Glass,
traps
one spark
in the ferns,
spirits of the dead,
tethered above the wet creek bed,
guiding the departed through the mangrove roots tonight.
They hover in the liminal space between the living and the silent wet bush graves.
We did not know we caught a wandering spirit alive, glowing with the pale green light of someone trying to find their way through the gully.
Unscrewing the cold rim of the glass I watched the little ancestor crawl out across my thumb to hesitate a moment in the damp night air before heading upwards into the canopy towards the guiding southern stars.
Rambunctiously I go
Rambling in the dark woods
Randomly following
Range trails made by racoons
Raptly I watch among
Ramps, next to the creek bed
Rationalism leaves
ramps-noun-a wild plant much like spring onions with a garlicy taste
Strolling down the old, gray, cobblestone path, encircled by soft shade,
Golden plumes enhanced by indigo and violet are visible as light fades.
The emerald and clover leaves of willows weep, drooping from limbs overhead,
bubbling, trickling, water is audible from a nearby creek bed.
Freesia, Lavender, and sweet honeysuckle scents hang in the air.
Succulent, juicy, and tempting ripe fruit hang everywhere.
Desiring a taste, I clutch a shimmering, burgundy plum,
I lose myself in the decadence of its flesh on my tongue.
Suddenly, a soft, gentle breeze teases my hair, tickling my skin,
Alas, I awaken, to pull on my overalls, and head outside and begin,
It’s not as perfect as what my dreams held within,
not as fragrant, shady, or filled to the brim,
but as I bite the product of my own hard work again,
I realize it’s MY perfect garden.
Loud claps of thunder introducing torrents of rain
Severest river storm I have seen in recent years
With broad streaks of lightning lighting the sky,
Enough to frighten any timorous chronic worriers
Main street has turned into a raging creek bed,
Sweeping broken tree limbs into the gutter drains
Run-off won’t help farmers in coming days so dry,
Such is the case with a summer’s torrential rains
Which most of us living near the Ohio truly dread,
Especially when accompanied by direct line winds
Which can be dangerous like twisters on the plain,
But here bring relief, from the heat, as it descends
The storms come on so quickly, it hard to explain
Loud claps of thunder introducing torrents of rain.
Written July 6, 2022
with reverence the willow tree bowed to today’s sun goddess
the sun was brighter and lighter than ever before
nature's golden wheat field was surprised, this was a new twist.
the tree had never genuflected before this morn.
the pink sky reflected herself nicely in the dried creek bed.
giving him a bit of hope for a kind of revival or rejuvenation.
this is a glorious beginning a frog told his wife.
beginning of what? the beginning of the rest of our lives.
Caressing the mind
And kissing
Glossy, smooth stones
Liquid rippling
Flowing over the bed
Hues of taupe
Sand and charcoal
With hints of lavender
Coloring the emotions
Wistful, willful, warm
Like the flavor
Of a rising storm
Resting on the sand
Brilliant like the sunshine
Glowing in moonlight
Smooth stones
Risking their stability
In the currents
Gracefully pouring
Along the edge
Of an emerald forest
Pines, oaks and birch
A leaf dancing
In the starry flames
Night’s radiance
Whispering to souls
In prayers of faith
Discovered on
The winds of a day
Bought by the songs
Of wren and robin
Frogs on mossy stones
Beckoning to the
Promise of rainfall
Smooth, lasting stones
Layered on shores
Of rivers and creeks
Awakening the bare feet
To memories
Of childhood days
Spent wading, playing
In the clear, cool waters
Alive with sinuous fluid
Waters surging, rolling
Across the mind
Who delights in praising
The Creator who
Rests these stones
Upon the shores
Of hope and faith
Love which praises
As it slides
Across the surface
Of these fluent waves
Both agile and gracious
Molding the stones
In their favor
L Contest
Dreamt I heard your screams within hollowed out trees
Wind shifted direction with tickle of a sneeze
Thought I heard you whisper with the warm gentle breeze
Suddenly was strong enough to get up off my knees
Found myself chasing whimsical dancing leaves
Floating to a creek bed where tranquil waters have yet to seize
Radiating sun reflecting rippled clouds mind is set at ease
Attention gravitated toward the song of sweet playful chickadees
Your name trapped on my tongue with most tasteful of memories
For brief moment heart sways to echoes of long lost melodies
Settle deep in the creek as the waters consistently flow
Where the crawdads hide and upon which algae grow
A stepping stone as the children run to the other side
It’s just a rock, without feeling and no sense of pride
A stone was used by David when Goliath fell to the ground
Not a word could it say: with no voice; not even a sound
But it conquered the giant, with the blow to his forehead
It’s just a rock, simply found on the floor of a creek bed
Each stone in its place as the architect builds the wall
Placed into the mortar to make the most beautiful of all
Homes standing out in neighborhoods with array so grand
It’s just a rock, bearing such beauty in the master’s hand
Picked from the earth as father and son play on the shore
Throwing atop the water to see whose would skip more
Creating laughter as the family watched while they play
It’s just a rock, But, it’s so much more; wouldn’t you say!
Sometimes, I can hear that happy, bubbly brook
bouncing over stones and under the wheel…that giant wheel.
It would drone along groaning a wooden song;
each night luring the brassy sun ever toward a distant skyline
by soft chattering of cog on cog and mesmerizing clockwork.
