Tag Archives: Water

Adaptability

 

Humans are flexible.

We meet the shape of our confines.

We grow to fit

We stretch

We shrink

We can adapt to any situation.

We live in prison.

We live in snow.

We even breathe underwater now.

 

I often dream I can breathe underwater.

That I figured out how.

Just breathe slowly

That’s all there is to it

Just breathing

Slowly

Is key.

 

Maybe

If we just breathe slowly

We can survive anywhere.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


 

 

 

Outdoor exercise

 

We decided to go swimming.

Last day of summer! Let’s take advantage of this heat, we said.

So we went to the lake.

 

Nobody was in the water.

It was a cesspool.

Fluffy brown-streaked foam collected at the shore

Four feet wide.

As if the lake was a giant boiling cauldron of broth

But someone had neglected to skim the gathering proteins off the surface.

Or maybe the sand decided to have a shampoo

But passed out from the heat

Before it finished rinsing.

The lap lane ropes

Normally cordoning off the deepest area

Had desperately pulled themselves from their tethers

And morphed from a 50 yard rectangle

Into a pathetic oblong.

Even out deep,

The water was soggily crusted with dead insects, pollen,

And gray mysteries.

 

We looked at it

While summer’s warmth punched us repeatedly in the back of the head.

We decided to run instead.

 

We walked

We ran

We sweated.

The sun soldered our clothes to our skin.

The humidity held its slimy palms

Over our noses and mouths

As we miserably carried it

On an endless, sweaty piggyback ride.

 

Our reward, we decided,

Was an ice cream treat.

It melted so fast

We had to drink the last of it.

 

Sayonara, summer

You had your last hurrah

And my god

We’re ready for fall now.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


 

 

 

Zen Waterfall

 

 

Electronic waterfall.

Zen you can buy.

Tiny.

Tinkling of elf bells.

Chinese water torture.

Tickling trickling.

Unwavering, relentless.

Uncomfortable.

Wetly cold.

Miniaturized peace.

Better than nothing.

 

Inconstant creek

Sun warmed

Life leaves ripples in the sound.

The water cavitates

Deeper bubbles.

Little granite cave

Darker tone.

Weighty cascade

Runs over boulders

As it pleases or not at all.

Alive.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


 

 

 

 

Night River

I’m learning so much from the WordPress community.  I just found out there’s a beautiful form which blends prose and haiku, called haibun. Naturally I had to give it a try. Here goes.

 

 

Night River

 

There is stillness on top of the water, though it swirls and currents underneath. The river is quiet and deep in the cooling summer night, the world in black and white.

My sister says that underneath the darkness swim a multitude of carp battling for survival, pushing out the native fish with their incessant hunger, rapid reproduction, excessive growth. But can a stillness so deep really house this dramatic abundance? How can so much life be unseen, unheard? They do not sing their vitality like land creatures.

 

Warm river surface

Reflects a perfect full moon

A ripple twitches

 

Two men have lines running into the heart of the black water. One of them has pulled a gar onto shore and extracted the hook. He doesn’t want it. He rolls it toward the water, loathe to touch it any more than necessary. It comes to rest on its back, long pale belly toward the sky, little flat fins like a baby shark. It wriggles slowly, blind and mute, struggling its way down across the gray wet clay toward the water. It stops short, its body too heavy to move, eyes unable to blink against the dry bright moonlight, simple mind utterly overwhelmed. The man pokes it again with his foot, its instinctive defenses are nothing here in the light air, it can only writhe in an empty hopeless way. We all want it to go back but we can’t bring ourselves to touch its mucousy skin. There is a smell to the river (does the water smell like fish or do the fish smell like water?). It is ameobal, the smell of primordial soup, algae, microscopic life, placenta.

 

Alienated

The water won’t keep us now

She has new children

Frogs and Wrinkles

I spent some time at the Ozarks this weekend. Two poems happened. 



The warm evening air
Gently carries the song
Of a hundred happy frogs
Over the water.

The people are out too,
Talking to each other on their porches.
Their voices different
But they sing the same tune.

 

And this little haiku:

 

Time presses wrinkles

Earned remnants of smiles or frowns

Thumbprint of a soul