| Fall/Winter Gallery: Water |
For the 2019 Fall/2020 Winter Muses' Gallery, we asked poets (and artists/photographers) to explore the theme of water.
Water is essential to life - a large portion of our planet is covered by water and our very existence depends on it.
To learn more about our participating poets and photographers including a fun/interesting water fact, visit the Participating Poets tab.
Dive in and enjoy!
Sincerely,
Jennifer Dotson
Founder & Coordinator
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| Sarah Leavesley, Photographer |
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Water Speaks
By
Linda Wallin
Palatine, Illinois
| I am water.
My many voices sing to you throughout your life,
from the water in the womb, which carries your mother’s heartbeat,
to the blood flowing throughout your body,
I sing a rhythmic song.
Small brooks, bubbling out of the earth, trill a happy tune.
Small rivers whoosh along carrying bits of shore
to large rivers, hushed by their depth.
The ocean roars and pounds like tympani.
Droplets rise silently to build clouds,
then form rain, gentle as a whisper
or hard as bongo drums.
When frozen I can SHHHHH sleet or thump as hail.
Returning to earth to nourish plants, I am more precious than gold.
I give life to the planet.
You are water.
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Droplets
By
Merle Tovian
Highland Park, Illinois
| Droplets of water
breaking light into
prismatic rainbows
Droplets of water
sinking into earth
germinating seeds
Droplets of water
enter the oceans
ebb and flow with tides
Droplets of water
running down my face
in joy and sorrow
Vicious hurricanes
slowly return to
droplets of water
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| Peggy Malecki, Photographer |
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Summer on Lake Michigan
By
Charlotte Digregorio
Winnetka, Illinois
Previously Published in East On Central, 2015-2016 Edition
| No salt air,
no booming waves,
the folding ocean waves
of my surfer youth.
No jagged monoliths
or coastal mountains of
black bear and elk,
my childhood mysteries.
Just the lake’s equilibrium
in morning light and soft air,
small white footprints to trace.
Not even a stone’s throw
disturbs the lull.
Ripples float away with
thoughts of my thoughts
reaching sky’s end.
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HP Water
By
Richard V. Kaufman
Highland Park, Illinois
| Highland Park water
is my favorite drink.
I get it from
the kitchen sink.
It's fantastic.
You don't need plastic.
If you must ramble
far from home,
listen to
this water poem.
Don't add to the world's
pollution.
Heed this practical
solution:
Carry your water
in a flask,
a water bottle,
or a cask.
Slurp it fast,
or sip it slow;
drink Highland Park water
wherever you go.
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| Haiga by Natalia L. Rudychev |
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Seascape I
By
Joan McNerney
Ravenna, New York
| Hearing waves from a distance and
feeling sea breezes brush our faces,
it seemed a century before we
came to the ocean.
So blue and bright to our eyes
its rhythm broke chains of
unremarkable days.
Over cool sand we ran and you picked
three perfect shells which fit
inside each other. Swimming away in
that moving expanse below kiss
of fine spray and splashes.
With clouds cumulus we drifted while
gulls circled the island. Together we
discovered beds of morning glories
climbing soft dunes.
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The Ocean Never Sleeps
By
Terry Loncaric
Hampshire, Illinois
Published in East on Central, Highland Park, Illinois, 2017-2018
| The ocean foams and rises,
reveals inky waters,
murky depths,
sparkling turquoise,
blinding flashes of silver.
The ocean casts shadows
of dreamy clouds, streaks of sky,
images quivering in the water.
The ocean traces
the glimmer of the moon,
the rage of the wind,
the mischief of the sun.
The ocean broods
in the secrets of
shipwrecked souls.
The ocean
never sleeps.
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| Terry Loncaric, Photographer |
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One Drop
By
Barbara R. Saunders
Berkeley, California
Previously featured in the Tea Roots visual arts and spoken word exhibition, Water and the Sounding Sirens, in San Francisco, 2016; published on line at tearoots.org
| Icarus coveted the golden sun
But he was warned, too, to keep his distance from the sea
As the wax melted and the feathers drifted down
Icarus dove to break water's surface with wing tip
Twirled gleefully into a gyre
He didn't drown
The sea did what the sea will do
Cracked him apart
Pulverized marrow and burst every capillary
Dyed itself red like a sunset
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it's rained so hard
By
Lennart Lundh
Orland Hills, Illinois
| the swale is flowing as if it were a river, causing La Llorana no little confusion. Her wail pulled me from sleep, drew me to the yard to see what was amiss. I found her in her lace: mantilla, bodice, and skirts all as virginal white as the day she grievously sinned threefold. My children drowned here, she replied. May I have yours to replace them? I assured her mine were spoken for, being mothers in their forties and living on different flood plains with men who would miss them. And their children? I'm sure they'd serve. In college, I pointed out, to which she stood, shrugged, and started away. Oh, well, I heard, it's not much of a river, anyway.
