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Water And Earth

I am the river
you are the earth
steely grey waters
bubbling over rocks
collecting in the crevices
speeding with the current
taking me along.
I hold tight to your sides
as you guide me with gentle hands
palm pressed against the small of my back
dropping your colored leaves
to improve the density of my tannin
Life fills me and swims along between us
Flitting fins silver scales
Play wind instruments with their melody.
I listen to the delicate trickle
That narrows me as your embrace
Holds me tighter with the strength
Of arms of trees outstretched
Bending over my waters
Looking in the mirrored glass
That perhaps you could see in you
What I do and what I have witnessed
And when I look below I notice
As I glide upon the sandy bottom
You are there as well-
In each grain
Surrounded by invisible life
And are stirred with a flick
Blending together in a dancing swirl
Where I am you and you are me
Together, always we.
As I continue on
Though I may narrow till I’m but a trickle
Where I end is where you begin
But beneath you, I still keep flowing
forever with you.

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Tidewater Wisdom

Look before you leap,

If the tide’s in, the water is deep.

But if the tide is out, there leaves little doubt,

Muddy and mucky, you might not come out.

 

It is always just another day, ringed ‘round in the coming and going of the tide: When to fish. When to crab. When to pull in the nets and head for home. The usual build-and-dump of thunderheads litters the sky more fully in the heat, less so in the hemmed-fog, tilting every sail-filled, bobbing island.

 

They call them boats. Or ships. More like Bobs and Shifts—wherein, no anchor has the power to make stable the flimsy flat and billowing blast. And gulls laugh heartily at the efforts.

 

As if that isn’t enough—nature, slapping whips, and brandishing hoops through which the launch must venture–the Moon and Tide, in a love-match immemorial, betimes fight so passionately as to draw up grandly, leaving currents and mudflats where none have been, where no seasoned sailor dare chance drift.

Can you read the wind? The stars? The clouds seven hours ahead?

The tide? The heat? Sea Monsters and their dread?

How far from shore is the illusive shimmer of fish?

How far from shore can they lure you if they wish?

Are you the catcher—or have you been caught—with a bit of bait and your crew, now lost?

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No. 12

end
of the
marathon of poetry

just
the half
did i write

it’s
fun delightful
run again – yes

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2021 Poetry Marathon, Hour 9

Using the text prompt to engage in some silliness for Hour 9.

Don’t count your chickens before they hatch
because to make an omelette, you’ve gotta break a few eggs
and that’s only going to throw off your tally

You’ve gotta walk and don’t look back
because you won’t see where you’re going
and the people you run into will knock you out

Measure twice, cut once
How else are you going to confirm
that you cut to the right length?

Curiosity killed the cat—
there was always something
really wrong with that guy

How much wood would a woodchuck chuck
if a woodchuck could chuck wood?
is the wrong question—
the right question is
Why would you create a descriptive name for something
that doesn’t actually describe what the thing does?

Whoever came up with
it ain’t over until the fat lady sings
should have been given a Nobel Prize
because that person discovered the secret of eternal life:
no opera!

26 June 2021

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Hour 4: Invisibility

How much strength does it take to become invisible?

To blend into tacky wallpaper and stale conversation?

To be consumed by the deafening silence that seeps into every molecule, every atom, the very nucleus of your existence?

How much energy does it take to scream into a crowded room where no one looks up or bats an eye?

I saw Chicago and Mr. Cellophane became my anthem

I wrapped myself in Reynold’s wrap until I suffocated my own voice

How much force do you need to generate to have someone walk right through you?

You see, to me ghosts are merely memories, stuck on replay

Over and over and over

Trying to get it right

To walk through me makes me a ghost

Am I a memory? Am I stuck on repeat?

How hard do you need to push a needle to unskip a record?

I don’t like the soundtrack of my life

Fast forward-fast forward-fast forward

Until it is all a blur

Until I am invisible

Until I am closed into your mind like a whisper, a dream that my have been a memory but now you’ve forgotten

Whether I am dream or reality

Don’t worry, I have the same problem all the time

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Patience – Making Strides – HOUR NINE

Patience – Making Strides

(Inspired by my painting, PATIENCE-MAKING STRIDES)

 

Standing serene and patient,

mindful of all that surrounds you,

you teach us about waiting, about vigilance

about being watchful and alert

 

You know yourself, Great Blue,

self reliant, resilient, and stable.

You take only what you need and never more.

But that I would live like you

 

I am making strides to know myself

to understand as you do, what is best for me

to follow my heart and not my head

and to soar with you my spirit guide.

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Hour 9 – Benefit of the Doubt (A Golden Shovel)

Benefit of the Doubt (A Golden Shovel)

 

I wonder if you’d change if you had the chance, but I suppose I’ll

ponder that forever. For I have no more hope to give

that you will find the words to say I’m sorry, that you

would ever mean it. For now, I will simply imagine the

flower you will molt into in the next life. Seeking to benefit

from the rain in the unforgiving nature of 

a drought. I wish you petals that shine with the

shadow of a withering doubt.

 

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#9. It Takes Two to Tango

“It takes two to Tango”
My mother would say
(and her mother before her, I know)
When I was a kid,
whatever I did,
that blame was not easy to lay.

Now I am grown
and I’ve learned to bestow
that phrase on a few of my own
But really it seems
my side of the street
must be swept clean to see
what part I have played in the show.

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This too Shall Pass/Prompt 9

My ancestors
leaned on faith
Carried it in their bones
Believed with their whole hearts
they turned the other cheek
when massa beat them down with the bullwhip
when police beat them in the street
or shot them or locked them up

My ancestors endured
the sale of their children, husbands, wives
the deaths of their sons, brothers, fathers
the rapes of their daughters, sisters, mothers
Holding their faces toward the sky
they prayed, they cried, they fell to their knees
Believing, believing, always believing
This too shall pass

The pain will pass
The tears will cease
We can bear the weight of our suffering

My ancestors
whose blood flowed down the rivers
or was sucked up by the soils of Oklahoma, Mississippi
whose bodies swung from the trees,
in Mississippi, Louisiana, Alabama
a strange fruit, faces distorted in agony or deathly defiance
dressed in Spanish moss, and yet

My ancestors
never lost their faith
Believed in the story of Job
believed God would not, could not
put more on their backs, in their hearts
than they could handle
They believed as blacks today still believe
This too shall pass

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