Log Jam

Days flow down and away
river jammed packed with logs
groaning together on the raging
waters from head of the flume
to the gated and closed bottom
groaning under pent up pressure
as if influenced by their own desire
to be free of the muddy slippery banks
and confines from shore to distant shore
to sail alone, with time to stretch, peacefully,
one at a time like a swimmer bobbing along
on the changing whim of the comforting current
finally being pushed downstream through the delta
into a the wide open raging sea to be confined no more
by shores but left to wander on one wave after another

A Study in Alluvial Science in the Gutter Out Front

Cold clean clear rivulets of a long past snow storm

run a crooked line merging, diverging and merging

around a bottle cap–a barren flat topped manmade island–

or grains of sands that tumble like boulders in glacial run off

collecting and creating countless drumlins in miniature

chunks of shovel loosed grass form dense archipelagos

near a vast waterfall falling fast from a sheer concrete cliff

increasing the current and widening the flow as it merges again

and diverges through a metal sluice pouring into a larger stream

underground flowing and increasing with more and more streams

until after many days ending up joining the torrential currents of

the upper Mississippi and flowing south to Gulf of Mexico and the sea.

The Tickle

A little tickle of inspired thought

or a needy notion nagging release

like a couple of well strung words

Tumbling around the muddy mind

clouded with the silt of daily concerns

the flotsam of outstanding bills to be paid

or murk of eyeing a promotion at work

or even figuring what to have for dinner

Not wanting to really have to cook

thinking something not too involved

rather wanting to scratch that itch

to sit and play with words and wit

to get them down, rearrange them,

massage them, beat them into place

until they fit just right with no sharp edges

passing the tickle to your discerning ear.

The Struggles of Memory

Thoughts drip down and away
into a river jammed with memories
like logs packed together and raging
from top of open mind to the closed bottom
groaning under pressure and their own desire
to be free of the banks and confines of the mind
to sail alone, peacefully, one at a time like a swimmer
bobbing along on the changing whim of the comforting current
finally being pushed through the delta into a the wide open sea
to be confined no more by shores but left to wander on a grand scale