.
i know'd yuh'd
pick tributary
thuh
and i ran
in mine robe
and you're in
your
your tank top
and
oh them'z
my
panniez
From womb to room
There was space in between
Forces at work
A war in the unseen
Finally visible
The head is crowned
Royalty born
Without renown
From the moment
She took first breath
LOVE marked her
Free from death
Every experience
Every trauma
Spirit delivered
From re-tributary Karma
Healing recovered
The shattered parts
But Restoration
Gave back her heart
...boom...boom, boom...boom...boom, boom
Written by Trudy Schrader on 03-27-2026
If the Rainman would concur, I would take all my days cloudy and
all my moments as this sodden one, but to my chagrin he does not.
Things come upon me near the moistened river. The water in the air
takes me back to a Styrofoam cup of juicy minnow bait on a drizzly day.
Countless coconuts swirl down this smelly tributary. They don’t
about each other or about why the tide takes them there it pleases.
You can’t tell me that they do not think like us, or maybe they don’t.
Either way they cannot know the sacredness of watching a ballet
of synchronized raindrops from beneath the water’s surface.
Submitted by Gary Baldwin (Jan 21, 2026)
for the Let it Rain Poetry Contest
“More Than Scribbles”
The pen does not speak—
it holds its silence in a chamber,
a reservoir where sentences
float unformed,
dark rivers stalled
before the mouth of paper.
Each droplet is a thought
waiting for gravity’s compunction,
a poem in liquid pause,
its capillary compression
held at the narrow throat of the nib.
The pipeline presses with pressure,
yet nothing escapes—
until the hand inclines,
and gravity leans through the hinge,
drawing futures downward
onto a waiting page.
There, a stained tributary
eddies downstream,
curling into margins,
its current carrying fragments
toward the widening mouth of breath.
A single line spills,
a thought becomes visible,
the poem begins to breathe.
.
Fog over the inlet
until water and air waltz together.
colds ears muffled by the dank air.
Grebes and Coots colonize this tributary.
The ocean is close
you can feel the tidal pull of it
the immensity of it,
even through the thick haze
it seems to tug at my small boat.
I hear now, the distant screaking
of coastal gulls.
Trawling fingers in the dark water
mellifluent coils pluck and pull.
Later, sitting in the cabin
I wonder why I did not push
further out from the estuary
advancing towards
the deep sound of the breakers.
I yawn, sup some hot tea from a mug,
smile,
comfortable,
that's the reason -
way too comfortable.
Gentle tributary
of a hill-born river
suburban lake caressed
acres of fertile land -
paddy rich, growing fields
Schools of fish raced at depths
water-birds, herons, egrets,
warblers, mynas, pipits,
swallows, shikra, barbets, owls
Bowl that held varied lives
The surrounding city
rapidly scales cloud- heights, as
skilled strategists, land grabbers,
investors, policymakers,
now take her on a ride
The silenced birds, once family
to the lively-living lake,
their provider, now watch
from a mile, her being led
like a lamb to the slaughter
chemical sewers, toxic algae
rotting froth, foam, fumes engulf
volatile, fire-prone, wasted,
water body stands scrapped
A stilled lake, beyond repair
In flood the creek is still a walk over.
A listless washing of the land,
a hesitant flow, never meant to be a tributary,
or delta of anything at all.
The opaque water meanders
through sunken banks
then after a few miles, seeps into a
wallow of bottomland.
It recently has been given a name,
a new housing development
built beside its muddy channel
has named it ‘Silver Water Creek’.
What’s left of Silver Water Creek
scrawls an epilogue in the mud.
A leaf beached on a pebble
mimics a lilliputian wreck,
and that is where
imagination tragically drowns.
Mom, Happy Thanksgiving
Wishing You Were Here
A Tree Grows In The 18th Spot
With The 18th Tear That I Shed
I Stop On 18th Street
To Sing A Song
That Is 18 Minutes Long
18 Memories Come To My Head Out Of Nowhere
Then I Turn 18 Again
And I Rename MySelf Benjamin Button
When Some Stranger Named Paul,
Who Dwells In A Hard Castle On Avenue 19,
Plays A Nostalgic Tune Of Glorius Therapeutic Effervescence,
I Will Be At Your Burial Site With Flowers ?? For You
I Will Treasure The Memories In Tributary Showers For You
Without You Here, I Will Always Be Alone
Still Searching For Replacements But Failing Instantaneously
My Love And Appreciation For You Has No Expiration Date And Will AllWays Be A HolyDay EveryDay In Every Way More And More Each Day In Every Phase Like A Metaphorical Phase That Confuses Me With Similes, HowEver, I Still Find A Way Via Ginseng Vibes Of SunShine Inspiration Thanks Wholly To You......
