down to paradise,
at least it's not for me.
And if the wind is right
you can sail away,
and find tranquility.  
Oh, the canvas can do miracles,
just you wait and see.
Believe me.”

the song takes me back to a simpler time in our marriage, but sailing... this always takes me back, all the way to childhood, and a carefree state of mind.  and no wonder... for in my pre-teen years, i and my brothers helped our father build a small, eighteen foot, sailing sloop, crafted after plans he found in a Family Circle magazine.  thereafter, childhood summers were spent freshwater sailing at the foot of Fuji, sometimes alone, sometimes together.  it is no surprise that today i am most at peace on or beside the water.
Sarah M Gillihan Dec 2014
My life is a vast

Waterway

Filled with demons

That **** their prey

Choking them slowly

Until they turn blue

Colors

Red, orange, yellow, green,

Blue

Dying

Red, orange, yellow, green,

Blue

Dead

Black

Darkness surrounds

Red

Fire

Miserable sounds

Hell on Earth

Still alive

White

Hospital

I survived.
Marieta Maglas Jun 2015
(Geraldine, Maya, and Pedra were in the kitchen to drink some Jasmine Yin Zhen tea.)

Between Bosphorus and Dardanelles, the waters are calm.
Geraldine Said, ''I love the life at sea on this tall ship.''
Maya said, '' Let me see the meaning of the lines in your palm! ''
''I worked a lot; I can't feel my hands when something I grip.''

Maya insisted, '' Let me rub your hands with Gilead' balm! ''
''I can't stand the hustle and bustle of big cities.
Can you predict my future after reading my palm?
''You'll be surrounded by death coming from the waves' ditties.''

''What is this balm? '' '' It's an extract from the bakha shrubs.''
''Where did you find this shrub? '' ''This extract is brought from Chios,
Where this tree grows near the sea, to make this balm and drugs.
It's good for the stomach and prevents the skin infections.

I used it to make bread tsoureki.'' ''It's sweet, '' Pedra said,
''This tree excited the cupidity of invaders-
The groves of Jericho.'' Maya touched her, ''Are you afraid? ''
''Went there to fight Titus, Joshua and the crusaders.''

Pedra took a long look at her, ''Do you have children? ''
''I have two boys who live in southern Ottoman Empire.
My husband died.'' ''Why did you come here? '' ''I'm a poor woman.
Now, it’s war; I want to work here, not to walk through the fire.’’

(Maya left the kitchen. On the deck, Marco, Rosa, and Cruz stopped for a few minutes their walk to admire the Marmara Sea in approach to Çanakkale.)


''Anybody who wants to pass through the Dardanelles
Must pay a tax. So, we must sit at anchor in waiting
For an opening at this small Port of Çanakkale, ''
Said Cruz. '' About buying fuel, the ****** are still debating, ''

Said Marco.'' This city is placed on two continents.''
'' The shape of the strait is akin to that of a river.''
'' Its history started with Troy. The tidal currents
Make this time of wait at anchorage a deceiver.''


''The Dardanelles is the most dangerous waterway, ''
Said Rosa, '' Maya and Naimah are talking fiercely.''
Cruz said, ''They've seemed not to know each other until today.''
''What happened, Maya? '' ''He can't stop speaking viciously.''

(To be continued...)

Poem by Marieta Maglas
Stanley Mungai Jun 2012
The once snaking gurgling monster
Time-defying, ever-flowing oldster
Is licked near-clean by the quiet drought
Her diminution wrought distraught
Lain betwixt her hunger stricken arboreal hosts
Emaciated, unattractively scaring akin ghosts
Crawling slowly to die somewhere undismayed
Petitions unsaid and intercessories unprayed
The tranquil of the fresh breath of Nyamindi waterway
Is taken by the acrid gusts of aquatic decay
As her remnants lovers slowly but surely fry
In the fierce fast-falling fire from the sky.
*Due to the vast encroachment of forests by human settlement, the rivers that are permanent are drying up in the prolonged dry spells. Preserve the Forests Preserve life*
Martin Narrod Jan 2017
L'heure verte