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| Joe Glaser, Photographer |
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Raindrops
By
Lynn White
Blaenau Ffestiniog, Wales
First published in The Light Ekprastic, November 2018
| Just raindrops
falling,
falling,
falling into wetness
running down
the glass.
Just raindrops falling,
like silvery teardrops
from glassy eyes,
teardrops
which will run their course
and splatter
splatter like rain,
then disappear.
Disappear
into wetness,
and become invisible
as if by magic.
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After Franz Marc’s “The Bewitched Mill” 1913
By
Cynthia Gallaher
Chicago, Illinois
From Drenched (Author's chapbook published by Main Street Rag Publishing Company, 2018)
| trees give leaf again,
black bear, bristled bobcat
reroute to river.
rituals faceted in
springtime ruby, smoky topaz,
sapphire, emerald.
but behind the curtain
of striated waters,
production knows no season.
each heavy turn
of scarlet paddles sends the city
higher in steely multiplicity.
dove, goldfinch
and tanager rise,
accept the decoy of
Boards of Directors’
one percent
donations.
before being washed
in effluent,
heavy with their feathers.
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| Carol L. Gloor, Photographer |
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Upper Mississippi
By
Carol L. Gloor
Savanna, Illinois
| It doesn’t sparkle over rocks
or bear any bright fish.
Put your hand in:
warm, surprisingly unmuddy.
Wide as a small lake here,
streaked with narrow islands,
hugged with backwaters,
its slow southern movement
shows only as ripples.
But at night out in the channel
between the red buoys, the giant barges
still lumber toward Arkansas, the Delta, Louisiana,
headlights sweeping the water,
horns drifting into the dreams
of river towns: Savanna, Fulton,
Rock Island, Hannibal.
And still the nation’s waters from New York to Montana,
bearing dirt, rain, nitrogen and pesticides,
shed into rivers with small names,
like Fox, Spoon, Sangamon,
that run to rivers with state names,
like Illinois, Minnesota, Missouri, Ohio,
that run to the Mississippi
as it begins its long drift
through fragrant southern plains,
unarmored banks, muddier now,
bearing what it will,
to the Gulf, the sea.
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Kitch-Iti-Kipi Spring
Manistique, Michigan
By
Idella Pearl Edwards
Marion, Illinois
| The Kitch-iti-kipi is a magical spring,
Or so the story is told.
The crystal clear waters are forty feet deep
And quite a sight to behold.
Visitors can ride a raft to the middle.
The waters are deep emerald green.
Gliding beneath, as though suspended,
Fat trout can easily be seen.
Ten thousand gallons of water per minute
Gush through the limestone below,
Creating ever-changing shapes and forms
That challenge the imagination so.
Named “Mirror of Heaven” by the early Indians,
The spring is open year-round.
When you visit Michigan’s largest spring,
True magic will always be found.
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| Emilio Bandiero, Photographer |
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Ocean-ectomy
By
Cynthia T. Hahn
Libertyville, Illinois
| The clouds have gone.
There's no stream.
Imagine the slaked riverbed, brown-creased sludge.
Walk in desert, not the one crawling with scorpion or majestic dune;
enter the Sahel stilled with drought, animal bones glaring white.
Imagine an ocean-ectomy,
an expanse of crustaceans, laid flat to the sky
or dragging themselves through painful evolution.
Imagine the blue planet a different color,
sand-scraped, greyed mulch, cloudless.
Weep like God's moist breath upon the dusted earth,
bring back the open-mouthed shower, draw forth brook babble and frog trill,
green the leaves on every standing trunk,
swing the oceans back to tide.
Pour out a swimming song and revive the turtle paddle,
the fin and dart, the scavenger sucking sounds,
the pulsing jelly fish, the deer's tongue at river's edge.
Gather the clouds and scatter them, nomadic caravans above a new earth.