I Miss You And Love You, M.O.M. (Mother Of Marty) Like The Purification Of Simplicity's Kindred Spirit In Its Maternal Essence
Keep Resting Easy........Love Infinity........
From the deepest reservoirs of the heart,
There resides the source of our soul's river.
From the beginning, from the very start,
There is the issuing out of a river flow,
Without this, we would cease to grow.
Sometimes releasing a myriad of issues,
Or just a few, revealing things old and new,
Heavenly mysteries that we never knew.
Without ceasing, occasionally gushing,
Often with force like white water rapids.
It is continually rushing to and fro.
It ceases not its navigation through
Its faithful ever-ready conduits,
Continually cleansing and healing
Along its elongated passage.
So, let the river flow.
Make room for its overflow.
Let every tributary join its force
As their waters congeal to reach the
Awaiting open sea. Let there be no dams,
Delays, or detours. Let the river determine
Its own course. Read carefully what the river is saying
And embrace those 'Special Deliveries' from the heart.
Hot, is October
It is early, but the petrol station is open
and since it is already hot, I buy two big bottles of cold water.
The heat, this morning is ominous holds no promise
of summer and fun, more like the door of hell has been left open, I hear the screams of those who are burning forever (one would think the body would be impervious to pain when burning forever)
I don´t want to go in yet sit on a cold stone bench drink water and dream of swimming naked in the lake of love.
Of course, the lake has gone as has its tributary, the river running from the hazy mountain.
Suddenly it hits me over the head, the voice which says,
you are 85, how the hell did you manage this?
I don't, nothing, I did.
The news is not helpful either, saying the heatwave and only the English go out in the midday sun (Noel Coward)
I drink some cold water pretend it is from a spring concealed in my imagination, of an oasis and palm trees I think would it not be good if I invented a pill that made me younger and younger till I disappeared unborn.
Twig twists intersect then spread victory
Receptors sprout cat waving paws
Fold fruit bowl foliage, branch tributary
Lump eye timber columns support
Steer me clear of thatch caged cluster
Cheerleader twirling ribbons sizzle
Shifted to soft focus forest, fairy dusted
In drifting dandelion seed celestial
Thrown down overlap of toasty tobacco
Crinkle constant joke cracked faces
Humour grants razor slim grasses tackle
Unused nests during seasons' phases
Basket interweave splice strap sun poke
Probes timid shade a radiating halo
Lathered limbs in blossom shampoo soak
Crown me neath ghostly citrine glow
Sombre trots towards her restful rotunda
Floating pollen fluff Snugglepot ego
Fingers spring flags of woodland wonder
Grip ant gazette trail to safe gazebo
6th March
Exists in the middle
In flood the creek is still a walk over.
A limp washing of the land,
a hesitant flow, never meant to be a tributary,
or delta of anything at all.
The opaque water slides through low,
then after a few miles, seeps into a
wallow of bottomland.
It recently has been given a name,
a new housing development
built beside its muddy banks
is called, ‘Silver Water Creek’.
I think of my bookshelf,
Mark Twain’s, ‘Life on the Mississippi’,
then a trip here being taken to nowhere,
my own disappearing.
Fog slow-dances over the inlet
until water and air waltz together.
My ears are muffled
in the dawn mizzle.
Grebes and Coots colonize this tributary,
gulls just visit, as I do.
A person could row out to the ocean from here,
but the thick haze might take a soul
or lose a body
then it would be caught between two worlds.
Later sitting on the cabin porch,
mind wondering why
the skiff did not head out to the coastal waves
at least as far as any swimmer might go,
but the answer is clear;
keeping this ageing body safe,
that’s all that matters now.
In flood the stream is still a walk over.
A limp washing of the land,
a hesitant flow, never meant to be a tributary,
or delta of anything much at all.
Here and there, the no name trickle
turns into only a turgid sludge.
The opaque water slides through
low, and unremarkable,
then after a mile or less, it muddily seeps
into a dank wallow of bottomland.
It recently has been given a name,
a new housing development
is being built beside its indefinite banks,
it is now named: Sweet Water Creek.
Such is the lie
of the land around here.
the fence is now made of rust
the patio now has a see through floor
the grass is now a mirror for the aging sun
the trees are now all skeletons in the unfortunate name of abandonment
the clothesline is still surprisingly intact
the clothespins are now weather worn and practically useless
the swing set is now a long lost distant cousin of the aforementioned fence
the doghouse where slacker used to chill is now a bathroom source for many a bird
a rabbit hops in here where life once was
she stares at me inquisitively
i wonder if miss bunny has a poem in her head or a quiet opinion
well, i share with her the anecdote that i intentionally elongate
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