He washed his hands.
Of her and us.
And we were sluiced into the Irish Sea.
On a rough tide.
Whilst the gentleness of the Yorkshire Dales embraced him.
Again.
Clinging to each other and the flotsam of the incoming tide we were swept back to shore, blistered, weathered, but together.
A successful navigation to land, prevailing with fortune and fortitude.
Onshore our journeys continued but in differing directions, scarred by the experience, new land to explore.
New lives.
Ever changed we reunite to recount, reminisce, a newness added on each telling.
The scarring still exists the flesh tears, the salt burns, but every now and then the flag is hauled,
the sail thrown open to the wind and we sail, the waters stiller, navigable.
Harbours now, each open to protect from choppy oceans.
A safe mooring.
I’ve really tried to kick the habit --
Lord knows, I’ve totally tried!
But addiction is a ship not easy
To right...as a flap-less plane
Incapable of a navigable flight --
Speaking~ of the Writing Affliction!
Inexcusable whether works of grand
Truth, or totally wild poetic fiction –
putting an end to neurotic
behavior, is far easier said, then actually
shed. Hmm, verse or informative prose?
What will be this day’s Obsessive,
Compulsive Flavor?
blood
red, true
flowing, agglutinating, testing
lineage, pedigree, aquatic, rain
drizzling, diluting, irrigating,
cold, navigable,
water
Date written: 01/10/2023
Beyond the mighty Humboldt
Where the Artemisia blooms,
The broken ribs of mountains
Lie tilted toward the sky.
‘Twas called a wretched wasteland
That Satan, himself, passed by;
Where no self-respecting bird
Would stay if it could fly.
Its rivers are pretenses,
Called navigable by law.
Thirsty dragonflies may wing
Thirty miles to find a spring.
Nature gave it acne skin,
Best summed by this report:
“A most paltry stretch of earth;
Ugliness of no import.”
Miners dug just short of Hell
In search of bonanza lodes;
And found the gold and silver
To fund Mister Lincoln’s war.
Battle born, the Silver State
Lent much to the Union cause.
The Union will pay its debt,
With Yucca Mount’s toxic load.
Teasing twining thoughts as you glance upon my face;
while I'm placed beside your pen, a special creative place
Thoughts pool with emotions in your unspoken heart
While shadowed dreams advance, cryptic utterance start
Embracing passion and gleaning of your poetic glimmer,
leaving layers of footprints upon woven navigable river
Succumb to the fragments of moonlight gazing through the blind,
you rise and turn, swiftly depart, leaving me unfinished behind
5/23/2017
Poetry Contest; Form P -
Sponsored by: Broken Wings
(Homage to the Kwanza River
" Water mother " of Angola)
Largest and only Angolan
Art thou, O majestic Kwanza!
In the central highlands
We see thee rise in Mumbué
And 960 kilometers of undoubted majesty
To the north and west
Since the municipality of Chitembo, in Bié
Stretch out on the big curve design
Before the hug, so sweet, so strong
You give to the salt of the Atlantic
Largest and only Angolan
Art thou, O majestic kwanza!
With an enviable basin
For two hundred and fifty
Kilometers, you are navigable
From the mouth to the Dondo
Where the dams of Cambambe and Capanda
Render yourself patriotic reverence
By the megawatts of power
Largest and only Angolan
Art thou, O majestic Kwanza!
As well as to the national currency unit
In the two provinces, thy name this also:
At its northern margin, Kwanza Norte
And Kwanza Sul, on the opposite bank, equally
They pay more than deserved tribute
Zeno on Vacation
- In praise of immobility
It certainly isn’t far from his room
to the ocean. A few steps. Easily
navigable, he says to himself. Not
a thing to it. On with the sandals and
away we go. The sun’s cooperative
enough. So is the sand. But wait. Hold
everything. A proof, clouds of logic
blowing in from memory. The waves
farther away now, much farther. Not
going anywhere. Ever. Statuesque. And
no way even to call his pal Heraclitus
at the Tiki Bar. No way to meet the girls.
How they got there, of course, he hasn’t
the slightest idea.
Chapter 9: Portaging Older Dams
Eleven Minnesota dams we had to portage
All without clear use for folks today
But as the Mississippi is a ‘navigable’ river.
Owners are required by law to transport boats
Around these artificial barriers to ‘commerce’
And ‘social intercourse’ (like our canoe.)
This can make the dam owners hard to find!
Most of these dams backed up water only
For short distances, historic nuisances today,
Maintained only now to prevent further damage
To the altered ecosystem they themselves created,
A rare incidence of business being held responsible.
Or a clever ruse to avoid the real clean up costs?
It’s hard to trust that anyone alive is not ‘Me! Me! Me!’
But the owner’s of the dam with the three mile
Impassible boulder field below it won our praise.
A pickup was sent with two strong men
Who picked up the canoe gear and all,
Slipped it into the back, and tied it down.
Within an hour we were back in the water,
Paddling downstream with the current.
Brian Johnston
October 28, 2014
Traveller
I traverse without a clock,
Hoping the sun lingers
A little while,
As her rays accompany
My shadow and me.
The dust of the desert anchors my soles.
I hear the cutting chorus of the owls,
Piercing the silence of the air.
I do not want the wet hedges of trees;
They offer no comfort
To the bones of a man
Who never met rapture.
The cloud blushes in cheap costume
And scares the sun into bed,
Like Charlie's grandma.
Allowing the moon to watch midnight horrors,
From Neanderthal actors upon the stage of my imagination,
While I burn within my own furnace.
May you never lose your way,
Led astray by hundreds of tracks on the map
That seem navigable without a compass.
For humanity's race is a journey,
But not every terrain leads to the same destination.
I am just a traveller;
I am not a wanderer.
~ Uche Chidozie Okorie
after being constantly degraded elmer fudd getting hot inside just kept lossing more navigable opportunities per quarter relying solely trustingly upon volunteers while xeroxing Yan'kee zeal
(does this remind anybody of the current "Debt Crisses")
Bridging temorary rapids with
matchsticks, gum and tumbleweeds
whilst hearing dixie whistled
hauling your tired bones
along the well worn by-ways
with mommas hollering for
you to tie your shoelace
there is a time in which to contemplate
on the paths available
of ignorant slavery to the
lowest common denominator
or being informed to the point
of poverty by declining to participate
walk with your tied up, comfortable shoes
cross those treacherous ledges and divides
and decide for yourself a path
that becomes navigable
and always seek the blessing of your mother.
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