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Storm After Drought
By
Donna Pucciani
Wheaton, Illinois
from A Light Dusting of Breath by Donna Pucciani
(Virtual Artists Collective, Chicago, 2015).
First published in After Hours Journal.
| Last night, when rain stroked
the scarred earth, entering the cracks
with small invasive hands,
and clouds sang the cantos
of momentary loss, shaking the trees,
we lay in our beds breathless,
feeling relief creep through our bodies
feet first, like some mythical spell,
knowing we ought to love the sun,
but tired from the endless parching,
the oppressive blue, the colors
of fake happiness bearing down
with their false cheer. Now
we give thanks for the torrent,
the thunder, the dark.
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| Joe Glaser, Photographer |
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Armada
1/24/13, South Africa
By
Kate Hutchinson
Palatine, Illinois
| Facing rising floods, the farmers
opened their gates and loosed
fifteen thousand crocodiles
into the waters of the Limpopo River
unwilling to watch their leathery hides
being drowned in crowded cages.
Fewer than half were re-captured
the next day, leaving thousands
to roam the fields of Zimbabwe,
dining on frogs, swine, and children.
Where will they all go? Are their
reptilian brains stamped with images
of earlier worlds, ages when their
lizard ancestors ruled by tooth and claw?
Our love of handbags and shoes now
shifts the balance of predator and prey
for the Era of Great Waters yet to come,
one devoid of entire continents –
a world no humans will live to witness,
our bones long sunk under cities and sand.
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Eternal Grace
By
Scarlet May Eziashi
Vale, United Kingdom
| A never ending, free-flowing form of life and death, keeping us alive and killing us.
Pure as can be but deadly if in the wrong hands,
A true sign of nature’s power and generosity
But also a warning of her dangerous strength,
It came before us and will not end after us,
It lives in us though not as we know it,
It prays for us and talks to us
Even though we are deaf to the sound of truth
Hoping that someday it will get through to us
So that we will stop taking it for granted
And abusing it.
Can you hear it yet?
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| Sarah Leavesley, Photographer |
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Ice-Water With Slices of Lemon and Lime
By
Michael Escoubas
Bloomington, Illinois
| The best part of hiring out
for baling alfalfa hay
in mid-July was break-time
which came at three in the afternoon—
that’s when the farmer’s wife
parked the pickup truck beneath
an ancient spreading oak
in the corner of the field.
She’d wave us in, three fourteen-
year-old-not-quite-men, tee-shirts
plastered to our hairless chests wet
from sweat, eyes stinging from alfalfa
dust, tear ducts emptying like rivers
down, around and over eyeglasses,
our young bodies gassed from stacking
heavy hay bales in tiers, as the rack
rattled its way over the rutted bumpy
field. We boys sat on the tailgate
as the beautiful kitchen angel
spread before us egg salad sandwiches,
cool watermelon wedges, then poured out
those tall, liquid slices of lemon and lime—
water of life, we pressed against our chests.
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What the Glacier Comprehends
By
Michael H. Brownstein
St. Louis, Missouri
| A rock day of song
erosion and then comes rain,
cross stitched wind
and a tree breaks at its waist.
Listen! You can hear one hand clapping.
Glacier waters bleed
bumps and pebbles, stone and flesh,
mountains of blue ice.
The snow melts, a siren singes the air,
a great oak bends to applause,
another shakes in dance,
an undercurrent of steps
and then a great silence
until the wind circles in.
The tree shiver-shouts again.
Morning, the first day,
the beachhead you, me. herring gulls,
a quiver of aspen, sunlight
a warm hand, the surf a litter of light,
your wet kiss a blessing.
Look into the past, the swirls of current,
the future building itself,
the present a gift.
What have you learned? Sought? Seen?
Make it happen today.
The song of crows
stretched thin across the mountain’s river
did not come to sing,
but to become a murder of birds,
a plot in star lit reflections on water.
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| Carol Spielman Lezak, Photographer |
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Hush
By
Carol Spielman Lezak
Highland Park, Illinois
| Seek tranquility
among the lilies in a
placid silent pond.
