"whitewater" poems
she described it as ice
in her chest
like
a lance that tightroped from
her chest to mine
fought over at the breakfast table
because her end was bigger than mine
or mine had more blood than hers
or she always got to look at my good side
and why couldn’t I look at her without laughing
mother always said it was a blessing
that two people were so close to each other
not through birth
but by journey
and life
and happenstance
two people that tasted grilled cheese the same way
that heard the same voices of joy
loss
despair
but always stuck to the roof of the mouth like peanut butter
and not the generic brand
no
the 10 dollar organic stuff
two people that couldn’t help but
crack jokes at the dinner table
when everyone else was talking about
death because
what is death without life?
she would ask
and everyone would go silent
and float up through the
limitless sky
while we stayed grounded in
the life that whiskey brings
sister
if you ever hear me calling
know that I’d give you the bigger half
every time and that
you may borrow my three-hole puncher
without asking
because
I love you
and love stitches time without holes
and moments without the train station goodbye
and the rocks
well
they will always be rippling the stream so you
can go whitewater rafting and I can write poems
about how you fell in and found
a fleck of gold
Feb 12, 2016
Feb 12, 2016 at 3:56 PM UTC
the tessellated tile floor of my existence,
once alabaster white
has sullied under the steps
of a muddied life
spent wading in the river bank
attempting to coalesce
a series of seemingly random events
into a fabricated web
spun of the finest thread.
only to find the ephemeral now
a fractious flowing river
so violent and cold
from the melting spring snow,
whitewater breaks
against primordial stone
like titan thunder atop olympus,
rattling our bones
because legends follow entropy
but chronos begets chaos in mythology.
Mar 17, 2016
Mar 17, 2016 at 3:24 PM UTC
Falling apart is like falling in love
But without all the love.
Falling apart is like those times
Those times when you were a kid and scraped your knee,
But there's nobody around
Nobody to patch you up.
If falling apart is like falling in love
Then falling in love is like going whitewater rafting with your partner
But you've both got life jackets, and it's a Grade 2 River and it's safe and
You're having a great time.
If falling in love is like falling apart
Then falling apart is like going whitewater rafting with a stick for an oar
With no life jackets, in a Grade 6 River which is dangerous and almost suicidal and then
Your partner throws you off.
Sure, it's exciting
Homicide is exciting, in a twisted way, right?
But that doesn't mean it's a good thing
Because it's bad.
Sometimes exciting is bad
When exciting is lacking love.
Nov 24, 2013
Nov 24, 2013 at 5:42 PM UTC
Skeletal,
she had laid comatose,
thirty-six hours,
morphine tubes & cotton swabs,
so cold to the touch.
It wasn't supposed to end this way.
I remember her in her better days,
before the cancer
had ravaged her *******
skydiving over the Rockies,
Montana whitewater,
sailing the sound
between St.Thomas & St. John,
margaritas in San Juan.
She was the most brilliant light,
a beautiful soul,
truest fighter to the end
& I miss her,
pray everyday,
"May our little sister
rest in peace.
Amen."
Sep 18, 2014
Sep 18, 2014 at 10:45 PM UTC
Most of us are poor
when it comes
to the currency
of retweets.
We are unworthy,
at the bottom
of the Twitter feed,
Swimming in a stream
littered with what is trending.
Rafting whitewater
every time BuzzFeed tweets:
*Follow
the bouncing lamb
Vine account
immediately.*
Bots multiply:
I want a #lamb
and we're
drowning.
CHOO CHOO!
It’s moving.
QUICK. JUMP ON,
the steamboat
of salacious content
is
LEAVING.
I say:
Let's fight the current;
Stop being
slaves to click-bait;
Start a revolution with
140 characters.
@KarlMarx
Topple the Verified Twitter users.
Aug 29, 2014
Aug 29, 2014 at 12:50 AM UTC
like
a trickle
from mountain rain
it starts ......
my
Desire
a quiver of droplets
converging together
coursing through my body
consuming my thoughts
babbling down my contours
into my valleys
soaking my senses
with lust
growing in need
shuddering across rocks
rapidly gaining in momentum
uncontrolled
in a frenzy of whitewater
finally
reaching the drop
tantalising
at the very brink
pulsing
with waves of pleasure
before plunging
headlong over the edge
in a waterfall of longing
falling into the abyss
of fantasy
flooding
the river
with
my song
(C) Pixievic
Mar 15, 2016
Mar 15, 2016 at 1:01 PM UTC
I loved it,
whitewater rafting
in the Adirondacks,
sleeping in tents
cooking on woodsmoke
having a joke with
the
New Yorker yokels
known locally as the locals.
