The Lake

THE LAKE

In autumn chill I sat at the edge of a deep blue lake.

It was placid as the moon in solitary space.

Silently as if stirred by the slightest briefest breath,

Perfect circles in a series broke the surface, moving outward.

I watched the widening whorl travel to the edge then bounce back.

Something—someone—had touched the water.

Maybe it was a bird dipping down...fish twitching its tail...

Dry leaf riding a draught making a splash landing.

When the waves had spent their energy, the lake becalmed again.

It shone purely, a polished mirror of the sky: blue to blue.

I felt the cold wet air rise but did not hear the wind swirl.

One hour lapsed, the surface blankly serene, whispering along the marge.

A lake in Eastern Sierra, California

Darkening Afternoons

DARKENING AFTERNOONS

I love the wooden beauty of darkening afternoons

Softly varnishing the oldness of the sky,

Weathered like the brows of studious hills.

Stillness dwells in the air like a great thinker,

Pondering forgotten equations, hidden runes.

Clouds are flecked with the fires of beaten copper,

Skies limpid with the blues of pale oceans.

Shadows weave fingers through grass looms

As fields gaze blankly at the sun.

Birds grasp at the last utterances of a prayer,

Day vanishes like a broken pot.

Dusk is redolent with the aged interiors of sleeping cabinets, richly inhabited.

Originally published in Boston Poetry Magazine (September 4, 2014)

The Malvern Hills by Ken Bushe

Prime

PRIME

Morning is a swimming pool,

Deepest blue,

Newly replenished,

Chilled overnight,

Rippling gently.

Floating water molecules

Waft fragrant.

Ice cube splashing into a glass,

I dive, do six laps,

Six laps more,

This time backstroke,

Right arm, left arm,

Gazing upward at a cloudless sky,

Protective bubble

Swatting back

Solar radiation—

Stroke, stroke, stroke—

Glide forward, turn,

Push the wall,

Exhaling underwater

Necklaces, carbonated,

Feeling flushed, exhilarated.

No one else here,

I am first one in.

Only turbulence, spume generated by

Slashing arms, windmill,

Churning legs, waterwheel.

V-shaped wake, widening,

Tracks a streamlined hull, torpedo

Guided by black tiles, laser

Aimed at white tiles, target.

Beneath the surface tumult,

Water, transparent backwards, forwards,

Tranquil as a pipe

Fuming wispy aphorisms

Or dolphins wondrously examining

Mirror images of themselves

Slightly distorted

By visual deformations,

Akin to optical effects wrought by

Heat waves rising above

Desert stretches or

Asphalt roads, disappearing.

Deeper, stiller,

Clearer, cleaner,

Keener, wiser.

Touching the wall,

I stop, pop my head

Above water,

Bobbing ball,

Dripping like a dog,

Mermaid undulating

Sine waves, low amplitude,

Alive, lightning,

Thunderously huffing,

Euphoric, inflated,

Rising, happy balloon.

Life is water—

Cold, fresh, clean.

Originally published in Thought Notebook (April 9, 2015)

Study of Young Swimmer by Toni McGreachan