Poems on the topic: creek

Poems on the topic “creek” on Poets.by.

CheerfulDave Bonta

Chasing shadows

The retriever pup chases butterfly shadows even in his sleep. Butterfly’s shadow: the dog’s nose goes wild at the lack of odor. Muzzle to ground, his legs get ahead of him: herding shadows. Butterfly shadow on the lawn shrinks, vanishes. The dog digs for it. Head under water the golden retriever keeps his eyes open. On the creek bottom
AnxiousDave Bonta

Sinking Valley

the longer you gaze at the face of a limestone cliff the more beasts begin to emerge a puzzle of muzzles a marl of snarls don’t call them angelic they’re not here for you convening as if to meditate on a corpse where the creek makes a brief above-ground appearance oh white-breasted nuthatch with your anxiety song who’s to say what’s real in a valley full of sinkholes
DreamyDave Bonta

Cibola 65

Marcos (3) Panting from the climb, eyes on the trail, the friar almost runs into his guide, who stands with an arm outstretched behind to stop him short. Then without turning his head, hooks a fold of Marcos’s habit & tugs him forward like a trout, breathes in his ear: Mirad. Look. Within arrow’s range down the slope, beyond the pines with
ContemplativeDave Bonta

In the Sticks

everything forks and branches you can’t get there from here unless you go sideways first like a knight in chess or a long-tailed weasel hunting in the stiltgrass you must run out of luck or lumber get saved by a discount preacher behind the barbecue shack lose an argument with the moss wonder what horrors lie hidden beneath your feet wrapped in duct tape sealed in mason jars
ContemplativeDave Bonta

Spring snow: sixteen snapshots

Spring snow: the night before, I woke to the sound of swans Spring snow: the spicebush outside my window captures more & more of the sky Spring snow: one mourning dove adds an extra half-note Spring snow: the soft ground sinks under my boots Spring snow: last year’s stalks of Oswego tea don fresh caps Spring snow:
ContemplativeDave Bonta

Trickle of a creek

swamp forest hugging the bucket of blueberries blackberry patch the secret beds made by deer
ContemplativeDave Bonta

pre-dawn creek

raccoon lifting a rock lowers the pitch
ContemplativeDave Bonta

The Hollow (23)

spicebush fills the opening the big birch left that allspice scent “heteromorphic self-incompatibility” partridgeberry’s red pills END OF PUBLIC ACCESS sun shining right through the plastic sign where the road crosses the creek a crayfish walking upstream
ContemplativeDave Bonta

Migrants

The field sparrow is back— that rising trill spilling from a small, pink beak. A yellow-bellied sapsucker taps a ring of wells all around the bole of a hickory. You nap on the porch, ears open to the creek and other migrant tongues.
ContemplativeRisa Bear

Sixty-Four

Searching for a lost crew-woman, we forded three creeks in deepening fog. It was ourselves we lost then.
ContemplativeCarl Sandburg

Near Keokuk

Thirty-two Greeks are dipping their feet in a creek. Sloshing their bare feet in a cool flow of clear water. All one midsummer day ten hours the Greeks stand in leather shoes shoveling gravel. Now they hold their toes and ankles to the drift of running water. Then they go to the bunk cars and eat mulligan and prune sauce. Smoke one or two pipefuls, look at the stars, tell smutty stories About men and women they have known, countries they have seen, Railroads they have built — and then the deep sleep of children.

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