One
Cold river twists like a worn rope
each inch pinched tight as if to break
Mulberry trees and hard oaks
clutched over the brink
curled leaves fraying,
Catfish and Carp
caught in the tangles of river’s current
Humped backs flat against the bonded waves
The mocking laugh of free-winged gulls
echoing over them in the bitter air.
Two
Rainfall,
Dots of the irretrievable fading at the river side,
like worn LP grooves
their sounds expired, retired, scratched
limbs of trees, old brown leaves,
wilted reeds bent with the oldest songs of all
The first face seen in that hazy dream
his
school bell sounding in the back of his head
He used to play here, cool water skimmed with stones
and stringy islands of grass, a whole head higher
than he remembered
spray paint lyrics long out of date
Jerry & Jane, June, 57
Mark’s Marauders, March 59
No Mark Twains or Tom Sawyers
No weasily big-eyed poor kids either
just rain
Three
On Sundays,
the lines eke out like webs
caught
deep in the bosom of the water
tiny
circles mark each touch
where
hooks wait for catfish
as if they
were flies
Motor
boats speed over the deeps
with
furious contempt,
beer
bottle bait bobbing in their wake
the bottom
is banked in tinted glass
Carp crawl
here, tadpoles dally,
sharp stones reach up to form the tips
of islands,
and
fishermen sit hoping snares
will bring
them more than old boots and bottles.
Four
The last call from the river edge speaks of her dying
the mourning geese sit in October rain
with gray suits stained,
waiting as they have always waited
homeless noses dripping, orphaned children
fluttering up and down in protest at her absence
They cry at the empty lawn
where on fair days she spread crusts of bread or broken
popcorn
the river land around her house, a sore sight
to city fathers for over forty years
Flocks of ducks and geese and pigeons
pained, abandoned creatures with tarred feathers and broken
wings
crawling to the shadow of the bridge,
looking for handouts and mercy,
And she, dying on them as the golf course people
pay for cages to cart them away
and the state forecloses on the land
to reroute the highway.
Five
Passaic River
water spurts black from the tap
protesting winter
no
cause for alarm, I tell my friends,
who
ponder the stink of dead fish and chemicals
generations have drawn from this well
from
bucket to pump house
open
sewers long sealed now,
fat
rats died in unholy places, but no humans
I say
as each raises tea cup to lip
At
least, no one to my knowledge.
Six
This stream ran to the river when I was a kid,
an open sewer, raw and vile,
stinking as its water gushed down the narrow gully
It seemed wider then,
framed in maples and willows and oaks,
leaf-filled limbs, weed choked roots on either side
A thread of hemp hung from one large tree,
jack ass kids beating at its roots to grab hold,
swinging from one side to the other as the rope
burned our fingers.
always too stupid to let go
We bitched when we bruised our knees or burst our britches,
blaming the sharp stones and shiftless dirt,
fighting each other for one more chance to keep hold.
When it broke, the others vanished,
leaving me to stare at that frayed piece of rope,
leaving me to curse the tree for letting me go.
When I needed it most, it was gone,
and I sat on one side of that stinking shore,
wishing I could be on the other.
Seven
Two rivers flow together
swirling under the Quik Chek dumpster and Fotomat booth,
to the smell of pizza and trash,
old men sit on the concrete sides, feet dangling like
children
fishing poles poking the empty air,
the low hum of water bubbling over brutal eddies of stone
and junk
the handle of a shopping cart, thick with rotted newspaper
and clots of grass
entangling their lines, hiding the catfish they can’t catch,
no one much caring either way.
Eight
I cross this bridge, even in my dreams,
its sagging center groans beneath
the bulk
of ten ton paper trucks
that come and go through the mill’s metal gate
bumpers splintering the bridge’s wooden sides
leaving wood shavings and
paper pulp
for the street sweeper to sweep,
leaving a thick coat for the river to carry away
like messages sent without hope.
Nine
The
stone marker and rusted bench
are
all that remains of war and retreat
the
river washing the shore here where Washington
crossed,
a
residue of soap scum licking at my heels,
Post’s
Ford measures the low water mark,
Oak
leaves trapped in swirling eddies,
birds
pecking at worms between the rocks,
each
puddle reflects bleeding leaves
and a
road that now runs along the riverside,
the
rumble of trucks and busses banging loose
the
marker’s mortar until dust drips from it like tears,
and
stone by stone, even this memory fades,
Post’s
Ford, Washington’s
retreat, washing away.
Ten
Most evenings this pond is a circle,
its round and perfect face neatly dressed
in Dusk’s pervading shadow
staggered along its narrow shale rim
cool gray stones stand like outstretched fingers,
waving at the rising moon
And every day of every winter the sun falls wearily
into this pond’s frosted wordless mouth,
dousing its flames in the Pond’s hungry water
until morning once more asks the sun to shine
