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Michelle Waters Poem
River’s Arising
By Michelle Waters
River’s arising. Danger’s on hand.
Gather up your kinfolk and get to high land.
The campgrounds are empty, RVs are all gone
Tourists packed up their bags and headed back home.
The storm clouds retreated for less than a day.
For on the horizon, they’re making headway.
Torrents of water and mud surge down from the ridges,
Wash out the gullys, and ravage the ditches.
The creeks are all swollen; their banks have been breached.
Winds tear through the trees, wild and unleashed.
Muck and debris cover roads and driveways.
Surplus of water sweeps cars off highways.
Weatherman's warnings- often unheeded
In times like these, good sense is needed.
Destruction continues, flood water advances.
The wise take refuge, the foolish take chances.
Those who live in the valleys will stay to repent.
Once the floodgates cut loose, there’ll be no defense.
River’s arising. Danger’s on hand.
Gather up your kinfolk and get to high land.
Copyright © Michelle Waters | Year Posted 2017
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Michelle Waters Poem
I am an Outlander
Who lives on a high hill
Overlooking a man-made lake
That once was a rapidly rushing river
Along whose banks the Ozarks Bluff Dwellers and the Osage and then Delaware
Hunted, fished, and created shelter
For their families
Where their children ran freely
While red-tailed foxes sneaked softly
Through the forests and the
Wise Night Owl chatted with the
Whispering Whippoorwill.
I am a child of Outlanders
Who came from the North
To live along the banks of the man-made lake
Where a small fishing resort, built by my father,
Nestled at the base of yet another high hill, and from the crest of that hill
The southern arm of the lake could be viewed unhindered.
Miles of blue and white water danced in the afternoon sun.
Between Table Rock Dam on my right and Long Creek Bridge on my left,
The main channel branched off- broke loose- and formed the cove
Which we shared with Dan and Cuba Norris at their dude ranch
Located by the side of the Devil’s Pool-
That ancient, sacred, cleansing spring of the Osage men.
The back waters of the cove edged our front yard.
The steep, timber and rock strewn slopes cloaked the sides and back of the 80 acres that
Mr. Curbow sold to my father shortly before the dam’s completion.
Perched between the wooded areas, and the cedar glade,
A ledge rock served as my look-out, like
A sentinel standing guard over acres of scrubby plants and limestone that my father
Transformed into grassy green patches and rocked-up retaining walls,
Laboring as the pioneer settlers had a century before-
He and my mother, pioneers themselves, carved out a home where
Dogwood and redbud trees scattered themselves amid the cedar.
In the spring, they checkered the hills in pink and white and green.
Later, verbena, black-eyed Susan, coneflower, milkweed, and Indian paint-brush
Fashioned a palette of ever-changing tones and hues.
I am an Outlander
Who went to school in a small town that
Once was a humming railroad station where
Farmers marketed fruits and vegetables and wild game,
Shipping their goods out of the land from that
Tiny railroad town, snuggly fit among limestone bluffs, the White River, and Turkey Creek.
They tell me, long years ago,
There by the creek, an old woman lived
Who washed her clothes on a rock each Monday,
While her boy played contentedly in the deeper water nearby.
Generations of children splashed gleefully
In that once glistening, iridescent Granny Hole.
I am an Outlander who continues to live in a growing town whose people
Once, only provisionally, greeted the laughter of holiday makers- those
Wealthy sportsmen and their wives
Who stepped off the train
From far off cities
To camp along the water’s edge or
To lazily float the river with Jim Owen in locally crafted Jon boats
Or, having read Mr. Wright’s celebrated novel,
Trekked the rough and rocky roads in search of
Old Matt and Aunt Molly and the shepherd of the hills.
City-dwellers came to embrace, for a time, the goodness of a fading life-style
When native hill folk families gathered neighborly to
Fill the valleys with songs of long ago troubadours.
Outlanders came, time and time again,
To find balance in themselves within the exquisite Ozark hills, and
As did my parents, and those before them,
Many returned to stay.
Pioneers and Transplanted Outlanders
Forging common values and visions for the future
Mutual conservers of the land
I am an Outlander’s daughter who looks out over
These hills and hollows now choked with highway billboard signs, half-empty theatres,
go-cart tracks, and flashing neon lights,
I find myself mourning deeply the invasion of
Greed-driven, treasure-seeking speculators, whose
Coaxing with cunning words triggered an invasion of outsiders
Seemingly unconcerned about preserving the natural or cultural landscape
I watch family farms transform into cheaply-built, cookie-cutter housing hubs- and
I grieve the loss of the quiet, family-owned fishing resorts.
