Canoeing the Edisto

Slipped like a turtle off a log

and skimmed down the Edisto--

water like coffee,

churning just a bit muddy--

maidenflies and dragonflies

the only other traffic--

breathing air threshed

through the river reeds,

fresher than the city breeze.

I laugh aloud

at silvery fish

darting skyward

and diving as neatly

as a pocketknife collapses

upon itself.

Wood ducks scare from the reeds

at paddles' splash,

a flash in the blue sky,

heedless flight;

they squawk like giggling girls

reeling in some silly fright.

Left behind among the arum

and lavender pickerelweed,

white spider lilies gleam

like pristine snowflakes at the river's edge.

For just a while

I dally through rice canals,

aged trunks* a silent reminder

that once a lively trade

was plied here.

Again upon the river main,

flushed with exertion

against a sudden headwind,

I seek shelter beneath two towering trees--

the cypress,

draped in Spanish moss like tinsel,

branches swaying in the wind.

I wish I too could rise like the cypress,

high above the river,

and call to the herons and egrets

and owls.

Too soon I have come full circle;

the beachhead is busy, peopled.

I'm tempted to glide past,

to return to the solitary quiet of the river.

But the Edisto will stay with me,

filed with memories of other rivers,

and mountains, and meadows

which I will cull

whenever life becomes

too real, too fast, or too crowded.

klsmith

Mixed Media Basket/K.L.Smith April 2013, Charleston, SC

NaPoWritMo 2

NaPoWriMo #2

More Than Once

His footprints capture rainwater like a cup;
this trace too will disappear
when clouds depart.
Earth absorbs water
like a lover mending quarrels,
and grass recovers quickly,
bending back to reach the light.

Nature reclaims her own,
leaves oasis or despair.

But footprints in a desert
cup no rain,
disappear with wind
and the beholder,

and one dies more than once
in a lifetime.


Kathleen L. Smith

NaPoWriMo #1 Today's prompt is to write a total lie.

The Lie

Decadence is Lovely,
instinctual, rich,
runs through the veins
like a subtle itch,
sings out loud
like frogs in June,
plays like a violin out of tune.

Satin ribbons and velvet shrouds,
tattered Elegance, funereal crowds--
Oh, slay me with Decadence,
chocolates and pearls;
I was born a slave
to the material world!

Labyrinth

Labyrinth

Many days have I journeyed through the labyrinth,
Placing always
One foot before the other
Methodically, determinedly,
Around the winding paths of forests cool and deep--
Where light is dim no shadows fall--
Across the sere sand of desert years where
Parched and fevered,
Fending off the glaring sun by day
And clinging like a moth to my dreams by night
I muttered my words
Into the deaf ears of languid air
Expecting reverberations from the canyons of the universe,
Yet only echoes of my whispered lament stirred
And clung to me like a chronic ailment.

Once, I rambled through a greening glade,
Moss-fresh air filling my lungs with pneumonic sharpness,
A painful gasping joy that passed like lust
In a hummingbird's flutter,
And I marched fettered for a season after
To a dream that had died in my arms.
My footsteps wore a path around the graveside into a dusty ritual.
Yet even grief grows old and passes with the years into its
Own quiet grave, a hazy memory,
And I moved on without
Quite knowing how or when,
The machinations of the mind a wily creature.

I sought the world again flamboyantly,
Breaking the horns of the minotaur,
And those were the days of the hunter,
Of running wild through the world,
Powerful, austere,
Leaping the labyrinthine walls,
Blood-intent, scent of desire driven,
Demented and flushed with the thrill of the chase.
Once more the journey ended
Abruptly, succinctly,
A curtain falling on another act
And I found myself standing alone in the mezzanine
Applauding an empty stage with the light slyly fading.
Outside, blinking in the daylight,
Surprise mingling with suspicion to find
The afternoon not night and warm and golden still,
I stood for once paused in the leaf-glorious glow of summer,
Inhaling with wonder that had waned long ago in the turnings of the road
The path behind me
And a shadow of self like Dorothy Oz,
Red shoes kicking up clumps of earth
As I ran, walked, danced, plodded,
Clod of a dreamer,
Scarecrow of hope,
Ghost of myself,
And all along the path was mine--
I'd arrived before leaving,
And the journey
Is home.

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