Across the alfalfa field hid that creek, so simple yet so complex.
The Nebraskan wind hummed country melodies over its weeds and blossoms as my Labrador, Sandy, and I strode towards its mystical plainness.
She stopped and sniffed the ground before diving into Nameless' gray current, her golden body relishing the warm summer water.
Her head graced the surface like a canine swan as her strong legs paddled through the nameless depth. Birds tweeted their greetings to us as Nature's orchestra labored in harmony.
Sandy climbed back upon the creek's bank before she eyed me with a smile. I chuckled as I told her that no, I couldn't swim.
She is now buried under a majestic tree near the nameless creek. Illness stole my sweet dog from my world, but never from my heart. This creek had no name, yet memories burned themselves inside its muddy water.
Years ago, when my friends and I were just boys;
A nearby place provided such simple joys.
To us, it was one of the best local ‘finds’;
“Let’s go to the creek,” never far from our minds.
We usually rode bikes, although sometimes we’d run;
To be first to arrive was part of the fun.
Visiting each favorite spot with made-up names;
Racing leaf and twig boats, playing other games.
Covering stones with mud, shouting “Bombs away!”
Vying for biggest ‘explosion’ of the day.
Pretending that large rocks were islands mid stream;
For hours we’d play in a quasi day dream.
Imagining that millimeters were miles;
Jumping from the creek’s banks to ‘fly’ to warm isles.
When dusk called us home as it did way too fast;
We knew today’s trip here would not be our last.
The Bushy Creek Spring Makers Market is the call
Poetry and bee motels selling on our stall
busking in daylight
fireside songs at night
Camped out for two days we're gonna have a ball
Call them bee motels cause we don't drink alcohol
different native bees are sealing up a hole
young ones will hatch out
adults will buzz about
Collect pollen and nectar in nature that's their role
it's hot, i'm barefoot
walking in flowing water
touching mossy rocks
Creek gurgling over rocks.
How, Just, Perfect,
is that?
Daiiy run
much fun
By the creek
pleasure seek
Use thumb
guitar strum
Tibetan rite
anti -ageing delight
Crossword puzzle
no hustle
Sun bake
tan make
Fruit breakfast
hunger past
Early rise
before sunrise
With wife
joyous life
Grandchildren come
happy hum
Blue sky
eagles fly
Stay home
write poem
Sunlight blazing in the sky,
Popsicles melting on eager lips,
Bicycles racing around the block
With laughter trailing close behind.
The air shimmers with the day's heat
As we splash through the little creek,
Chasing frogs and darting fish,
Our worries carried away by the current.
Days of long ago return in memory—
The simple joy of childhood,
When summers seemed to last forever,
Yet somehow slipped away too soon.
Morning light drifts soft and meek
through cottonwoods that lean and speak,
their shadows brushing childhood’s cheek
down by old Duck Creek.
Barefoot summers, warm and slow,
grass stains where our young dreams would grow,
the world felt small enough to know
down by old Duck Creek.
Cicadas hummed their dusty tune,
a cloudless Texas sky in June,
and time moved gentle as the moon
down by old Duck Creek.
Now memory walks where I once ran,
a grown heart holding what it can,
still hearing God in wind and sand
down by old Duck Creek.
the creek is quiet, mossy
phantoms surround inlet
safeguarding all who visits
a lonesome eagle overhead watch
me strike a match _____ flame
dies in cold breeze
silent is vast sky
slowly life appears
chameleon on sediment
gecko peeping
fire I try to kindle splutter
gasping for breath ~
orange tongues appear
god’s original juices
consecrated ibis lands as if
sent from Nile where I drank
waters centuries before
sweet solitude filled with
memories of pharaohs
chariots, hieroglyphs
inlet waters fill voids in mind
I’m inconsequentially cosmic
egyptian geese descend
estuaries flow through limbs
nurturing blood …
_______________________
Placed : 5th : Premier Contest
Sponsor : Brian Strand : May 26
Senquernized like chrome on a cross
Feel the drizzle I just bought a pistol
It’s a crime to call the Laws on me
I got all these squaws on me
They don’t question me when they call me
I take em out to fahls each week
They buy some Nikes to put on my kids feet
Any day of the week
If you find yourself up sh*t creek
As I understand
You can use your hands
But it’s a paddle that you really seek.
Sitting on the deck looking down upon the creek
There's ripples on the surface, the water's running free
The rays of early sunshine, shimmering through the trees
My beautiful six year old granddaughter is perched upon my knees
The breeze is blowing gently and ruffling up the leaves
The leaves are gently falling, filling up the gutters attached upon the eaves
Yellow blossom full of nectar, attracting many bees
Be aware of sight, the sound and smell, the senses, these are the keys
Nature so magnificent without ever asking. it will surely please
down close to the creek
star magnolia is blooming....
heat steadily runs
It feels right to listen to Lord Huron and think of Montana
When reality feeds itself on one’s own myopic inertia
To be there again, a hungering and herculean agenda
To do this one life away from her, self serving and simply
I swam to this timid paradise but it drowned me nearly
The silence here is bold, it reminds me often and clearly
When you brood upon things you misunderstand they still hatch
Nevermore in Trout Creek the cold clay through my toes I’ll pinch
The silence there was warm, like chicken soup she made from scratch
Aunt Mary’s sprawling wrap-around porch
hid curious six-year-old me.
Peeking over the baluster rail,
I spied Cross Creek Rosie passing by,
tall and stately, walking purposefully
down Jefferson Avenue.
Her constant companions,
rumors and cruel taunts,
pursued alongside.
In an era lacking preferred pronouns,
she was exotic intrigue,
inquisitive mystery,
a Pandora’s box of queries,
the circus orchestra
rife with colorful discordant notes.
Flamboyant scarlet turban,
deeply rouged cheeks, fiery red lipstick,
black mascara adorning manly features,
gypsy-like blouse spattered in rainbow hues,
black toreador slacks.
My tiny heart ached for her.
Small hand lifted in greeting,
I whispered, “Someday I want to be like you.”
Would I ever walk confidently in my own skin?
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