mudlark -
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music ...
'twas angelic harmony -
that dire, wet sucking sound
as he tunneled his
arms through the red mud
fingertips like fat worms, burrowing -
tickling, seeking the
cool surprise of … something
ANYthing foreign or non-mud-like
this warm, fetid muck of
the wild Penobscot
had been the only TRUE home his
weary marrow had known
years, ages, lifetime - a LIFE, entire
bleeding for the slippery bounty about him
this deep, slimy silt that had
once wrought his fortune
now met his brittle frame with
a barren womb …
and at most, a here-and-there trinket
baubles that brought dimes
instead of dollars …
and a care-worn spirit.
still, it mattered not to him now
the REAL treasure was what
met his senses -
pungent methanic aromas
blush glyphs of smudge on his skin
keen bite of the tide at flow
sad, satiric cackles of
the gulls and terns
and that heavenly smacking of the
red clay as it withdrew.
his rusty soul was as mired as his feet -
bound and baptized by the briny, buttery,
beautiful bole of the wild Penobscot ...
and one day, one day not too
yonder - not too worn -
his aged and addled ashes and bones
would be just as lucky …
and that was mighty
fine …
with him.
~ 3rd Place ~ in the "Mudlark" Poetry Contest, Kai Michael Neumann, Judge & Sponsor.
~ Honorable Mention ~ in the "Strand Pick 7, Any Form, Any Theme" Poetry Contest, Brian Strand, Judge & Sponsor.
Copyright © Gregory Richard Barden | Year Posted 2020
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