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The Thermal Pool
By
Joseph Kuhn Carey
Glencoe, Illinois
| The thermal pool bubbles quietly,
warm waters soothing, smoothing,
softly surrounding swimmers in blankets of
relaxation & rejuvenation, the
darkened, elegant Wiesbaden church towers soaring
strongly against the sky seen through
the tall glass windows around the pool,
float upside down and watch the shimmering
radio-wave reflection of sunlight on the water
play on the geodesic ceiling, like a hypnotic
message from a foreign planet far away,
feel the cool air outside the pool on the wooden
deck, lean on the railing with towel on shoulders
and watch the interwoven narrow streets below,
hear snatches of a violin and cello quartet performing
for a hotel crowd across the street, cheers erupting
after the last sound dies away, the setting sun now
glinting on the towers, the temperature dropping
a degree or two, just enough to cause shivers and
force chilly gazers back inside the magic hot-house womb of
mineral waters and brilliant bouncing dancing light.
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| Mary Beth Bretzlauf, Photographer |
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Adrift
By
Mary Beth Bretzlauf
Waukegan, Illinois
| in the bottom of the boat
I rock in its cradle
wakes give it
a gentle touch, so calm
rising sun caresses my face
life slows to this
quiet moment adrift
the water is my balm
in this place I seek
comes with a price
voices from the dock
far from a Sunday Psalm
motors trolling by
radios blare music harsh
my solace gone, I go ashore -
I will return at dawn
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W-A-T-E-R
By
Julie Isaacson
Highland Park, Illinois
Dedicated to Helen Keller and Anne Sullivan
| Darkness— blackness without spark
Silence—a bottomless vacuum
Muted—a mouth that consumes, but utters no sound
Isolated, lonely, desolate
Then!
She opens my world
In her own blindness, she mentors my empty eyes
Unlocks my befuddled brain
Welcomes me to mysterious words
“As the cool stream gushed over one hand she spelled
into the other the word WATER, first slowly, then rapidly.”
Drop by drop
Letter by letter
Word by word
Until my thoughts could flood
And represent an ocean of ideas, feelings, philosophy
Water—nourishment for my body
Water—spirit for my soul
Water—a first word to launch me
To read, to write, to speak
To learn, to educate
To live
To love
W-A-T-E-R
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| Lennart Lundh, Photographer |
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Requiem for the Fishermen
By
Regina M. Elliott
Swannanoa, North Carolina
| Requiem for the fishermen,
who lay at rest in the depths,
once, the seas foamy spray
flecked their weatherworn faces,
maritime spirits,
still breathing in their children's dreams,
chapped, ruddy hands
once embraced their loyal wives,
the legend of their lives-
is spoken in the frigid winter waves.
In funereal respect,
come to the mariner's cathedral,
sing a hymn of the sea,
their families grief will reflect
beyond their own years-
within the tide is their briny tears.
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Empujar
By RM Yager
Deerfield, Illinois
sería más fácil si
yo fuera un barco
desata mis cuerdas y déjame ir
zarpo y me deseas buen viaje eso tendría sentido
en cambio, soy una persona sólo me voy
alejo a la gente
No puedo evitarlo
los bien intencionados
se me acercan y retrocedo
los empujo lejos
| Push Away
By RM Yager
Deerfield, Illinois
it would be easier if i were a boat
untie my ropes and let me go
shove off into the water
wish me well on my journey that would make sense
instead i am a person i just leave
I push people away
I can’t seem to help it
well meaning,
warm well intentioned souls reach for me
I pull back
I push them away
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| Annastasia Ulmer Galesburg, Photographer |
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At the Beach
By
Joseph Glaser
Chicago, Illinois
First Published in on-line journal Front Porch Review (January 2019).
| Hot sand
pushes up between my toes
as I zig-zag through a million bared bodies
scattered helter-skelter on blankets and under umbrellas.
I envy those who can suck up the sun
and produce a glorious golden tan,
while I am fated to burn, with
peeling patches of skin
and a sea of freckles.
But tan or no, it's the ocean that beckons me.
I charge into the waves,
then race them back to shore,
over and over and over again,
pumping up enough courage
to swim out to the rope marker,
and hang there in deep water,
bobbing among lazy surface swells.
Cool and salty, the vast Atlantic caresses my suspended body,
ruminating on the great journey from Old World to New.
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Fluvial Dreams
By
David Ralph Lewis
Bristol, United Kingdom
| Spent all night with a head
full of rivers and tributaries,
as I flowed from the source.
Constant motion cradled me
as reed banks and waterfalls
buffeted my mannequin body.
Thoughts were submerged in
rushing water. Even as it grew
furious and snapped bones
over sharp rocks, the current
was sweet comfort. The pain
happening to someone else.
