I remember boiling summers playing in the cricks and creeks,
when boats upstream and down
stampeded.
where none could penetrate the reeds and brambles of my hidden inlet
after school I'd head into the pond, stillwater.
my mudluscious bog
and I'd catch
the spritely codgers in their soggy hopscotch.
mother in my sunday dress imprisoned me and would braid my hair
rather, I would wear the climbing tree.
hanging oppossum
and finding easter robins
to kiss goodnight.
I feel as if my hands were the same clay
in which they
catch newts and worms and play.
all kinds of mucus peach.
the warts of my affection where
my hands had held a small delicate life
as precious as the orchids which rarely emerge from their cocoon,
must be cleansed with the off-white paste;
like I'm becoming a double breather myself
like a softball caked in mud.
one day, a smile creased along his chinless stump
my prince!
webbed tree hugging toes,
twig legs,
spring!
he blares a baritone ballad to his sweetness.
a factory moved into town that year,
which was a good thing,
‘cause daddy got a better job.
until the river ran red
like a crimson crayon
came in like a quick shadow,
the bipolar things jumping out of the water.
they looked silly with the hiccups until
I realized they were on their last breaths.
then the dead ones lounged
and I mourned the ugly field of war—
Hi Daniel This is a complex poem and I usually reserve time to consider such poems by you, that is, is the essence of complexity - it takes time for the writer to achieve and the reader to grasp. The rewards are manifold for both. I already am drawn into the imagery of the poem with a charismatic young woman speaker. At first we are entirely in her world of imagination - until her mother intrudes with confining Sunday clothes, and later the real world rushes in with the factory which (I think) brings to an end the idyll of the frog adventures. More to come. Reading this poem thoroughly requires leisure time which for me today begins around 8 pm.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
Great and detailed poetry, good one... Good to know you like science that I would laugh and enjoy a lot if you write a poem about pcr enzymes and microbiology haha... Weird but sound cool