Tributaries: Journey to the Sea

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Will you ever see the rain …

Flow with me on this poetic metaphor
of tributaries and mingling molecules,
and I’ll show you where you came from,
where you’re going,
who you’ll meet along the way.

And after you’ve traveled
with all the tributaries I’ve met,
and a few I started with,
and after you are joined
by the memories of those of whom
these poems bring forth,
the molecules of those you’ve touched,
and those whose lives touched yours,
in your life’s journey,
this stew of love and life,
this mixture of molecules,
will be forever intermingled
And in some small way,
we will all flow together for a time.
Though we might wind up in different rivers,
different deltas, we will meet again at the sea.

And when we are ready to share our knowledge,
or just take another ride,
there is always the sun, evaporation to the heavens,
and a storm brewing somewhere.

Okay, I’ve taken this metaphor
full circle. Tell me now,
will you ever see rain the same way
as you did when we first met?
.
This is a collection of meetings,
of the times when molecules were shared,
and these poems have become
the molecules of others I carry with me.
Even the ancient silt on the bottom of the river bed
has someplace to go, and has a story of its own.

This is mine. I hope someday you can share yours.
Until then, welcome to my tributary.

Will you ever see the rain...  (E) A metaphor of the circle of life. #1924571 by SWPoet

Impossible separation

I cannot rip your memory
from my brain,
your prints from my soul,
your action from my reaction.

Once two streams meet, and form one,
even if their paths are diverted, and their journeys separate,
something of each will always remain with the other.

Much as I’d like to sometimes,
I cannot divide what was mine alone,
and that which you have touched.

An impossible separation at best.

and one that,
if I were to be honest,
would leave me
with so much

less.

Impossible Separation   (E) We are touched forever in some way when we meet. #1924573 by SWPoet

Snapshots

I once thought “I have not suffered enough,
enough to write like this,
to get inside these other minds
to see what they saw.
What rightd to I have to speak for them.?”

I do not think that any longer.

Knowing them
traveling with them
for even a short while,
they have left a part of themselves,
and I hope I have offered something in return.

A picture is not the same as the event,
but if it brings back the emotions of the event,
isn’t that something?

These poems are my photo albums,
memories, dedications, mementos
of people, of characters in books,
of trees struck by lightning
still reaching for the heavens,
these things of my world that tug at my soul,
that open my eyes to truth,
that teach me something.

These are my snapshots,
and this, my scrapbook,
my geneaology, my epitaph,
my map and compass,
my microscope, my binoculars,
my imagination, my hurts, my laughter,
and with these poems,
I have sought to honor those
who have become a part of me,
and so I will never forget
the lessons they have taught me
along the way.

And now, may I share them with you,
for perhaps you have met these people too, somewhere in your journey
and where two are gathered in precious memory, someone up there is smiling.
knowing they have not been forgotten.

Snapshots  (E) Poems as photos of our experiences, our relationships, our lessons. #1924574 by SWPoet

Storm

Debris of shattered tree limbs
littered my waves.

When I met you,
it was after a storm,
And the closer I got to you,
the more my thrashing currents
would spin you out of control.
Then you disappeared
and I found myself
alone, afraid.

Afraid
of conflict with boulders,
the endless tears of mist
as I smacked the banks over and over,
expecting something different
when this tumbling and thrashing was all too familiar.
It was as if I were grieving
the phantom limb of control,
the loss of something I never had,
control over the physics of height versus speed,
water versus rock, too much water
for the depth and width of the riverbed,

too much truth to hold back tears.

When I reached the river,
I looked back over where I had been.
And lodged between two boulders
at the crest of an outcropping of stone,
there you were.

You looked back down at me, smiling,
and said “Leave me here.
You will travel lighter without all my baggage.
And anyway, I’m exhausted
from trying to steer you clear of the boulders.”

I floated down the river on my back, unencumbered.
Perhaps next time there comes a storm, I will remember
to ride it out, trusting that gravity will keep me going in the right direction.
And maybe I’ve also learned not to thrash so much
in fear of losing control, in fear of being myself.

Storm  (E) About control and how little we have. Also about baggage and learning lessons from life. #1924576 by SWPoet