Now I have lost my constant
obliteration. Take me back to the
numbness that lies in dark water,
the gentle erosion of all worry,
turned to silt and carried
downstream to the hungry sea.
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| From Jennifer Dotson's Family Photo Album |
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By the Shore
By
Teresa K. Burleson
Coolidge, Texas
First published in Blognostics, June 2018
| I see you standing
On the sidelines,
Content to know me
Secondhand,
Always keeping me
At a safe distance,
Sleep walking
Through your days.
And I call your name,
Longing for you
To come awake,
To come into
The fierce, frolicking waves,
The glistening, foam-bearded waves,
To be immersed
In the ocean
That I am,
The only place
Where you will come alive.
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Ms. Molly Shouted as She Rose from the River
By
Zee Mink-Fuller
Burleson, Texas
Waco WordFest Anthology
Published by WordFest
Waco, Texas 2019.
| My scrawny thirteen year old body rose from the cold river
water with the preacher man's hand on the small of my back,
steadying my shaking legs. I waited for shouts of praise to
escape my quivering lips. Shouts of glory like the ones I
heard sixty year old Ms. Molly holler moments before. No
evidence of glory came from me. I stepped onto the muddy
riverbank, someone gave me a towel and a pat on the back.
One whispered words of praise followed by an amen. I kept my
head lowered, not wanting anyone to see my eyes, in case no
glory could be seen there. I ridded myself of the baptismal
robe, stepped behind a sheet strung between two mossy oaks
I put my Sunday's best on a presumably cleansed soul.
I shook hands with new brothers and sisters, then walked to
the dirt road. Shivers of joy laced with dread ran down my
immature spine. A sign of what was to come-walking the road
of my new pledged life. The pull of good and evil mired in con-
fusion. I wanted to run back to the river. To dunk myself three
more times, to be sure I was washed clean. I spied Billy Adams,
knowing why no shouts fled my mouth. Billy would have heard,
My face glowed red. I was a failure. I stood still, eyes closed.
I breathed in quiet. A gentle Divine voice spoke, easing my fears.
Ageless forgiveness would be mine. Billy's would come and go
(and they did). My saving was waterproof. No shouting.
My quiet pledge was Sovereignly sealed with blood forever.
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| Kathy Cotton, Artist |
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My Tsunami
By
Kathy Lohrum Cotton
Anna, Illinois
From author's collection, Deluxe Box of Colors (Chaplain Publishing, 2012)
| The turnings are slight
and pale now, like green
draining from October leaves,
Ontario winds sagging into
the last edge of southern heat,
our portrait smiles fading
imperceptibly.
Your leaving
was an earthquake
in my ocean floor, heaving
tsunami waves that blasted
all ordinary life, drowned me
again and again, then settled
back as though debris on my
shore were mere coincidence.
But the turnings are slight
and pale now: gray drifting
into a blue sky,
tears raining softly, passing.
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Wailing
By
Linda Imbler
Wichita, Kansas
Previously published at With Painted Words (November, 2017)
| The whales returned our legacy,
after each had lost at least one child
to the shallow zone,
where the young ones drowned;
their internal organs collapsed.
Returned all
that never should have been
scattered deep
on sea beds in the first place:
car engines,
the remains of buckets,
shrimp fishing nets,
waste, plastic and steel.
They carried all
up from the depths,
and placed upon
our shores our shame
and the evidence
of the greed of our kind.
It is our turn to act.
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| Gail Denham, Photographer |
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Almost
Beginning with one line by Dorothy Parker
By
Wilda Morris
Bolingbrook, Illinois
| What is it I almost remember
as I walk by this creek which is not
the creek of my childhood?
What is it the wind whispers
to the water it unsettles?
I recall clearly the splashed
wet spheres creating
their own spectrums of color
as I took off my shoes to wade
in the cool, forbidden flow.
I have not forgotten the glow
of damp rocks, the twittering
of robins and sparrows in the trees.
But something else teases my mind
this morning, telling me there is more.
Breezes blow across this other creek
pulling my sleeve. Unruly branches
tap me on the shoulder. The flustered
flow shoves itself around a buried branch,
taking—what?—with it? If I knew that,
would I know what disquiets me,
what I don’t see, what I almost remember?