Time-share vacation condos, signature golf courses, and shopping malls have
Swallowed up centuries -old oak trees
Today’s visitors, looking for faster-paced amusements and thrills,
Arrive in the “Land of a Million Smiles”
Hell-bent on having manufactured family fun and patriotic fervor.
They rush from venue to venue and shop to shop, then
Leave without ever questioning the cost.
Progress rides across the landscape as did the
Bushwhackers and Baldknobbers of old
Assaulting the environment,
Usurping the ambiance,
Eroding the ecosystem
Deaf- deaf to the living symphony of nature floating softly in the evening sunset.
I am an Outlander who has lived upon these high hills
For more than a half century
Admittedly sharing in the alteration of the environment, regretfully-
But mindful of the historical richness of the land, the need to preserve its character
As does the doe who brings her speckled twins to the clearing in June and the
Turkey hen her brood of bobbing-headed babies marching in single file across my yard.
I watch my grandchildren
Run and laugh and chase fireflies on this ancient slope.
They swim and fish the same waters that shaped the adjacent hillsides eons ago.
Yes, I am an Outlander who lives on a high hill
Overlooking a man-made lake
That may, in time, again become a rapidly rushing river
Along whose banks other Outlanders may come to
Hunt, fish, and seek shelter
For their families.
Hopefully, their children will run freely
While red-tailed foxes sneak softly
Through the forests and the
Wise Night Owl chats with the
Whispering Whippoorwill.
©2010 Michelle Waters
Copyright © Michelle Waters | Year Posted 2017
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Michelle Waters Poem
Once, I’d stood beside a man
Who, with heart and soul o’erwrought,
Silently searched for answers, but answers found him not.
His sister recently had passed from Earthly life to next,
And left her brother standing, filled with emptiness.
We stood within a classroom, throbbing with life and youthful confidence,
Listening to strangers speak of futures in terms of choice and providence.
When above the din of music and deafening teenaged discourse,
I thought I heard his spirit cry
“What choices do we truly have-when comes the time to die?”
How? and why? His queries all began
Echoing voices of a preceding time, to which my mind sped swiftly in reverse
To that moment when I’d stood besides another man,
Who, with sighing, held his sister in his thoughts, and in
Speechlessness did he with her converse,
Wondering, each, about his dying.
We’d stood within a bustling airport crowd,
Listening with half-ears to strangers chatting,
With boisterous busy-ness about their day’s importance.
While I, in their unawareness, sought a way to say goodbye
To a man whose life linked mine; by merit of our birth and love.
Fore’er, our hearts entwined.
I looked then to my brother’s face and thought
How does one rout this wretched misery?
Where does one turn to quell the pain?
What choices do I really have to make my loved one well and whole again?
From all cancerous affiliations, a remedy we then sought.
So now a brother and a sister stood, reflecting upon what went before.
From science and from God, we asked from both a comfort and a cure.
My friend, the questions asked by you
Were those the same by me,
And though we asked the questions,
The answers to the whys and hows
Unheeded they did go
Though in their stead One Truth was given-
It is not in the dying that choices can be made,
But in the way we do our living.
Copyright © Michelle Waters | Year Posted 2023
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Michelle Waters Poem
Frost flowers
Crisp and cold began her early day.
Weak sunrise lit the Ozark morn,
And so obscured the landscape that others, passers by, scarce took notice.
But, when forced to await
The opening of the gate,
the photographer's gaze captured the last of Autumn's colors
Caught along the fence line,
Creating a row of
Delicate, frosty flowers.
Crystalized vapor clung
to wisps of woody stems.
Tucks and folds of frozen dew
Created spirals and orbs.
Ribbons of mythical, mystical ice.
A sabbath gift rare and wondrous.
Copyright © Michelle Waters | Year Posted 2017
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Michelle Waters Poem
Writing is a river,
The headwaters
Springing from the well,
Bubbling up and out
Free-flowing
Falling and frothing white in the flux of development.
Writing is a river,
Tempered by the banks of time and distance, yet
Moving steadily, flowing in a forward restless direction
Bending and bowing
Coursing around or through obstacles
Detouring here,
Hovering briefly there,
Shifting,
Sliding,
Changing the landscape.
Writing is a river
Streaming into the flow
Of a wider, deeper channel
Sauntering and strolling,
Reposing in the estuary, pausing at the
Reflection pool before proceeding into the
Bigger, broader body and the
Completion of its natural course.