Other times I’m haunted by the gritty rasp of stone on stone
and swirling tendrils of fine dust doing a serpentine dance
through heavy air, reaching like so many ghoulish fingers
grasping desperately before dissolving;
coating my memories and that dusty wood-planked floor.
Yesterday I yearned for simpler times when
I would lazily strum my second-hand guitar
from a mossy log in the shade of our old gristmill.
Plucking those plaintive songs of young heartache
or gleefully accompanying cardinals in a nearby thicket.
But today all that remains is corporate.
Steel rollers chain driven by diesel motors.
A dried up creek bed cutting an over-burdened field
of chemical pesticides and fertilizers to grow
everything but food for my soul.
6/3/2018
Written for The Gristmill Poetry Contest
Hosted by Craig Cornish
Hiking a dry creek bed, at the mountain's base
I happened on an old grist mill, a prisoner
of time, serving life in isolation.
A few rotten boards scattered about
was all that remained of it's dilapidated Norse wheel
The broken millstone lay silent on it's bed
the thick green ivy walls, closing in.
Guarded by giant pin oaks and river ash,
yet one could easily see evidence of visitors.
I was trespassing, not on land
but on another time, another's dream.
What was most likely, once a busy road
for horse drawn wagons had become
a clearing for utility poles and wires
I did not enter but I stood there
envisioning yesterday. mountains on both sides,
creek of fresh running water and the
serenity of this lush mountain valley.
Then cynically muttered,..."Progress"
5/27/2018
Love warm evening summer strolls
Kids rock everywhere we roll
Upon bank of creek bed cast out ultra light fishing pole
Serenity of nature speaks to the core of my soul
Moving towards the sun as it descends slowly behind a hill
Mesmerized by glorious color display for a brief moment time stands still
Stop every couple feet for flowers kids plucked, their baskets they fill
Break out sweaters and blankets for kids, night air may bring light chill
Some priceless funfilled laughter, quick pitstop at a park
Detour along a beach, kids swear they saw a shark
Venture to Lakenenland, junk's sculpted into historical art where Tom Lakenen continues to leave his mark
Along bog walk may need a flashlight as moon and stars may not be enough to light our path in the dark
Pups also enjoy tagging along
Being in the great outdoors you can never go wrong
Lullabies of God's creatures are most beautiful of songs
Fresh air and sweet natural aromas kids will be dreaming soon, won't be long
The melt trickles off to the creek bed
pure white has up and disappeared
green grasses grow into the forefront
leading to where tenderness' been bared
Hot flames flicker with the innocence
covers uncovered in a big ball of trust
red lips painted in sweet cherry wine
hearts are left lying without wanderlust
Into the spring we stretch out our reach
blooming alongside all nature's glory
revealing our skin, soaking in sunshine
writing new chapters in life's love story
Banana pie is most excellent. Exquisitely designed my dear. For the gelling of ceiling tiles is neither a geiling trait nor a vaporised whispering bit of a mansion mane. So take great comfort in the very comfortable pillow of a stone creek bed with a duvet not of iron but of rock. For rock is to a roll what a roll is to a rich filling of cheese, ham, jalapenos, custard and thick creme de la creme. Weep nothing for the nonsense that anno surfaced wave corrects. But nonethelessnonsensical note that takes prisoner hawks is jeopardising critical arc info. Been beer began bed. *** ha and a big fat z. Astonishment and astonishment xxxxx with 109, 090, 998, garden buds. 10000, 0000, 0000, 0001 looking after yourself xxxxxx z catego thou didst thou wilt thou didst thou art.....said the ones before...stew pot stem then....oh wow...!...fantastic isn't it.....now the pan will not attack the pencil......nor will the flight pattern of pencil case halt the horse...mccxx.......%5%4%5%4 hahaha xx conformism z z z z z z z z.
Thunderous roars and incessant tapping
Pouring down, no end in sight
Within these walls the weather’s trapping
People in their homes tonight
Saturation point’s been reached
As the flow now shapes the land
Retaining walls have now been breached
Only protection, bags of sand
A new river in creek bed forms
As trees and grasses lose their hold
Rushing waters from the storms
Wave and ripple uncontrolled
Day light breaks with no relief
Rain continues unabated
I stare back with disbelief
At the changes it created
Hours pass with little change
Random acts of Nature’s wrath
Unseasonal, the weather’s strange
Drenching all within its path
Finally the sun peeks through
Rain subsides and pools retreat
An end in sight that’s overdue
This storm’s damage now complete
The earth wails in cracked silence
fissured with gaping yawns
in the noonday sun.
Parched smiles riddle the ground
flaking off in a summer breeze,
each a silent message begging for rain.
Grass is now served on lawns
fried to a yellowed crispy crunch
with a side of blistering sun.
Frogs that once heralded
the arrival of reviving rain
can now be heard croaking
the drought-ridden blues
...............well beyond the midnight curfew.
Their listless guests quietly sitting
atop dried lily pads which now
resemble shrunken toad stools
listening to the hoarse-croaked blues.
Titled songs now being heard
around the dried creek bed
range from the one hit wonder
“Parched in the Creek Too Long”
to a new single now making its début
“This Rocks Too Hot For Hopping.”
No creek fee, just B.Y.O.W.
(Bring your own water)
Written by: Debra Squyres
With All rights reserved, on 7/7/2012
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