The mountains. The heaps of their bountiful gravels, and earth, and soil, large oversized masses of half-frozen water teetering on the precipice of subzero masculine *******. Francophilic cleavage jetting out of this deserted white pastoral dressing. The inaugural bawl, wanton fixations of putting the imperialist foot on every spot of tree, each and every shrub, until the limbs' cast reaches each dimple that foliage braves, where that blue eagle of patriotism dredges its claws to form every river, rill, estuary, creek, channel, flume, littoral, and waterway where the iron-rich gullies once brimmed in the interamnian basins, rich crimsony waters riffling through fruitful and extravagant aquifers. Beyond that, where an inexplicably feral wind rips vines from their dendritic housings, where barely an eye can see, this place of exsanguination and abysmal phytocide.

At the end of this lamentable torture, only a desert of human interest remains. There is no reason to laugh, or smile, or cheer, or put a leg up, to call on a friend, or to have ice cream. There will be no more ice cream. There is only the loathsome incredulousness and avarice in the semblances and familiarity of those with whom we thought we once knew. Little can ever be known, for there is much to gain in the absence of knowledge, and even greater that can be acquired in the alms of wisdom through patient examination and thorough silence. Here on the buttes and cornices, the thwacking gavels of evil power deities throw down their lust for more and soon become adjoined to these grand discrepancies greed mistakenly loses to a lack of awareness and to self-aggrandizement.

Power is the weapon of inexperienced wielders. Passion is the immortal frequency that is worn by artisans and artists, poets and painters, it is the business of quietness to learnedly evolve to protect our tomorrows from personal needs, but to instead preserve the integral parts of society. The words of languages, artifacts, and cultures, rather than the skeletons of ****** and the deeds of possession. Each who sleeps knows their bedfellows to equally be at peace. For no wealth can exceed that of comfortable pillows, soft quilts, and sheets. We are all the same while we sleep.
Weekend watercraft launch across blue bay waters ,
dolphins leading family and sailor out to awaiting nautical arms
Great Herons stand in silent royalty as sandpipers -
scurry their harbor home , enthralling the romantic -
fervor of Charleston , flickers of blessed creativity ,
the endearing gifts of maritime congeniality
Knock thrice upon the Atlantic doorway , write a song
of the placid waterway , count the Brown Pelicans that
ride criss-crossing zephyrs , pen your Carolina wonderment to
last forever* ...
Copyright May 14 , 2016 by Randolph L Wilson * All Rights Reserved
The Fire Burns Sep 2016
Ask me what I want to do, go fish
if I had a genie, it’s what I would wish
in the lake, river, creek or pond
eagerly cast next to a fern frond

Wiggle my bait and work it some more
hoping a fish cannot ignore
flipping up under docks
or the edges of piles of rocks

Working the tree stumps
waiting on a big thump
on my lure, adrenaline pumps
waiting for the end of my rod to jump

Bass, on Carolina, Alabama, or Texas rigs
crappie and pan fish I’ll catch on a jig
white bass and hybrids, on slabs and spoons
I have even caught them casting at  loons

Sam Rayburn, Cedar Creek or Lake Fork
I’m getting excited just like a dork
Tawakoni, Amistad, or Nacogdoches
if I ran out of bait, man I would use roaches

Livingston, Stryker, or the Trinidad  Lake
catching some fish, fry them up on a plate
bait cast, and spin cast, pushbuttons oh wow
I also can fly-fish, I taught myself how

Gar, carp and buffalo, anything that bites
looking for something to make my line tight
Matagorda, or Galveston, or Port A
I have no problems fishing  the bay

Intercoastal waterway or out in the surf
no problems cooking surf and turf
Black drum, Red fish or Speckled trout
as long as they’re biting I’ll never pout

Whiting, and Croakers and even Hardheads
catching are fun, getting the slime off you dread
gaff tops are pretty, but just as slimy nasty
I’ve never had any, I hear their pretty tasty

Flounders are flat and so are sting rays
but if that’s what’s biting I’ll fish everyday
jacks, and mackerel and bonnet head sharks
so many fish in the ocean, that’s just a start.

