Near  A River That Runs Deep

There's A Place With No Streets

Where I Love To BE On my Own

And Greet The Silence Of Being HOME...

In the Silence & Debra Lea Ryan
1st Verse
G6-EM/A -EM
26.04.2025

Walking the pasture
Green and pure
Without flaw
Without ruin

Grass stands stall
River running through it
Orchards stretched far
Gardens of purity

Peaceful serenity
No worry or hate
There be naught
But calm winds

No shadow here
Tis beauty all around
Where time be still
Heaven's reflections

But a river
Flowing in the midst
Made with tears
Tears of pain

Children dying
For greed and power
Wealth and darkness
Meaningless cause

The gardens of divine
Serene clarity
All we leave behind
All we taught

The poisons and toxins
Tainting the gullible
Easily accessible
Innocent minds

The world we made
Scorched Earth
Came the rain
Flooding the world

We could have risen
Beyond physicality
Beyond Existence
Connected to the River

Eyes set upon selfishness
Hearts gaze upon ruin
Deep within the Earth
Enriched in blood

River of blood
Naught one could do
Nothing but to watch
As life comes crashing down

The golden gates
They stand locked
Keeping us away
What we do not deserve

Heaven above
Earth below
Hell in the midst
Persisting through time

The river was pure
Twas a marvel
A beautiful design
We sacrificed for this

The Darkness
Lost hope
Shattered dreams
Breaking streams

Strides of nothing
Nothing but hate
Naught but death
Blood and tears

Hopelessness without goodness
The river cries, it's gone
Thou doth not witness naught
Blinded eyes, blind heart

Thou art a beauty
And we killed thee
Torment unto thee
Look at what we've done

The river beckons
Call for a higher plain
We ignore it time and time again
We seek in life but never find

~an artwork beneath our feet, yet invisible to
our eyes, constantly changing ,interlocking
interlinking~

this poem has asked for composition
everytime, I walk upon and past the sculputure
beneath my feet on the Esplanade by The River

(Diatom Lace on the East River - Stacy Levy
www.stacylevy.com › projects › diatom-lace-on-the-east-river)  (1)

but as I daily hurry past (for years) and over this pattern form lifted from the
river's flowing,
a daily delaying,
for the words good enough to honor it, the invisible floating floral tentacles,
attaching each water molecule to the next,
do not arise of sufficient quality of wordsmithy,
the Whitman words do not float up from the waters rushing past,
and come to rest in my multi-tasking poetry conceptuals

many months, even years,
have gone by and after every water walk,
the sculpture stabs me guilty,
of procastination,
and an unwillingness to tackle it,
like the other tough stuff that haunts me

so this morning, when I drown in the file laughingly called
100 & One Drafts
a J'accuse (1) finger stabs my eyes and repeats the caveat of the sage
Hillel the Elder: (1)
If not now, when?

and even as I sit and compose,
the words refuse to surrender unto me
for easy transcription
and the chest tight with guilt, from all the
promises I've made and remain
unkempt & unkept,
that stunt and stun my spirit,
with inconsolable sadness

So
I distract myself,
check the sleeping woman<
take my morning meds,<
reheat my "The Gamblers Mug" (Cezanne)(1) of morning coffee,<
and alas, at last, once more surrender to my worst,
and issue an invitation to >you<
come visit me, come walk with me,
perhaps together, a greater good will emerge,
and we will feed each others tongues
with syllables and sounds,
that will trigger,
go figure!
a suitable poem
worthy of a great art work,
the lace of diatoms
in the water,
that our eyes cannot see,
but our hearts
can feel
and with better words,
be so honored,
by a poem
truly worthy
of this

miraculous
conception

The river flows here and goes
Under the wooden floorboards,
Under my happy, shoeless feet
Walking the bridge behind the roads.
Shh, listen: listen up close.

Leaves, many, plenty to touch.
Rustle: speak the winds from here,
The river seems a little trickle
Beside my grateful, rippling tear,
Flowing down my cheek in cheer.

Trees in bounty, near and far,
Gifts for us who cherish the presents.
Far on the riverside, there on the hill and
Here by the bridge in perfect presence,
Hiding, then shining a golden magnificence.

The evening sundown. Red on the river
And crisp dressing for velvet clovers.
The scent of nature, of everything, resounds
Much as the blues of the river flow over,
And I breathe it in: a breezy windhover.

Perhaps, back home, I would only imagine:
Crimson reds and riverbed blues.
Now, out here on the bridge by the river,
I take this home in ones and twos.
A walk in the woods: my reds and blues.

i've always been a stream
ever flowing
ever changing
carving my way through the earth's tender skin
whispering ancient secrets to the stones newly birthed from the mountain's embrace,
their edges sharp with youth.
i mourn the fleeting death of grass
knowing it will return,
yet feeling each loss as if it were the last.
i greet the birds that dip their wings in my waters,
the trees that shade my journey,
the life that springs and fades along my edges,
each moment, a momentary reflection
in my endless course.
i move on,
carrying memories that dissolve in my depths
until all that remains is the motion,
the ceaseless forgetting.

i've always admired the ocean,
vast and ancient,
cradling life beneath its dark, unknowable surface.
it bears witness to the birth and death
of a million dreams
yet holds onto the bones of forgotten worlds
that rest in its silent, sunken graves.
unchanging, it reflects the sky's face
absorbing the storms
but never surrendering its secrets.
the ocean is stillness,
a deep, solitary wisdom
i've always longed to be.

oh, to be the ocean,
to hold the weight of history in my depths,
to be vast, to be constant,
to be silent,
but never alone.