Poem of experience

[QuickHitCurepon]

Poem about the day I nearly drowned on the Snake River

"Downstream havoc"

Watching the shore move slowly by,
Still, I rowed on mouth getting dry
Arms getting as heavy as the oars
Sweat streaming from my pores
The river continuing on endlessly
Still, keep on rowing

Muscles churning,
Back breaking
Sun bearing down on me
Breath grasping
Body crying
Still, keep on rowing

Relief in sight
A long stretch of river
Buried in white
Finally, I moved over the lid
Shooting the rapid
Nothing to stop me now
Still, keep on gliding

Diving through waves,
Approaching the spot
A large whirlpool like fissure
I yelp and want to miss her
Watching the boat tip
Tipping to the limit
Hoping it will stop
But not a bit
Still, it keeps on tipping

Surrounded by near darkness,
Trying to get out of this mess
I catch a glimpse
The boat above and immense
Suspended under the river
Beginning to quiver
At last, I see the sky
But, keep on drowning

 

[QuickHitCurepon]

"Rallying to the long walk"

The quest for water here and far
Is good though there are traps of tar
On the way one muddles through
Escape the mud for a clear, clear view

Birds do sing along the way,
To destination's watery bay
Also lakes join rivers to oceans great
Oft fill the soul on every day

The trail is a motherhouse
To those that thirst
Desires and wants surface
As the mind comes first

Here is where the "road" does turn;
Many of those routes I see end there
Moving slowly on a railroad
Indicates one must learn

Yet, the "quick and the dead"
Do litter those rails
A hop into the river
It empties to the sea

They deposit into the swells
So also many trails

The takers run
To the falls, and;
Go too fast!
Always missing it all!

 

[QuickHitCurepon]

May had come. Even so, the morning clouds opened up for a few wet minutes, as if Mother Nature were saying, "I'm not done quite yet." I took a short-cut--through a landscaped area of Dale Park--wherewith many tiny soggy leaves, that had already fallen, squished beneath my feet, as I made imprints in the soft dirt. Rays of light beaming through now, I stopped as the intensity of the sun precipitated wafts of steam all around me, and I admired a row of fresh Spring daffodils before me. Drops of water from a tall bush were still careening off the tops of its coronas and stamens. The warm steam pushed a startling fragrance plumb to my nostrils. The after-effects of my brisk jog had "slowed me down" and, with endorphins roaming about my head, I had an unusually wide and laid-back perspective, as I started it all up again. To me, the shade from an overhead tree caused a clear contrast with the sun, making trees faraway a dreamy dark green, and the sky an envelope of blue. I felt sad at that point; knowing that in ten minutes, I would be instead immersed in a daily ritual called the "grind."