In other worlds, we bathed in glass
instead of water.
Thousands of small grains cascade
as I stand bare in the shower, eroding.
Our ancestors never found cool, aqueous respite,
only beams that scorched the vast, barren sea of gold they wandered.
Their mouths, always parched,
never welcoming foreign waterborne contaminants.
Still, they were contaminated all the same
by those that burrowed into the flesh.
In any account of humanity,
we are flesh.
To be wrung,
to be infected,
by what cleanses and sustains.
And yet, we bathe
in dust or dew.
We consume.
We reach still for what purifies,
even if it wounds.
Pests are literally destructive to nature and human survival. More than ten thousand species have survived various catastrophes for more than a thousand years. Dinosaurs may have lived and ruled for a long time, but died from scorching meteors. And yet, cockroaches belonging to the kingdom of pests are still strong and dominating up to now. You can observe that from the wing itself speaks invincibilty. Cockroaches are just one of the land based-pests that can be found everywhere.
Water predators are of different types. Skinny as they are, but agile and electrifying. Scaly as they are, but feasting on human flesh and bones.
Who would ever think that future wars can only emanate from human wars or wars of the world? How about the silent creatures around and within the habitat of man?... Land and water predators versus human supremacy over all other entities.
I have loved these evening walks
through smoldering reeks,
ankle deep in haunted litter.
Loved
the flicker of mottled hawks,
flaming across a waterborne sky,
the soft mats of moss upon late shadows,
the silver shimmer of small paw prints
in muddy puddles.
Those sweet smells, the spilled decay
and grace of newly wilted flora,
overripe and yet tingling with scented airs.
A gilded leafage heaped only to be scattered
by a fresh-faced wind.
Slippery sidewalks painted russet,
the gold vapor of milder sunsets
as an easeful light drips from twig and branch.
Gilded threads of smoke winding through hedgerows,
mist trails sliding under warm breath,
these I have loved.
Wearisome weatherman
Wears watertight wedgies
With wide well-worn webbing
When wading wherever
Warming water washes
Waterborne wastepaper
Wandering whereabouts.
FOURTH PLACE WINNER
Written May 9, 2021
for "Pleiades "W" Contest"
sponsored by Kim Merryman
7 lines with 6 syllables each checked by HMS.
Stars, crisp in the deep plot
pulling off, late snow clouds
clean themselves
The river lets loose the carp,
coughs beneath its frozen part
Drippings on the roof hit the gutter
Ice branches ripped off in wind are waterborne
In the house, a rim of cheese is quiet
There is a chunk of lard to be rendered
I should hang pails on the trees and wait for sugar
I want to tie off the time like a bith cord
chewed broken in a proud woman's teeth
My navel is gone, the moon up,
in a month or two my hands will be in pain
Ever believe there will be someone asking something from her
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