Best Recovery From...River Poems
Afternoons the sky shuts down around the swamp's warning tapes
propped up with restoration piping and dirt leak fencing.
We’re fleeing toward the wild, seeking the names and shapes,
the same way the Cedar Waxwing flit and grip for berries tree to tree.
Canada Geese are easy, they lead off down the lane leaving residue,
Widgeons have green stripes and gold stripes, one American
the other European, and they’re all mumbling our family phew-do
they didn’t burn the kid, they can’t keep the house clean, drugs…
Blink away the cold wind tears. Forget all that, only remember
Shovelers have the long low profile and the long bill from studies
in New Zealand, like a deep breath, we set aside work, unlimber
spy the race of killdeer away from their guarding territory in gravel.
Our boss didn’t try to replace us, he ducked out to a new job
leaving the crime ringing in our ears like the police car roaring past.
Head down, we tunnel under the high way finding the dunk and bob
of mergansers and their hallowed or red heads,
remarking differences when the sudden scream of honking
mallards flee up river. Caught off guard, we wonder did we cause
all this pain? The rise and dunk flying goldfinch happily chirping
cling to the thistle, their favorite waste near the waste water
ponds where all the Black River water flows for cleaning
spilling into the nesting lower stages of the tertiary treatment.
That’s all this is, treatment for the shock wave week riding
current events on our shoulders, almost like the red-tailed hawk
that screams and skims our head, rising up to the setting sun
turning the sky purple and pink and bruised. That’s when wood
ducks skim into view, our breath captured and then steaming undone
but soon the heavens offer confirmation, blue angels
with their huge oversized wings soar in pairs down as gift.
We hold each other then, let screams silence, detail enriched.
Flooded river, broken dam
Upturned trees,houses gone.
People shouting from out of sight
We need more help,we need more light.
Most have left, before the storm,
The few that remain
Are battered and torn.
Trying to salvage what they can,
Their lives are in tatters,
"How lucky I am"
The waters started receding,
Going back to the sea
Taking along, all their cherished memories.
a few days ago,
It was peaceful and calm,
Now devastation brings, panic and alarm.
To build a new life
With all that remains,
Praying to God
It doesn't come back again.
Breaking red rabbit tail rock rolls
On course to find water's relief
Recieved splash on entry consoles
Cracked river banks scary belief
Drought had claimed rain, abhorrant theif
Tortoise rise islands of today
Spy submarines just yesterday
Sponge edges flake, sandskrit their rage
Scathing hastens stainless foray
Kernels fall, popcorn covers stage
5th August 2020
Submitted for Contest Dizain Pick A Title
Sponsor, Edward Ibeh
This mockery is the torrent of faith's life
not flooding ~ earthly course ~ demands of strife,
it is the evil whisper not retrieve
your homage as the victor, through hope's sieve!
Still running, through your blood, diluting's heave
and that new promised calling, cannot leave
to higher ground ~ appalling tugs your sleeve,
do this, one sin, or that ~ but not God's plea!
Oh, wash away the land, the River's truth
but that devised as man's, uncommon sleuth
is dripping, dripping, droplets on the mind,
to follow evil's will, and stay behind!
Oh, chance the River thereby do command
to seize the leverage, breaking not one strand,
this nature's way will echo "contraband"
yet not the venture ~ God would use His plan?
Tomorrows, let the Kingdom wash away
and to the River ~ this once more I pray
thy purity's denounce is not the mill of stray
but covering of God's Earth, through His relay!
Mist moved over the river flats,
beading cobwebs along the fence.
By dusk, raindrops gathered
and danced in the dust,
each small impact
summoning a hundred more.
By dawn, their bright insistence
drummed on every roof,
swelling down into the river
until it forgot its banks.
Freed from its borders,
the flood rushed to the lowest point—
the open cut.
It crossed the service road,
slipped past rusted gates,
and filled the excavation.
It lifted the warning signs,
worried black silt from the seams,
carried the company’s name away.
As the rain slowed,
a wetland took shape,
mirroring the sky—
a chorus of warbling and croaking fills the air.