Copyright © Michelle Waters | Year Posted 2017
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Michelle Waters Poem
This old gal is desperate for a new coat
Rust covers her cracked and peeling frame, but
No one seems to notice for
In Winter, an icy lace shawls warmly wraps around her.
In Spring, misty dew drapes her shoulders.
In Summer, variegated greens and blues surround her like a fine silk scarf.
In Autumn, her mottled tones are enveloped within Joseph's arms.
She stands a stately Queen robed in royal array,
Reigning over her domain with
Seasonless grace and grandeur.
Copyright © Michelle Waters | Year Posted 2022
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Michelle Waters Poem
This-
This tableau of
Mental images, of
Fixed scenes, this
“Battle of Egos” is
Relentlessly looping
In my mind.
An annual gathering of kith and kin
Created a backdrop of statue-like characters
Blindly unaware of a
Crisis stirring.
Off to the side, there are the mothers,
Pillars of love for their sons,
Paralyzed with the knowledge that they are helpless,
Helpless as they watch
The conflict unfolding.
There-
There are the Fathers and Sons-
Distant and deaf to each other, who, in their inability to Set aside their own sense of rightness and wrongness,
Reach a point of no return.
A plea, from one, is given, but seen as a
Challenge from the other, and the whole
Facade of civility collapses.
With faces frozen and actions rigid,
Rage and resolve coalesce.
Fearful and dauntless, fathers confront sons and sons their fathers, and in that absolute moment
Familial roles shift.
Everything - everything is different, yet
Nothing changes.
Rooted and unmoved, egos remain.
So much is lost.
Nothing-
Nothing is gained.
Copyright © Michelle Waters | Year Posted 2018
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Michelle Waters Poem
A Ziplock bag of cut-up hot dogs, treats for my daughter's Huskies
Two gallon jugs of 1% milk, both nearly empty
Three bottles of dressing, ranch from 2007
Leftover spinach salad that looks a bit ashen
Syrup: chocolate, blueberry, and pancake
Raisins and nuts for our Christmas fruitcake
Yesterday's dessert- Apple Brown Betty
Cold, cooked spaghetti
Five types of cheese: cottage, American, cheddar, Swiss and cream
Boiled eggs and beer brats- a Friday night dream!
Copyright © Michelle Waters | Year Posted 2022
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Michelle Waters Poem
The mural on the wall,
Traces of human experience,
Embraces the heart and foundation of this speck in the universe and
Elicits questions asked of men from all ages.
Copyright © Michelle Waters | Year Posted 2017
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Michelle Waters Poem
Like the early morning mists
That rise from the waters’ depths
Memories emerge in swirls and twists
Foggy shadows of lives past
Of them all, childhood scenes outlast
‘Membrances of dear, familiar faces and
Fragmented moments of particular places
Emotions retrieved from those distant spaces.
Of my family, I do recall
My mom and dad most of all
For by the time I came along,
My only sibling had grown and gone.
My brother knew our parents when they were in their prime, and then I came, much later in the span of time.
My arrival changed the course of their
Tamed and settled ways,
Eroded away the edges of predictability,
Stirred up the easy flow of their days,
and I’m told,
Challenged everyone’s sensibility.
The truth is likely not so dramatic
Although, we all could be a bit theatric.
My father and uncles sat for hours at our house
Argued and joked, cussed and smoked
Lamented the damnable things politicians do.
Then over cribbage and coffee, they’d list
All the best ways of snagging a fish.
From captured bits of conversation
I suspect, as were others of his generation,
Dad was a “roustabout” in his youthful days
In my recollection, though, he was our defender and a regular “Jack of all Trades.”
With the men around, my
Momma stayed in the background-
Busy always with domestic chores
Cooking, cleaning, laundry and more
Injecting a flair for the lovely into her everyday life,
Seemingly content in her role as housewife.
Doing for others brought her great joy
The fruits of her labor did others enjoy
Surrounded by close friends, My momma did shine
Social activities filled her free time:
Fancy luncheons, music shows, quilting bees, Bible studies and bowling leagues.
Memories can be such hazy things.
Images of loved ones blur with time;
yet, with clarity, through the vapor, I still see
My parents’ hands, worn frail and thin,
Their journey’s trials traced upon their skin
In their touch, though strong from life’s hard labors,
They softly held my babies safely in their arms, and
I knew that love was foremost in their nature.
Like the early morning mists
That rise from the waters’ depths
Memories emerge in swirls and twists
Enveloping me in love and devotion.
Copyright © Michelle Waters | Year Posted 2021
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