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Water, Water, Everywhere
By
Marjorie Rissman
Highland Park, Illinois
| in the flooded Midwest we lose our perspective
and let the faucets run wild while brushing teeth
or washing hair, watch our lakes fill up while
our beaches erode and disappear before our very eyes.
the trees drink deeply and grow tall into the azure sky
shading us from the seldom seen sun, stirred by the
constant winds whistling through bountiful limbs.
how surreal to visit the coastal area of California where
every drop of water is regulated; toilets seldom flushed,
showers measured by a timer. Fires rage, miles away smoke
permeates the air, power outages, either planned or
spontaneous, make life difficult, the cost of living in a sun
drenched state where the Pacific is not desalinated to disturb
the ecological balance between land and sea, man and marine life.
so I check into my hotel and find a large flashlight in my room,
towels and sheets unchanged from check in to check out,
bathroom left as I left it without a sign of clean up, but at least the
bed was made, the trash emptied, and the window shades opened
to allow the sunshine in, the balcony slider left ajar to fill the room
with smoke-filled breezes and quiet noises from all- electric cars
purring through the crowded streets and highways to save the world.
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| Donna L. Ritter, Photographer |
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Streaming Along
By
Donna L. Ritter
Highland Park, Illinois
| Autumn water caresses rustic rockbed,
gently sloping downward.
Playful stellar jay flits about,
drinking in cool goodness.
Shafts of light illuminate his azure blueness
against golden silt.
Life-giving water nourishes my soul, with peace and gratitude.
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Lumahai Beach, Kaua’i
By
Mantz Yorke
Manchester, England
| I watch the waves rear
to crash on the steep sand,
waiting to photograph
the right curl, the right green
and the right corrugation
of light in the concavity.
Each wave hisses
up the slope, dying
before it can reach
my feet. I become aware,
almost subliminally,
a random wave is bigger
and will overtop the slope.
My camera is at risk.
I can’t run, for behind me
is a spill-pool too deep
for a quick retreat:
all I can do is brace
against the surprising
power of the tow. This time,
not enough to down me,
but a sharp reminder
of the sea’s capriciousness
and lurking capacity to harm.
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| Jennifer Dotson, Photographer |
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At Welsh Lake
By
Gail Denham
Sunriver, Oregon
| In a water colored world
red trees line shores
autumn’s bright scores
at Welsh Lake where waters twirled
frog sings, then soars
toward the lake’s floors
Blue heron stands at ready
on long thin legs
for fish he begs
with quick strike his beak dives steady
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The Lake
At Lake Superior in Lutsen, Minnesota
By
Caroline Johnson
Willow Springs, Illinois
| I
The lake is always in sight.
We move, it moves with us.
We stand still, its waves
fold and crest like the
gibbous moon, rising.
II
The lake is everywhere.
We walk on grassy hills.
The fresh water meets
the sky, like Hiawatha
singing a secret song.
III
The lake is within us.
Bordering pure rivers and pebble-
rich streams, it is as vast
as the ocean. We see clearly
with its pristine vision.
IV
You are the lake, tan boy
running, angry waves
swirling around your legs,
the algae and pike
swim in your skin.
V
If only we could stay
as innocent as our first birth
near fresh water. We would not
be separated from the Lake,
nor from God.
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| Laura Nicholson, Photographer |
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Meaningless Movements
By
Andy Fairchild
Toronto, Canada
| The sad frog face
a one-eyed face
rippled eyebrows.
meaningless movements
is something surging from below?
ready to create?
as if the lake will open up its mouth and share a revelation
what swells disappears
replaced by another crest
like an oasis that turns out to be a mirage
is that what the moon’s surface looks like?