How about invasives, silver carp and snakeheads
cast for the snakehead, jumping carp in a net
I’ve fished lots of bass, native and Florida strain
but there is one thought that sticks in my brain

Is I’d like to go catch some peacock bass
top water action would really kick ***.
catch and release or serve it up in a dish
as you can see I really love to fish
Emerald Mar 2013
trees frowned on both sides of the waterway  
aimlessly i float with the river bends
drifting farther  from the name i owned yesterday
closer i am
to the red lands
leaving behind
the comfort of grass
replacing my scent with dry sand
a place for no buildings or cars
to the red lands
vaster then  forests and countrysides combine
where foot prints of exiles have been blown away
to the majestically terrible,heated winds.
i sing only
to the red lands
a place where i can put away my desires
and the constant searching for truth
for all that lies here are abstract dunes
and endless horizons
to the red lands
i come here to escape the history of man
let my loved ones find me if they can
they can not buy my respect with porcelain plates
to the red lands
i can run bare
screaming to nothing,
but leaving something in the air
i am free
i am dancing with reality
to the red lands
C F Tinney Jan 2017
I found a pair of shoes while walking
across a bridge like I often do
Neatly placed below the rail
as if they expected you
but you shall not return

I found them on my stroll to town
which I take on Sunday am
Neatly placed there
as though you’d come again
but you shall see them no more

I dare not disturb them
These shoes which do not know
that I gazed upon your presence
In broken disregard in waterway below
for you shall see them no more

Instead I walked onward
with errands far too many
And attempted not think of how your shoes
reminded me of me
and my desire to join you there

and be seen no more
Poem speaks for itself
Daan Mar 2014
The best things happen after autistically
planning, but doing something else, as
long as it keeps handing me sunlight and
some feet to walk, I'll keep walking.

It has always been my dream, but, secretly,
shamefully, I will never dare, losing things
dear to me and ideals. I walk across
a waterway and find my luck in the sudden

movements of two ducks, refreshing in that
very water. Neighbours working, greeting strangers,
children disobeying their mothers.
And old man on the bus comments, I sit
I read, look up, search for the right words and
stop reading.

Quentin felt infinite, so I wanted to let that feeling last.
referring to paper towns, by john green
Maddy Apr 2023
Why had I not noticed this sweet little waterway before
I crossed the street and never stopped to notice
Will rectify that as I usually do notice
Just for a few moments took a breath as the rain stopped
The clouds parted and the sky started to turn blue
Because of you little Brook

C@rainbowchaser2023
Julie Grenness Feb 2017
There is a river of life and time,
I celebrate it in this rhyme,
A vast, flowing broad waterway,
We're swept along in a tide of days,
People floating far and near,
Ships in the nights, close and dear,
Then we all sort of float in lines,
There is a river of life and times.........
Feedback welcome.
The Fire Burns Sep 2016
Well the Josh Abbot Band sings Matagorda Bay
but I’m pretty sure it’s all the wrong way
should be I’ve been walking it all day
casting a shrimp or mullet along the way
whether the river, the surf or the bay
or even  the intercoastal waterway

You can never go wrong fishing here
from the bank, the beach, or even the pier
maybe spring, or maybe fall
you will always have a ball
with your dad, in laws or college friends
it always pays in dividends

Of reds, whiting, croaker and trout
usually followed by a cookout
sometimes black drum or maybe a ray
either way, make them pay all day
casting a squid or maybe a mullet
the fish always bite, take it and tug it

After dark on a green light
try as you might
you just can’t find a lure they won’t bite
when the tide changes and shrimp are running
two at a time is for what you are gunning
tired, and sore, but you are tough

All night long until enough is enough
then to bed for some shut eyed dreams
then up again, as the morning sun gleams
do it again, as it never lasts

Creating memories of the past
to share with friends
and also the kids
of Matagorda Bay
I chose titled topic by a fanciful whim,
nevertheless still consider my knowledge
of aforementioned material slim.

