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Literature Text
Grandfather:
Boy, come read wild rivers with me,
learn more than those books can teach.
Boy was young.
i.
Grandfather had skin
of the baobab tree
and knew of muddy oyster banks
where fleshy pearl houses hid
how best to clutch and gouge them
knew patterns of mullet mouths
when they kissed the surface
of deep pools
how they differed from the shimmering chaos
that were whiting schools
down by the rivers flaky delta.
ii.
Before sun or at dusk
among wisps of woven water
they would venture
dodging mosquito swarms by feel of air
against humid skin
and in darkness boy learnt
how the rivers midnight can show
translucent lights
and how fisherman's net can harvest
with a single expert throw
or what ochre rings around the moon revealed
of the coming morning tide.
iii.
Boats chugging engine
letters missing from its faded plastic case
petrol fumes waft across sullen air
when they stalled and drifted with soft momentum
amongst the mangrove jacks
Grandfather would say quietly
sit
and he would and they would both watch
the silent lump of a crocodile scalp break the surface
of muddy soup,
scouting its way with menace up-current
in search of a farmers chicken coop.
He saw wild rivers drop to stagnant
fly-blown pools
and saw them angry and swollen
blue hazed rushes of impatience
washing out dead river gums with ease
the manic deluge
of late December storms.
iv.
Further still they ventured
and rivers mixed the waters in them both
and bound them close
until boy and Grandfather talked less
knew each other more.
Later when he learnt to read
and to write
boy wrote poems
in the language of wild rivers,
about the wisdom of his Grandfather
and of the flowing, swirling waters around them both.
Boy, come read wild rivers with me,
learn more than those books can teach.
Boy was young.
i.
Grandfather had skin
of the baobab tree
and knew of muddy oyster banks
where fleshy pearl houses hid
how best to clutch and gouge them
knew patterns of mullet mouths
when they kissed the surface
of deep pools
how they differed from the shimmering chaos
that were whiting schools
down by the rivers flaky delta.
ii.
Before sun or at dusk
among wisps of woven water
they would venture
dodging mosquito swarms by feel of air
against humid skin
and in darkness boy learnt
how the rivers midnight can show
translucent lights
and how fisherman's net can harvest
with a single expert throw
or what ochre rings around the moon revealed
of the coming morning tide.
iii.
Boats chugging engine
letters missing from its faded plastic case
petrol fumes waft across sullen air
when they stalled and drifted with soft momentum
amongst the mangrove jacks
Grandfather would say quietly
sit
and he would and they would both watch
the silent lump of a crocodile scalp break the surface
of muddy soup,
scouting its way with menace up-current
in search of a farmers chicken coop.
He saw wild rivers drop to stagnant
fly-blown pools
and saw them angry and swollen
blue hazed rushes of impatience
washing out dead river gums with ease
the manic deluge
of late December storms.
iv.
Further still they ventured
and rivers mixed the waters in them both
and bound them close
until boy and Grandfather talked less
knew each other more.
Later when he learnt to read
and to write
boy wrote poems
in the language of wild rivers,
about the wisdom of his Grandfather
and of the flowing, swirling waters around them both.
Literature
Entwined
In dew-bright dawn the green sap runs
From ageless roots the cycles draw
The summer bloom from winter’s thaw
Our youth has seen uncounted suns
The moonlight wanes; the known stars fall
Yet still we live and love anew
We rise in joy like summer dew
Return Beyond at autumn’s call
And so we dance the early light
Eternal hearts in time entwined
The turning cycle spinning, blind
Embracing us in secret night
Literature
lightkeeping
As you pick up the lantern in front of you, you find it filled with a busy, buzzing flurry of lights. Somebody stuffed fireflies into this one - not the proper thing at all. You unfasten the latch, open the door; the little bugs stream out gratefully. They bathe the wayside in a faint glow for a moment, then vanish in the pitch-black of the Long Night one by one.
You settle down cross-legged and gently put the empty lantern onto your lap to dream up a star.
Literature
grow
To the dandelion,
In this part of the world,
the heart of July is frigid.
Frost renders the clay-earth firm as concrete
while gusts from the snowies
raze any hope of warmth.
Things do not thrive here,
yet this is where fate cast your seed
and you, unwillingly, grew your roots,
and became mangled
by what should have nurtured.
But spoiler alert:
survival is no pretty thing.
You are no spring tulip,
no summer orchid,
no autumn rose.
Though it shames you now,
the day will come
where you are proud
of having grown
out of a crack in pavement.
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But when I am alone
in the half-light of the canyon...
all existence seems to fade to a being
with my soul and memories...
and the sounds of the Big Blackfoot River
and a four-count rhythm...
and the hope that a fish will rise.
Eventually,
all things merge into one...
and a river runs through it.
in the half-light of the canyon...
all existence seems to fade to a being
with my soul and memories...
and the sounds of the Big Blackfoot River
and a four-count rhythm...
and the hope that a fish will rise.
Eventually,
all things merge into one...
and a river runs through it.
© 2012 - 2024 brassteeth
Comments32
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this is the first i've read of your poetry,
and is easily among the best i've read,
possibly 'the' best, [of anyone's].
too many well imaged poems from too
many here are just 'that', well created -
but don't seem to say anything.
this poem speaks... with a gentle impact.
bravo! [now i have to watch you]
pip
and is easily among the best i've read,
possibly 'the' best, [of anyone's].
too many well imaged poems from too
many here are just 'that', well created -
but don't seem to say anything.
this poem speaks... with a gentle impact.
bravo! [now i have to watch you]
pip