October evening on the river

They’ve taken down
the shining light,
and over-day the river,
has returned to its
blackened, hidden self.

In that place of dreams,
night beds down,
forgetting tides and flow,
calling to the darkness,
arched as innocent surrender,
true to sightless possibility.

Nothing seen, just imagined,
sounds of suckling mud,
as it flows, out of sight,
drifting in that way
of pure, and endless being.

I step into the dream and
have no questions, for all
may yet be made ready,
for the chill kiss of dawn,
revealing what has been
born in ebony caverns.

Ephemeral the figures move,
drawn from Akashic realms,
dipping trailing fingers
into the wash of waves;
allowing the drown of
becoming, to release,
bequeath, unknown treasures.

‘What have you found?’

The voice rides liquid crests,
somnolent, searching, sighing,
at the breast of Soul;
deliquescent dressing drench
of formless, rich potential.

‘I found myself.’

Evening moon glittering
on strewn harvest of
luscious river weeds…….

 

 

http://redwolfpoems.wordpress.com/2014/06/26/prompt-215-talk-back-to-a-poem/#comments

OCTOBER MORNING ON THE RIVER

They’ve taken down
the summer dams.
Over-night the river
has returned to its
drained and naked self.

In a dreamscape of loss,
the river’s bed has been
abandoned by water hurrying
away to the ocean,
leaving the dregs of a
false lover’s lust.

It is a bed of muddy stones.

Far out on the bereft channel
a silhouetted man bends,
picking up things,
examining them.

I step out across the slippery rocks,
and ask, “What are you finding?”

“Pretty stones,” he says, “Indian beads…
This river’s been running for thousands of years.”

“You’re finding Indian beads?”

“Ah, sure, “ he says,
digging in his frayed pant’s pocket,
extracting a bent nail, a penny,
a paper clip, a common stone…
“Guess they’re in my knapsack”, he shrugs,
gesturing at the pack on his back.

“Okay,” I say, sensing it time to wander away.

As I step back across the rocky sludge,
he calls, “I found a diamond once…”

“All right!” I respond,
and look at the muck
of the river bed,

morning sun glistening off
the dying river weeds…

 

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About rosross

Editor, writer, poet.
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