Backlog

I have been a bit behind in posting.  I hope you have had a good week!

Here are the newest water poems:

1.17.12

Each day, my twitter feed

lists dramatic weather, pleas for

snow, concern about our

lack of winter.

Each day, I look out the window

to analyse cloud formations.

Each day, the sky yields

disappointing results.  Water

is moving in a different direction.

Drip. drip. drip

of rain or sleet

crossing this boundary,

lakes open to the clouds above.

1.18.12

a wash    a shore    a drift

and this settling

rough seas ahead       see the waves

off in the distance?      Thisness

called tidal pool

tribal remembrance of what

echo on land             pulse of the planet

plants speaking     deep under

reef and ledge–

1.19.12

here,     and here,     she

.               said pointing

to the spots where we would

apply drops of luminous water–

a clear glass filled,

map charted — first, California

and Colorado, Arizona and Nevada,

the snaking pipelines emptying–

Your last drop of water

might appear as a snowflake

or morning dew on a leaf in the garden,

we just don’t know what

this will look like, he said —

what waters’ rise will

teach, we here learning how

to build bridges, roads,

and houses —

an exhale and the hum

of the unforeseen —

1.20.12

Ocean just warm enough

.                  clouds catch   dump  drown

the small towns underneath

rainfall exceeding records not by decimals

.                   but by double digits

sand on fields that used

to feed hundreds

acres bare,

waiting–

Our human estimates conservative

.         this agenda radical

have more fun being

.         aggressively naive–

we just don’t know, he shook

his head, voice softening–

1.21.12

how the snow–

how nothing happened —  just

a spin, slight fan, ice melting

down the back —

how the dishes in the sink —

how hot-headed, I —   just

loud enough to be

heard in the bedroom —

how the ordinary afternoon —

how ice and shovel —    just

then they emerged,

offered hellos and quips about

the plowman’s precision,

garden unscathed —

1.22.12

I was just thinking how I always needed

an ocean grandmother to hear my stories —

I looked in my cupboard and found it

wanting — no sea salt, no foam, no striped

stones for wishing —

I was just thinking that I needed

this roar,      this deep silence,

but I couldn’t ask her for it, could I?

I have been thinking that all I needed

were a few sand dollars, a stone in the shape

of a heart, and the surf lapping

at my winter boots —

it was this, tonight, this sunset,

the eider ducks bobbing with the waves,

that reminded me that all I needed

was —

Advertisements

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s