The river, again
I live by the river without a word
but my poor worn gun
time is a woman I burn to serve
Poems on the topic: river
Poems on the topic “river” on Poets.by.
Container terminal
morning ice
where they shit in the river
a dog is dead
The River
Blessed pain, I lived in Axe Yard
disturbed by the river, an army without desires,
handsome but poor;
worn chapel of time, made this day.
Walking Blues
woke up this morning with my shoes
gaping at me like open graves
the tapping of rain on the roof
made a rhythm I could almost feel
this isn’t walking weather
and my feet need to move
restless for no good reason
that bivalve in my chest keeps opening
a mussel gluing down its good foot
so it can rock in the current
I want to go where the river goes
to the sky or its best mirrors
which have the blues too in at least
three different ways
all of which call to me
in the melisma of a mirage
Ephemeroptera
Driving home along the river, I have to turn on the windshield wipers every mile or two because of all the mayflies, the off-white inkblots of their anonymous deaths. Imagine living one’s life in a state of arrested development, and only on your last day undergoing not one, but two radical transformations, one after the other: growing wings, breathing air, and mating just once, having gained reproductive parts in exchange for the loss of a mouth.
spring again
scheduling my first
Covid shot
The Hollow (48)
half underground
as it joins the river
Plummer’s Hollow Run
Little Juniata
the name alone
is a river
no road sign
it’s not easy to find
the middle of nowhere
coda
self-check
a black-legged tick
burrowed in
The Hollow (47)
railroad crossing
all the train horns
I hear in my sleep
in the unloved woods
between train tracks and river
needles and condoms
a shirt abandoned
by the fire ring
homeless campsite
floodplain
mosquitoes turning blood
into whine
London from Above
Ten thousand red-brown
mouths of chimney pots
gape at us as we descend,
jet engines howling, into the haze—
a mutual amazement.
Here is the yellow air
of our to-and-froing.
Here are the housing estates
and the scrapyards,
groomed swards of a park
and chaotic allotments,
the circling traffic.
There’s the river and
its slick sheen of a carcass.
Plane trees all in a line
make faint, green gestures
Conversationalists
not friends and family
it is the river and the sea
who give me the best conversation
and as good an account of the particular sand
that I could desire
so sure and well worn
* * *
I walk away, along the riverbank
thinking that I'll be okay,
never to return, footsteps
that lead away from the city lights
and no one can tell me to stay
because no one's in my head,
and no one sees myself like I do.
No one knows my fate,
and no one sees the journey I face.
If they did, they'd turn away,
losing hope for me,
but who is there to say
there's no more hope for me?
Next day, I look around to see
just how far I came,
never to return, footsteps
Night
It was a beautiful summer night
That lead me down to the rivers edge
To test the temperature of the water
It told me stories with it's flowing noise
That seemed to comfort my beating heart
Tranquil was the surface that spoke to my soul
Reflecting the stars in it's smooth surface
I thought for a moment I could rest in peace
In the gaze of the sky watching over me
A moment so brief that it could have just been a shadow
I thought for a moment that I could have just blinked
The amazing beauty held before my very eyes
Even with it dark it was still such a sight
The color as dark as an ink is black
All void of nothingness but beautiful even still
Saudade
sitting alone in my bed, the fan blowing against my skin,
i remember
the rush of your breath
the pitter-patter of your heart
the soft silk of our shared blanket
but now its thread traces the ground, muddy and frayed,
as i brush through the wind
into the freezing river.
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