the meeting of the wet trickle of the rainbow line
of our stream and the north fork of
Massie’s Creek, the beat of the water rushing
against itself. Nothing escapes the Scylla
of self entrapment, backwatered estuary.
While not the sea, Massie’s Creek is
bigger, faster, fuller, less slicked
with neon-hued oils from the roots of
clicking gangly reeds. The stream,
though, is less touched by Man. Clear, cold.
From the fields past the Creek, the pipes
poke up, spew currents of planting and reaping.
The Creek is deer-scat
colored sludge, the stream
is the mist of a waking dream.
In the dips where they dare
to meet, watch how they
change… without changing at all.
Welcome to Nowhere,
original omen,
the crash before
the desperate fall.
-for Real Toads' Tuesday Platform
7 comments:
I love how you let the creek meeting the sea becomes a conceit for something much deeper, even the scat of the deer becomes something deeper in that estuary that is like life itself.
Wow. That first stanza is so arresting, and then, well so is the rest of this poem. Everybody knows this is Nowhere. Thanks for calling it out.
Trapped in nowhere is a horrid fate. You tell well, the tale.
Nicely done!
Very thought-provoking!
Welcome to Nowhere,
original omen,
the crash before
the desperate fall.
The closing lines are so powerful! Well penned :D
I really like a plain-spoken poem filled with the kind of imagery that puts you right there. Well done!
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