Some pull flowers and nurture the weed.
Some dance in the light, weaving beautiful things.
Others bask in shadow and backwater stink.
Some offer a cup and a bite to his fellow man.
Some toss away a heart like a rusty tin can.
Some quickly jump off when the engine fails.
Then hop right back on as you regain the rail.
Some die holding the cold, black hand of alone
Not a petal to be seen over their thin yellow bones.
Religion versus culture
If the Dutch had adopted the Koran
Making churches into mosques would be in Holland
be different for it is today?
I don`t think so. Because of
their characters
and culture would have reminded them of active
travelling the world for a business opportunity.
Been Muslims in name only, as they are
Christians in the name just today
The Islamic rule that works in the backwater
of, say, Pakistan could not be applied
In the Netherlands, the people were too educated
to swallow wholesale the Islamic dogma
In the end, culture is more important than religion.
G'day you beauty Blue
as I haven't heard you play
in a year and a day
what did you do
with your fair dinkum didgeridoo
don't get me wrong
but it's been gone so long
has your bonzer boomerang
returned from whence you threw
by yonder backwater billabong
how about your most unusual pet
a marsupial (a roo) if I am correct
was it sold to pocket the proceeds
and pay for your daily needs
or abandoned beside the track
in the bush a.k.a., outback
The Ashes clashes are a proper Proustian transporter
Wrestle in the showstopper Aussies pestle & mortar
Faustian deal came a cropper couldn't be fraughter
Our fielders run ragged like some poor market porter
From table topper ripsnorter glory to gory slaughter
Wizard of Oz magic seen in this Baggie Green backwater
For us tragic end as mean as Lean's epic Ryan's Daughter
"Forgiveness heals an open wound, the spirit repairs the soul"
My father-in-law always used to say
McCants Mill Pond was a large body of water
Any one bigger, far away I want to stay
He didn't want near larger backwater
Years passed and time flies by, he passed as well
His widow's dementia got worse, at home she'd stay
Then one week we all planned a vacation so swell
We are off to Tybee to see the ocean spray
Headed to the Atlantic Ocean, my what fun
We'd have our grandson, and his great-grandmother, too
One of them hadn't seen the ocean, so much sun
What excitement on the long trip ensued
When we're there, we camped next to the Atlantic
We said, "Mawmaw, "you are looking at the ocean".
She stood there, then not looking dramatic
She said, "Now, that is a large body of water".
If you have never seen any of the oceans
I say prepare, they are large bodies of water
Even more than McCant's Mill Pond's grand promotions
So go, relax, enjoy the waves and saltwater
(“Without a Doubt”, 2013, original oil)
When I was 22 I left the mainstream
Moved into the hills to build a home
And live a life in the backwater.
Now 45 years later
It’s more backwater than ever.
My main companions are my dogs
And wife, all of whom enjoy this lifestyle
Of disengagement.
Meanwhile I know the world keeps turning
And the mainstream flowing,
Pretty hard to ignore the distant roar of that,
But here in the backwater life goes on
Much as it has from the beginning of time,
Except now we have access to fine books
Wine and whisky, vehicles to get us into the outback
And TV portals to view what the better half
Is doing with their precious time
Time which equally slips away
Whether you’re in the mainstream
Or backwater.
(11/13/25)
Backwater junction in a backwoods town
Rusty and creepier than a carnival clown
Timber rattlesnakes hide their slanted eyes
No one visits this woodpile, no big surprise
EVERYTHING IS NORMAL
The backwater
dreams is catching the winds
to become a whirlwind again...
The past daydreams
of recovering time
to live the present...
Rest
revels in silence
to replenish energy...
the night shines, the stars
with the sleeping rays of the sun
borrowed for free...
Pain heals,
when the scars dry
and become just memories...
I started chopping, one by one
the non gratae parts of my Temple,
while unbeknownst to me
pebbles were already spreading whispers
in all directions.
Shh..don’t speak so loud
You might as well keep quiet
Angst is already on her beaten path to the heart.
A path guarded by flowerless magnolia trees
on one side..
and mud cypress trees
on the other side, the one towards the backwater.
