January 15, 2013

rivers seed the trees, too...

from the Powerhouse Museum Collection

between basket chum, bait and bitten

I dream of Jesus
at the end
of an ugly stick
on a carousel 
in America

on my knees
like a fly 
chancing skin
I lance the outside 
of another bend along
one of many rivers

here, there are
cities desperate
for a taste
of eternity
with their paper mills, 
candy stores, narrow streets 
and the cramped feel
of apartment life humidity
every neighborhood is
a brick and mortar fiefdom
laid out, waded through
the soft silt and trees 
with necessary signs, placed
between the pieces of silver
and what we eat 
of each other
just to get by

every version of humanity
vies, tries to live outside vines
I dream in boxed puzzle soul
I want to know each part
that goes into
molecular divinity
I see everything as
a cut-tongue clock
dividing one bank 
from the other
any middle ground 
is a wet timelessness 
and not meant
to be found

Love though
is the only ratio
high or low
counted on
for guiding maintenance
gravity lurks, shaping
every countenance
I have carried
tide pool to tide pool
from nursery to school
paycheck to guild trained monotony
I carried things that defined me
inside the flicker lights
of my painted picture show marquees
all lit up with my wanting to please

and yes, I still dare
to dream here
in America, walking
along its rivers
just to see how time works
with or without me
whether or not
wearing a watch
beyond scent
and sight
affixes permanence
to the poem
carving rock
into sand
and loam
slow pours faces
in a delta fingered grasp
of quiet pocketed empty

the smooth and
beautiful, fertile dark
beneath the surface
waits to record
what it is we gain
when we let go of things
portage to portal
everything for Love
leaning immortal
everything else knows
we bottom feed
eventually, to go
from looking 
at our wants 
to hooking
what we need



  1. Love though
    is the only ratio
    high or low
    counted on
    for guiding maintenance...nice truth in that...and that gravity is there ready to get you as well...your opening stanza has a nice hook to it that really pulled me in....

    1. a poem literally fished from a search of river imagery prompts, from the 19th century...sometimes lucky, can be good...thank you

  2. Jesus at the end of an ugly stick...my hubby would concur...got him one and I haven't seen him since ;) Wonderful piece you bring us this evening...beautiful, hopeful, lingering. Us bottom-feeders always get what we need...it's the "wants" that keep us weighted. Loved it!

    1. ahh, fishing's sweet laconic rhythms, entering another world indeed, ancient mariner to simple tip line, we bleed for different things when gone back to the womb, pliable decisions hooked, onto life's visions, we cast past water, our thoughts, bobbing, to let us know about the ones we've caught and the ones that got away...much, much gratitude for stopping by...

  3. Oo Edward, enthralling! I have to agree with Tash, the needs look after themselves its really the wants that get stuck in our throats!

    1. arching into a bow...of brightest blessings...thank you