It was Yellowstone that stole my heart,
rings of fire on the end of a rainbow
dreams that we lived and
we lived for the dream,
all the rest is just history
and most of that went to the scrapyard.
May 7, 2016
May 7, 2016 at 12:26 PM UTC
they were all crossfaded
and brendan probably
doesn't remember telling
me that everything was
*so beautiful and you look
like pocahontas*
Jun 24, 2014
Jun 24, 2014 at 2:40 PM UTC
up the water hole
Ledbetters:
the waterfall which we yearned to
explore on our days
off. like a fresh romance, we wanted to know
each rock on her body and how it got there.
the raft guides and myself,
the master of whitewater reservations, most days
working (trapped) in an old stone house
grabbing phones, calls from pockets-full-of-cash families, boy scouts,
seeking gorge thrills on full days of
sun and moody thunderstorms.
Ledbetters:
she sits down the railroad tracks which ran
through our cabin homes (and my little shack-barn)
traintracks that kept running next to its river friend, heading into
the town as a timid tourist train jaunt.
we’d creep on top of the rails, while sparrows sang their high-pitched
refrains, river rafters’ shrieks faded,
(i’d pretend not to hear the rattlesnake’s jingle).
the sun beat down hard on our shoulders,
but stopped its punches when we snuck off the tracks,
onto the trail, into the woods.
(then, the spots of sun shone only where trees told them to)
down the path,
past the wooden bridge where we played Pooh Sticks,
past the old campfire spots, the towers of rocks we crafted so carefully,
to get to Ledbetter’s legs: her huge rocks, the heavy flow of water, her blood.
i always slipped and fell as i jumped from rock to rock,
up and over cliffed streams. higher and higher we would climb,
until we reached her narrow water hole:
Birth Canal.
i’ve been afraid to climb up Birth Canal—
shimmy up and clench its slippery rocks with gravity’s water
working against me. i’m almost certain she would wash me away,
i’d tumble down all her rocks, crack my skull on wet rock,
more of a Death Canal.
when you can overcome your mind,
are you truly reborn?
Feb 26, 2012
Feb 26, 2012 at 7:29 PM UTC
i found two stones of onyx
they did differ in their size
i found them above soft red rock cliffs
surrounded by circles like shattered stars
of fire so blue in some places
it shakes and laces white
writhing, like water struck by light-
ning - flecks of sea-
shot upward by electric energy
i can see without a mirror
into the eyes of the storm
like a whirlpool that wrecks ships
whitewater that rarely quits
unexpected instant shifts when at about six inches away
sideways to sit beside you
forward sometimes (in my minds eye mind you)
i sit where i sit
but envision lip skip space to lips
to sip redlipped kisses, miss,
momentarily slip over simple clever quip
let out in sunshine after a snare drum stutter or two
I...I..I have a girlfriend, but who are you?
Apr 14, 2013
Apr 14, 2013 at 4:30 AM UTC
For all of my coastie dad's wisdom
My summers spent learning to sail
My affinity for swimming since I was three
The countless snorkeling trips
The hours spent in canoes and kayaks
The trips paddle boarding and whitewater rafting
Somehow
I'm still petrified
By the rushing numbered current
Of a digital stream
May 9, 2017
May 9, 2017 at 10:22 PM UTC
A cornflower
lavish these
hearts of
gold in
fields will
enchant harvest
with sunshine
in a
row and
foothills dash
plains with
nervy glares
where whitewater
raft in
these rapids
that hallow
river bridge.
Mar 26, 2017
Mar 26, 2017 at 7:31 AM UTC
My father says
all rivers lead to the sea,
But I am afraid
of boats and piranha teeth.
The whitewater ends
far out in the forest
where fairies grow rings
over the graves killers dug
And I feel like I'm looking up
at police officers, thinking
that they have finally found me.
But they are burying me
beneath the excuses I have made,
I can feel the levees of blood break
to carry me away from them forever.
The last lesson I teach myself
is how to regret.
Aug 31, 2015
Aug 31, 2015 at 9:15 PM UTC
We shelter secrets, holding them close
and encrypted. Hidden truths,
like submerged rocks that create
snapping undercurrents and choppy,
white-capped rapids for navigating affinities.
Nov 8, 2021
Nov 8, 2021 at 10:19 AM UTC
I work with a guy a year younger than me
got two kids
and two jobs.
meanwhile all my money goes to
whitewater rafting and books
and ****
and paying for school.
one of them is two years old
the other four months
and he doesn't read.
probably doesn't go whitewater rafting
either.