it’s like a trampoline made of gel
i could roll on it caressed and cooled by it waves
meaningless movements
dark and light
glacial mountain ranges
oh save me from my unanchored thoughts
bring me to shore where it’s safe and sound
aliens
unformed ice cubes
the letter c
a baby elephant in a bubble
|
Hot Water
By
Patrick Hanley
Ashburn, Virginia
| While I wait for the water to boil
I walk along the ocean shoreline
While I wait for the faint whistle
I see the flowers bloom in the sun
While I smell the coffee steaming
I know of the heart that holds me
While I sip the first taste of the day
I capture the thoughts of the soul
While I move throughout the morning
I am silent and thinking of the day
While I walk into the birds song paths
I pace the time of the world with me
While I listen for the first water drops
I know my day is beginning again
While I write these thoughts of mine
I wait for my heart to read them
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| Peter Brinckerhoff, Artist |
|
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Geography of Water
By
Michael P. Wright
Highwood, Illinois
| The kingpins of geography, the Pacific, Atlantic, Indian and several Gulf waters
Flooding: the bete noire of its purpose
Natural rain, so soothing and a cure to our blasted dog-gone heat
The sun of mankind, sovereignty to water
An X wonder of the world, God’s gift to humanity
Dirty or sparkling, it is still H2O
Water, the present from above
Distilled products and their corporations are worldwide
Plays a role in the climate change equation
Hot or cold, the variations trickle up or down
Astrology zodiac signs of water, Pisces, Cancer and Scorpio
Baptismal water as an infant, now I am 64 years young
Spewing it out during emotional distress
The texture so serene, an unmitigated nature to the world
Its absorption, man’s cure for their disbeliefs and bad behavior
Mankind loves this delicious drink.
stylishly tousled, his white locks Clintonesque.
Retired University professors, the couple
checked out our Jag with many questions,
then slipped out of our driveway on a test run,
zipping with pleasure once out of sight.
Dressed fit to kill, the car and its new drivers made
a good-looking team: sleek, sophisticated and jazzy;
the Jag a winner.
|
Inside the Mourner
By
Hope Atlas
Linvingston, New Jersey
| The rocks gave a barrier to
the tumultuous waves;
with the fury of a mama bear
protecting her young.
The sounds of the waves
imitating the deafening
wails of a female cat.
The undercurrent drags
all that's in its path;
scrapping against sharp
rocks, falling into the
depths of depression.
The taste of salt quenches the appetite,
as the mosquitoes fly to the humming of death;
the men swaying to the
words of the mourner’s prayer.
|
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| Joe Glaser, Photographer |
|
|
The World of Rain
By
Mark Hudson
Evanston, Illinois
| I look out my glass window;
down on the rainy world below.
It is rainy and bitter outside,
I see a father and daughter hide
beneath an umbrella, as a cover,
the father beckons the girl under.
The girl steps out of the umbrella’s way,
and walks in the puddles to disobey.
Her rain boots are what she is wearing,
the puddle separates her from her dad’s caring.
I observe this all through my window pane,
as I look out on the world of rain.
|
Hard Pressed
By
Frank Wayne Mottl
Vancouver Island, Canada
Previously published in Island Shores, an Anthology published by the Poetry Institute of Canada
| Through sting spinning slit mist sharpened water,
I spied the rage ragged cliff of Lazo.
Spitting thunder cloaks her dazzled temper,
Thrusts her foaming breast hard; into thick eyes
Looming out of and into that grey world.
Donning her crusty coat I hear her voice
Unfurl singing some sweet old tongue chanty,
For I have lost my way! She creeps to me!
Spindrift spits and pastes the scurried surface
Of my brain, and a wet face fog sets down.
Bravely, she plunders over green-jaded
Quiet death, deep, dark, brooding hour strike
A crack 8-tonner splys her asunder,
Tears roll down my face, I sail her under.
|
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| J. Ray Paradiso, Photographer |
|
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Plastic Petroleum
By
Radomir Vojtech Luza
Los Angeles, California
| The water bottles at The Hotel Edison
In Times Square, NY are free
I drink them like the Count of Monte Cristo on his last days in prison
I forget Coca-Cola and Fanta Orange
For once do something healthy
For twice do something right
After decades of turbulent magenta
The crimson has returned to my cheeks and lips
Each bottle with 20 ounces of natural spring water
Housekeeping refilling the stock every day like clockwork
I believe in myself once more
Confidence soaring
Talent growing
The past a ghost
The present strawberry jam on toast
The future a rich pot roast
|
wet
By
Laura Taylor
Liverpool, United Kingdom
| some people feel the rain, others get
rode hard and put away
behind the ears
the baby’s head
a hen, your feet
a line
a weekend
but not quite an appetite
beak stone or whistle
it is not itself
|
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| Cheryl Steiger, Artist |
|
|
Water Cup
By
Victoria Crawford
Thailand
| moonlight tree reaches ivory leaves
upheld begging bowl
umbrellas inverted
his shriveled veins swell in the spring rains
his life renews, hands lift in the breeze as
heart pump
osmosis
overjoyed as the season shifts
green hands in welcoming wai
of thanks
|
Ode to Rain
By
Jackie Chou
Pico Rivera, California
| Oh, rain,
talk to me
with your loquacious
pitter-patter.