Housing multivarious biomes
register ecological syndromes
whereby constituents of NOAA
Great Lakes Environmental
Research Laboratory writ tomes.

Pellucid pearls in northeastern
North America since planetary birth
Comprise Lakes Superior, Michigan,
Huron, Erie, and Ontario dearth
Largest group of freshwater lakes on Earth
Straddle Canadian–United States border

tethering partial global girth
Constituting 21% of world's surface
freshwater species hearth
Total surface equals 94,250 square miles
And total volume equals 5,439
cubic miles immeasurable worth.

Lake Erie from Erie tribe, abridged form
of Iroquoian word erielhonan “long tail”
Lake Huron named by French explorers for
Wyandot or “Hurons” whence they did sail
Lake Michigan likely from Ojibwa word
mishigami “great water” aka outsize gold quail

Lake Ontario i.e. “Lake of Shining Waters”
shimmering like hammered coat of mail
Lake Superior coined from French “lac supérieur”
"upper lake", an emerald watery dale
Ojibwe people called it gitchigumi medicinal
to cure that, which might ail.

These five lakes each reside in separate basin
Form a single, naturally interconnected body
of fresh water caisson
Linking east-central interior of North America
to Atlantic Ocean akin to an escutcheon.

From interior to outlet at St. Lawrence River,
Water flows via Superior to Michigan-Huron
southward to Erie to avoid a shiver
Finally released northward to Lake Ontario
as like a well taut archer with his quiver.

The lakes drain a large watershed via many
rivers as an Olympic team
Populated with approximately 35,000 islands
this estimate not x stream.

The Great Lakes region contains many
thousands of smaller lakes,
Often called inland lakes undulating in
delving, cascading and brimming
analogous to a fluid ream
Lake Michigan the only one located
entirely within United States
While the others border between United States
and Canada – essentially a liquid seam.

Lakes Michigan and Huron
are basically a single lake,
Sometimes called Lake Michigan-Huron,
combined doth make
Total area of 45,300 square miles (117,000 km2)
Have the same surface elevation of 577 feet (176 m),
Connected by 295-foot deep Straits of
Mackinac Islands splayed like a rake.

Approximately 35,000 islands
extant throughout oceanic like sea
Largest among them
Manitoulin Island in Lake Huron
brushing up against Goliath knee.

The second-largest island is Isle Royale in
Lake Superior to boot
Both these islands
contain multiple lakes themselves
alive with creatures that hoot.

Unadulterated details gleaned courtesy
Mister Google, which website
buried under virtual sediment:

The Saint Lawrence Seaway
and Great Lakes Waterway connect
the Great Lakes to ocean-going vessels.

The move to wider ocean-going container ships —
which do not fit through the locks on these routes —
has limited container shipping on the lakes.

Most Great Lakes trade constitutes bulk material
and bulk freighters of Seawaymax-size
or less can move throughout
the entire lakes and out to the Atlantic.

The Great Lakes also connected
to the Gulf of Mexico
by way of the Illinois River
(from the Chicago River)
and the Mississippi River.

An alternate track is via the Illinois River
(from Chicago), to the Mississippi,
up the Ohio, and then
through the Tennessee-Tombigbee Waterway
(combination of a series
of rivers and lakes and canals),
to Mobile Bay and the Gulf.

Commercial tug-and-barge traffic
on these waterways quite heavy.

Pleasure boats can also enter or exit
the Great Lakes by way of
the Erie Canal and Hudson River in New York.

The Erie Canal connects to the Great Lakes
at the east end of Lake Erie
(at Buffalo, New York)
and at the south side of Lake Ontario
(at Oswego, New York).

The Great Lakes contain 21%
of the world’s fresh surface water:
5,472 cubic miles (22,810 km3),
or 6.0×1015 U.S. gallons (2.3×1016 liters).

This equals enough water
to cover the 48 contiguous U.S. states
to a uniform depth of 9.5 feet (2.9 m).