Jun 17, 2015
Jun 17, 2015 at 4:14 PM UTC
Zippered down the front
Easy access
The poppies return for their dance
A soothing lightning of drip and dilation
Night is day, night is night
Night is hope that the last of days has passed
A wash of whitewater ecstasy, engulfs
The throat
The body
Catapults to the head
A fall back to sunken eyes staring at the upside down right side up
Fright
Calm and fright intwined
in a lovers’ waltz
I can’t breathe
I’m so free
I can’t breathe
I’m so...
Free
My body is yours now
It always has been
But I, dead, am a far easier doll to play with
Than one with open stitches
-k b~
Aug 22, 2018
Aug 22, 2018 at 6:37 PM UTC
As the story goes…
You descended from obscurity
A wind from nowhere
The shadow of the shadow
You made room for me,
The open slate
For the closed mind
I repent the night of the nor’easter
You awaken, screaming
Alone in a crowded room
Nothing would quench the thirst that night
You’re cold inside as the spirit fades
Conjuring your next escape
You seek a raft to ride the raging whitewater
Your existence requires nothing but faith
I'll throw you the mooring rope – Godspeed
May 18, 2014
May 18, 2014 at 6:38 AM UTC
I feel like I'm on a fast moving river
Sometimes I row hard and try to steer
Sometimes I just let the current take me where it will
Sometimes I feel lost
Sometimes I duck the low hanging branches
Sometimes the river widens and the current calms and I can rest
Sometimes the river narrows and the whitewater throws me into the boulders
It is in the turbulent waters that I am tested and my skills are sharpened
Always I try to appreciate the journey and the breathtaking views
I know around every bend, a new challenge awaits
Never knowing around which bend lies the non-corporeal sea of dreams
No more branches, no more bends, and no more boulders
Only calm waters, gentle breezes, and smooth sailing
Mar 1, 2016
Mar 1, 2016 at 9:23 AM UTC
I am the eggman
you are the spoon man
we are the Walrus.
Earthly pluripotent garden
with shark attacks
I am the shallow water
you are the whitewater
we are the Foam
Heavenly layers differentiating
with each successive Wave
I am the Brand
you are the religion
we are the Cortex
Solar same same but different
Inside Out development
Sep 23, 2018
Sep 23, 2018 at 4:42 PM UTC
You and I have not been friends,
in a long time.
We want to be,
we try our best each day,
with fresh intentions,
desperately seeking to recapture,
a life we had,
a moment of honest bliss,
now barreling toward a pinpoint,
in the rearview of a car,
we are either driving,
or chasing,
I am no longer certain.
For a time,
we were insurmountable.
For a time,
We we had beaten the odds,
Began speaking in ever afters,
Asserting our legendhood.
We're still a talking point,
in our old stomping grounds,
I hear.
But you seem to only see,
through me now,
To be content with appearances.
Pragmatism,
Stamping out lovers' optimism,
As we settle into the business,
of middle class mediocrity.
We were better as rapids,
You and I,
than we are as still water.
Unpredictability,
is what we knew how to do,
was who we were.
This newfound lens of,
"ought to",
keeps obscuring the course,
and hampering navigation.
I do not wish to to find,
our way back,
But I long to find our way.
To create a more
sustainable universe,
for our legacy,
And for the whitewater surface,
of our worldly love.
We need but one small breakthrough,
Some eloquent solution,
that solves the elusive equation,
of our gravity,
And restores us to spinning,
in perfect orbit,
around each other.
Mar 13, 2018
Mar 13, 2018 at 7:38 PM UTC
7:09 pm 5/25/17
with the brook dried up,
your disquieting
sense of how you wanted
all these things to last forever
seemed to be extremely bleak.
after your eight hour shift
you visit.
hear nothing but grinding of water mills.
and you wanted to know;
if i were to be drowned here alone
would they find me or care to find me
in the dry banks of the brook?
you are a mysticist when it comes
to death
***
alcohol.
it didn't quite make sense why
you drifted chimerically into insanity
unable to stop the body from
coincidentally smashing into a stone
bludgeoning the skull. killing from
brute
force.
you more often thought about
drowning in the brook than admiring
it's whitewater beauty. you
more often broke yourself down at its
banks and thought the water was your blood.
with the brook dried up,
this place isn't real anymore.
you are not bleeding streams
you are again
a dry bank
empty and soulless.
somehow you were disappointed;
you were healed but empty.
May 25, 2017
May 25, 2017 at 7:10 PM UTC