Tell me what you think,
with your drumbeats
on my window pane.
Quench my thirsty soul
with your copious droplets.
Fill my nose with the scent
of newly watered soil.
Lead me to a dance
on the pavement
with your perfect rhythm.
|
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| R. James Paradiso Photographer |
|
|
Rain Day
By
Gary Beck
New York, New York
| A rainy day in the park,
but it’s spring,
so tourists are clicking away
with phone cameras,
without stopping to look,
urgent to record
for the folks back home,
who would enjoy the trip second hand
almost as much as the travelers.
|
Tempted
By
Susan Schubert
St. Charles, Illinois
| A day at the river’s edge, river flowing rapidly
Roiling, swollen from the rain.
I step in, let it take me,
Wash over me.
Mouth, open wide
Filling my lungs, I cannot breathe.
Deeper, until I touch bottom.
What am I doing here?
Silty, sandy, my feet
Paddling me up to the surface.
I choke, spit out the water.
I cannot end it this way
There must be a solution
To my dilemma.
Love lost, I must go back,
Find what I am looking for
Once and for all.
|
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| Terry Loncaric, Photographer |
|
|
Water
By
Paula J. Sliger
Waldron, Arkansas
| Strong, flowing
Refreshing, Rejuvenating
Bringing life
Growth
Quenching my thirst
Coming from on high
Falling from the sky
Making me clean
Easing the stress
Making it less
Jesus, Living Water
One and the same
|
Highland Park Water
By
Richard V. Kaufman
Highland Park, Illinois
| III
Highland Park water
tastes delicious.
Good for drinking
and for fishes.
Just make sure
when you drink a glass
not to swallow
any bass.
IV
Highland Park water
tastes so fine,
a worthy substitute
for wine.
Pour libations
from your finest spode,
but never drink
from the commode.
VI
Highland Park water
is politically correct.
A claim that very few
would reject.
Our water follows
the latest fashion,
congruent with
the public passion.
Our water is transparent
as the day,
none can match its
fine bouquet.
Many would walk
the extra mile
to take in Highland Park
water's style.
Our water welcomes
love and diversity.
Let all come
who are tired and thirsty.
|
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| Lennart Lundh, Photographer |
|
|
Highland Park Water
By
Richard V, Kaufman
Highland Park, Illinois
| VIII
Highland Park Water
is safe to drink,
from a hose
or from the sink.
You won't get
arsenic or zinc,
which turn the water
salmon pink.
The water's always
safe and pure,
we test it daily
to make sure
that you're never drinking
bismuth or tin,
which do not mix
with Scotch or gin.
So, go right ahead.
Please help yourself.
Never buy water
from off the shelf.
IX
Highland Park Water
is healthy, too. Much
better than the sickly,
sugary, poisonous brew
of carbonated, chemical,
carcinogenic concoctions,
and the artifically-colored,
diabetogenic decoctations,
that you can buy
with hard-earned cash
to raise the odds
your health will crash.
To recover your healthy,
glowing spark,
drink the water from
Highland Park.
|
The Science of Rain
By
Jennifer Dotson
Highland Park, Illinois
| The science of rain
reduced to its essentials is
condensation
evaporation
and
precipitation.
It's all just part of the
water cycle.
Scientists peer into space
hoping to find other planets
with water as water is the
source of life on our planet.
Perhaps it once rained on Jupiter.
Or perhaps in another galaxy
alien life forms are scanning
their skies for signs of rain.
Or even signs of rain on Earth.
|
 |
| Sarah Leavesley, Photographer |
|
|
My Favorite Memories of Rain
By
Jennifer Dotson
Highland Park, Illinois
| A sudden summer shower in the
Boboli Gardens of Florence. We
found shelter and some red wine
in the cafe where we sipped and
watched until it passed. Venturing
back into the damp gardens now
devoid of tourists and crowds,
it was our own, glistening with magic.
Riding our bikes on a hot summer
Sunday, heading north on Green Bay
Road. Big fat drops fell in random
warning only to unleash a flood.
We kept pedaling, soaked and
sodden, until we reached home.
My sneakers didn't dry for days.
|
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| Haiga by Natalia L. Rudychev |
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2009 Fall
Muses' Gallery Archive
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