Swelling my banks,
perturbedly turgid,
effervescently carbo-
nated, almost,
(or perhaps it’s entire…
depending on who
&/or what you believe,
with their reason…)
Swollen, in flow,
a thundering racket,
flotsam and jetsam
I wail at the bends.
A “bender” they call it.
I’m here, all the while
passing through.
Drenched (or “besotted”) –
the rain.
I am home
and I’m rushing
to-ward and away,
instinct with desire,
for which fire
is no match,
only patience…
I’m a patient
and ill to the bones…
you will see.
But I gurgle
these songs
as I pass..
filled with belches
and farts,
it’s unseemly…
Drunk
like a river
in flood
[too apparent] –
here’s
where the poem
begins
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“….Drunk
like a river
in flood
[too apparent] –
here’s
where the poem
begins….”
words, your poetical and philosophical words, are so beautiful. Especially the ending part fascinated me. Always hits me your writing… Thank you dear N Filbert, Love, nia
Thank you Nia!
A reconstruction around your amper sand gives this river a shore at which it doesn’t lap, but spumes. I can hear it hissing like the snake that it is. It’s not a river in which the beflowered Ophelia would have been caught dead, singing ‘flotsam and jetsam’ while she rounded her bend. Its urges may be primitive, but its no pre-Raphaelite.
Thank you for responding to whatever-it-is. It’s an existence of sorts.
Cheer up. You’re very talented.
Thank you
Reblogged this on From 1 Blogger 2 Another.
Heady!
This is so appropriate for our overflowing banks and days of rain… and just now, sun.