Shh..tis nothing but a..
distichum of deciduous discomforts.
Spanish Moss hangs over my face
a gentle caress
green filaments brush my hair.
The flat-bottomed boat
glides on a slow current
but it pushes me,
it urges - but to where?
Florida has a lot of water,
this stream is green,
a backwater making its own way
as it slides between marshy land.
Perhaps it will wind into
a Floridian suburban stream somewhere,
there will be blue swimming pools,
perhaps the odd plastic flamingo?
I hope there will still be
these enrobed Cypress trees,
some curtains of trailing moss
that will part
revealing new ways for this boat to go.
We are winded and on the ropes. Backwater banjo boys
strum against us. Clouds feed upon a shoaling light.
A bad day for going out or staying in.
A time to be sleepless. We must live timidly,
or push deeper into a glaring daylight
toward the drugged dreams of the wide-eyed,
go shopping in the poorer parts of town
seek thrifty ways to survive among the striving,
give all our prayers to the birds; then eat them.
Some say they have heard the sky flap away
but many stuff fingers in their ringing ears
and gainsay both the seen and unseen.
There is no sanctuary in night's lean pantry,
the ransacked are laid bare.
Many pick the pockets of the anxious
rattle catch-penny cans on shoe-strings.
Misgivings trespass, tumble ever inward until
reason becomes the reason to flee.
Paltry inklings gnaw at ever longer nights,
and we wonder what ‘tipping point’ tipped
what lid flipped; what line was crossed
as an ever louder twanging strums on?
A bottom land
where green is thread through
with a trailing mud.
A late fruited decay seeps and smears
these low meadow pasture.
Pot-bellied dewdrops hang,
strung upon spawny strings.
Here toadstools labor to open
upon cadaverous stems.
Tractor ruts have churned
a common lea into
sully and mire.
Waders squelch, stirring
drenched odors.
A slick grass slopes
here into oily shallows.
Beyond, the Ohio river shimmers bright
as it swiftly flows onward
delivering journeys
taken between moon and sun.
If you stand here splay-footed
and boot rooted,
you may catch a Great Blue Heron,
ascending,
its wings catching fire
within first shafts of golden light.
An illumination of a destination
reached by this marshy dock
of backwater day-peep.
National Poetry Day is over
Over two hours on the stage.
That's one hellova long time
For one of my advancing age.
This is the Poetry city.
The talent just abounds,
Mixing in the bars and pubs
With open mic music sounds.
They spruced up the Centre
Just for this event
(I sometimes worry at the wisdom
Of where the money went)
When they've replaced the paving
The barriers are all gone
When the renovation crews
Have finished and moved on
Bring in your Year of Culture,
Next year, 2017
Catering for the minority
Ignoring thriving local scene.
But when the Culture Vultures
Have departed as if they'd never been
In the pubs and clubs and bars
We'll still have our living culture scene.
With the streets are all repaired and
We're again northern backwater place
I'll be in the pub
A smile still on my face.
And I'll listen to the music,
Hear the spoken word,
Much of it as good or better
Than any City of Culture heard,
And I'll see the performance list
Every available spot full,
And think look what you've missed
In this Poetry City of Hull.
This is my city
Chugging quietly away:
A City of northern Culture
Every single vibrant day
Poor Earl Crabtree, they tried him for murder
He claimed innocence; he’d never hurt her
But Earl was transgender
He’d gone on a bender
Pleaded guilty ~ he’d tried to pervert her
We are winded and on the ropes.
Backwater banjo boys
strum against us,
clouds prey upon our minds.
Bad days for going out
or staying in.
A time to be sleepless
to be dazed by the paltry,
nibbled by dogged uncertainties.
We must live timidly,
bargain for more
expect the unexpected
thrive with less.
Go shopping
in the poorer parts of town,
seek thrifty ways where
the well-heeled fear to tread.
When Cable News
assured us that the sky
was about to flap away
we began to dig deeper
with cheap plastic shovels.
We networked a few viral prayers
sought the company of magpies
while the nigh and near
once more took us all by surprise.
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