Although the lakes contain
a large percentage of the world's fresh water,
the Great Lakes supply only a small portion
of U.S. drinking water
on a national basis (roughly 4.2%).

Winter 2009–10 ranked somewhat mild,
the precipitation was below normal
for the Great Lakes Basin.

Mean lake levels then thought
to be slightly below
or at their levels of 2009.

An ice jam in February 2010
dropped the level in Lake St. Clair.

Since the jam got removed the level
has come back to its average.

As of March 2010, the lakes
were at the level, or slightly below,
where they were in March 2009.

The combined surface area
of the lakes equals approximately
94,250 square miles (244,100 km2)—
nearly the same size as the United Kingdom,
and larger than the U.S. states of New York,
New Jersey, Connecticut, Rhode Island,
Massachusetts, Vermont,
and New Hampshire combined.

The Great Lakes coast measures
approximately 10,500 miles (16,900 km);
however, the length of a coastline  
impossible mission to measure exactly
cuz topographical feature not well-defined.
Who would span the linkage of the days, and to what earthly end would the toll of time send me breaking to?
And would the ferryman play sticks and stones with my crumbling body or would he have me throw the bones and tell of fortunes squandered?

I
have nothing left to tell of what bridges I have walked across,what joy and loss I found in mansions and in tenements,now
in Coventry sent there by my family in silent wandering I see the chain stretching out in front of me.
And who would join the dots to make this picture right,to read this epicure I spread upon the leavings of my night?
I write,I write until the brightness of the bursting sun comes round again to burst this bubble and in pain,I shout,I shout or scream and cry and when the sun would die tonight,I write,I write.

He,
inside of me knows well the moments and he counts the minutes,strikes the hours and all that passes in between are him and I,the sun waits patiently for me to cry.

Let the artisan then span the chasm that keeps me from the other side and let the ferryman glide well across the waterway.
Let my day be joined with all the other days,send the breakers in as I go gently out with the ebbing of the tide.
Jean Sullivan Sep 2015
Age, and age.
She galloped along an icy field.
The lights of Paris gleaming behind,
with Pigs on a throne,
Cows dancing in handmade gowns.
The public officials lead her gaze
stranded on the Atlantic.
In the middle with a white picket fence.
This day she had finally escaped the inevitable,
with a dog and some soup.
Again she took to sweep away.

This time
evolution ate and ripped her to shreds.
Instead of gills
she grew boats for feet.
Instead of fins
an engine.
Soon the waterway evaporated,
and land then seemed appealing.
Wrong!
Here only war, anti-war, war against war.
Age, and age.
Dead, religion, fight, food, power, fight.
Everyday

Lost and distracted on the melting grass.
She remembers the days before her race.
Time slipped by her.
Trapped in an hourglass,
forced to stare at magazines, beheadings, homeless children.
So sand drags her down
and the last pebble fades in her hand.
Now on her deathbed,
looking into the eyes of the village fool
she tells him her secrets
how she never felt alive.
“But you are alive today queen”
said the fool.
And with that she looks up at the silicon roof
remembering her days of escape.
Closing the door,
her elevator descends again
Age, and age
retire, children, marriage, school,
down to the tiny purple shoes,
and ending right where she began,
the icy fields behind Paris.
Gigi Tiji Nov 2015
For how many days and how many nights are in the moment of a kiss?
There is a light bulb on the horizon screaming ****** ******.
An obsidian hammer exploding into licks of carnelian flame.
A war drum, it's hide cured from the skin of the desperate.
A humanoid figure crawling out of its ****-stained cage
smelling the slime of a new day.

Little boxes smashed to bits by the stamping foot of a child.
There is a wind blowing from the mouth of the bull.
A ring of fire burns red and green from the void of the lover's soul.

Below the surface of a sea of sand I am breathing in only stardust.
My legs are tingling as they strive to wake up for this journey.

You are narcotic in your presence.
I am elated and depressed simultaneously by your existence.
A wonderful rush followed by a drunken stupor.
An ******* and a small death herein.

Here I am looking away from you because I am afraid of who I am.
I will only skim your surface because what is beneath mine is unspeakable.

I keep my eye heavy lidded,
because if they were wide open,
I would explode into treacherous rapture.
I would know bliss, and that is not meant for me.

This pain, I am only holding dear,
because it has been wrongfully taken from me before.
Please, allow me this despair. Let me feel this anguish.
Though it does not allow you comfort to witness,
it leaves no reason for your false consolation.

Look not, if it discomforts you so — to see me writhing.
Ask not of me to untangle myself from this twisted feeling.

This vine is welcome wisteria nestled in the shadows of my arms.
I ask of you to focus not on my withering leaves,
but of the blossoms it bears.

I will hoist its parasitic lavender radiance to the heavens,
an offering to the eyes of the suffering.

Do not dam these rivers lest you wish a flood upon your mind.
The ocean does not deny any a waterway, and why should you?
Are you so different from the vast gut of the world?
Let us be left landlocked and breathing hot sand.

Let me be. Let me run!

Where is the right place?
When is the right time?
To surface from the ocean of sinking sand.

The forever crumbling plateaus of this high
have me leaping from stone to stone.

Watch where yours is thrown;
where it lands you may find interesting.

This is incoherence.
I am confusion.

Where be my emotional faculty!
Where be my functionality!

Ever wandering.
Caught up. Waiting.
For the next ending.
Too busy to think of the new beginnings.

Quick! Keep going...
You may miss what's going to happen next!
But wait, wait for it...
"Right after these messages."

WHAT OF HERE
WHAT OF NOW
HAVE WE FORGOTTEN EACH OTHER
HAVE WE FORGOTTEN OURSELVES

Have we already closed
the never ending story and
put it back on the shelf?
Kuzhur Wilson Feb 2014
The task God gave
Today morning
Was bizarre,
And amazing moreover.

Get out of the room

When you turn right once more
After you go right,
On the thousand and thirteenth leaf
On the fourteenth branch
Of the first rose apple tree you see
Is the stain of a migratory bird’s dropping.
Wash it with saliva.

Did it.

Walk left
On the eastern boundary
Of the 16th villa
Stands a date palm.
Except for  twelve fronds on top,
The rest have lost their green and are dead.

Supply
Sweat
Or tears
And make it bright green.

That too got done.
Walk straight.
On the underside
Of the waterway,
A little banyan tree
Has germinated and is growing

Give her a kiss and make her a mother.

Oh!
Again,
The quaint ways of God,!
(trans from Malayalam by Anitha Varma)
Rusty Shuping Feb 2014
The soft breeze shifts bringing the scent of brackish water to quavering nostrils.
Salt, oyster shells, and the wonderful smells where three waters of disparity come together. Inlet, bay, and waterway push and pull like struggling personas.  
Strong fragrances of salt, fish, black sandy mud with tiny bits of shells, burnt diesel, and syrupy brown tannin from the trees. Large patches of reeds built up on mounds of mud and oyster shells, held in place by marsh grass and sea oats.
The oysters in their beds spit little streams as you pass by, beckoning, come closer. The little bearded bivalve’s mouths gaping to say we will shred your flesh if you give us a chance, wooing…step closer in the slippery slimy mud.
Small ***** sit by their holes in the black goo. The fiddlers march as though carrying a violin, their songs are clicking all the same pitch with no discernible harmony. They roll out tiny ***** as expert excavators leaving hole for escape from man and fowl.
The little birds, sandpipers scurry around- their skinny twig like legs moving faster than the eye can follow, putting one in front of the other, always moving forward never backing up making quick tight turns running from the water then chasing the bits of food as the foamy crooked line of surf pulls away.
Pausing to pick up a tiny speck of food too small to notice, her bony toes mark the mud writing in a cuneiform like language, probably a dead tongue not spoken for millennia. Beautiful shapes pointing, spelling out instruction and direction.
Lasting only seconds until the wind and water wipe the earthen canvas clean. A new page is opened tempting and luring the small writer with tidbits of food, enticing her to write line after line of an ongoing novel that will never be finished.

— The End —