Venus of the Little Spokane

Sculpture by Rick Davis

Image by Jesse Swanson

You may think you can

Ride her or

Float on her surface

But she rises

From the river

Flips your kayak

Right over

And laughs

At your plans.

 

Pink

See how I have returned to you:

Bright and flushed and new!

You who have trusted

The prophecy

Of each potential bloom,

Have had your faith rewarded.

Why weep

Or wonder

Or worry

About how long

I will stay?

Pink is

By nature

Impermanent.

But while it lasts,

It saves.

The Way

The path to the river

Is green again

The earth is firm

But tender

Beneath my feet

The grass lays itself

Down as I walk

The way

To the water

Is straight

And sure

And soft

Rage (NaPoWriMO Day 5)

My spring softening
froze over upon seeing
deer eat my tulips


www.sweetclipart.com

Relief (NaPoWriMo Day 4)

When the grass

On the path to the

River turns green

Everything in me

Loosens and releases, finds relief

In knowledge that

I have a

Solid, straight place to put

My feet and

A way forward

Without risk of injury or

Muddy, demeaning grief

NaPoWriMo Prompt 4
Today’s optional prompt is to write a lune. A lune is a sort of English-language variation on the haiku, meant to better render the tone of the Japanese haiku than the standard 5-7-5 format we all learned (and maybe loved) in elementary school. There are a couple of variants on the lune form, but just to keep things simple, let’s try the version developed by Jack Collum. His version of the lune involves a three-line stanza. The first line has three words. The second line has five, and the third line has three. You can write a poem that consists of just one stanza, or link many lune-stanzas together into a unified poem. Happy writing!

Arrival (NaPoWriMo Day 1)

The way the river swells and pushes

The way the meadow sits brown and heavy

The way I switch with distrust from wool socks to cotton

The way the trailhead parking lot overflows on Sundays

The way ice gives way to mud and makes the hikers giddy

The way my face craves affection,

And turns with gratitude

To the stingy, sometimes-blue sky.

Resolutions Made at the Little Spokane River on My 45th Birthday

To walk.

To watch.

To write.

To know the precise green of the pines.

To be like the meadow and hold—

            then release—

            all in good time.

To avoid hunching my shoulders

            and clenching my teeth.

To sit in front of a candle,

            be still,

            and breathe.

And upon signs of confusion

            see above

            and repeat.

March Grass

There is a terrible tenderness in March grass

In the bare and the grey

In the defeated way

It lays flat

After the weight

Of snow

I walk gingerly

Around it

Stay on the asphalt

But still

I feel its dryness in

The cracks in my hands

And the lines around my eyes

And I know

It’s a sign

That I should sit

On the fencepost

And stay

But instead I deny it—

Three times—

And walk away

Good Friday on the Little Spokane

The deer, their coats matted and brown,
will not stay.
They risk the road instead.
The turkey turns his back,
is deliberate,
spreads his feathers.
The river pushes past,
smug with forward motion.
Its grasses press down,
stay low,
feign indifference.
The meadow
is heavy
with still water,
winter’s unwanted remains.
She assents.
She contains.

On the Suspension Bridge

Last week's Big Tent Poetry prompt gave us the opportunity to cure ourselves of whatever ails us. Since I'm a bit tired of winter right now, I chose to imagine springtime at the suspension bridge over the Spokane River at the Bowl and Pitcher. I also am preparing to teach some of my students about blank verse, so I wound up trying my hand at it. I'm not sure of the results, but here you go...

On the suspension bridge my feet face south
Spring’s swollen current rushes past below
The river, through with February’s chore
Of churning sediment from melting ice,
Is free to rush in aquamarine haste
While I bend from my waist and launch my mind
Out on the river’s triumphant stampede
Inevitable motion! It is mine--
I give myself to its wet urgency
And overpower solid rocks and stones
We glory in the lack of should and will
And gush and rush and spray out do and now
But all this happens while my feet stand still
And calmly wait on the suspension bridge
Through wood and water’s kind duality
I know myself as anchor and as sail

The way 2010 ends

This week's prompt at Big Tent Poetry suggested we write a list poem...

The way bare and brown branches gain a grand sense of purpose
The way the thinnest of twigs fill out with importance
The way the moose lays her babies in soft, frozen blankets
The way my poor feet slide while the deer remain fleet-footed
The way the pine trees bow down with silver concession
The way the Little Spokane sighs with knowing and welcome,
broadens her shoulders, and goes back to sleep.

Early Summer

The Little Spokane brims with forward motion
and the fulfillment of half a year’s promises.
Men and women float themselves on her surface.
Buoyant with expectation, they dip their paddles
in her fluid plenty, claiming for their own
her bends and eddies, her happy irises and
waving grasses, framing it all through mechanical
lenses. The mother moose sees them bob by
from the corner of her muddy eye and doesn’t move.
She stays down and lends her weight to the solid ground.

Today marks the last day of National Poetry Month, and my 30th poem for the month. I did it! 30 poems in 30 days! I wish to thank the good folks at readwritepoem for their support and the community they provide for poets. They close their virtual doors tomorrow, and I will miss them terribly!

What Is

Last week's readwritepoem prompt gave me a lot to think about, as it asked me to consider what I believe and what I do not believe. It was quite an experience for me, and I think I will actually have several short poems as a result of the exercises. Here is the first:

I am the Little Spokane
Forced to flow and push
My cold waters against
Unforgiving shoulders of land
And He is the colorless Winter Grass
Who consents to the flattening
Of snow and mud and lays
Himself down alongside me
And remains.
And rustles hoarsely in
My watery ears:
I know, I know…

July Moose

We had not met
since January snow
and there we were
in the July sun—
she, in the water
stretching out all four legs,
rooting herself to the mud
and dipping her head
to take what she needed
from the river’s floor—
I, in my car
staring from the road above
admiring how she
shrugged off
the pointing paddlers,
assigning them no
importance,
as if to say, If a
girl can’t
spread her limbs
and stand her ground
in the stretched out days
of summer,
when?
How will she hold fast,
what will she do
as the light shrinks
back
and autumn leaves
tangle
round her ankles
again?

The Walk

If what you are for me
were a scent
it would be
trees in the rain
near the Little Spokane

Spokane Shines

Check out this post on one of my favorite blogs, A Tidings of Magpies, for a wonderful story about a Spokane banker. (Happily, this story is not about bailouts--just ducks!)

break through

Today's napowrimo prompt asked us to write about sound...

the Little Spokane

is loud with frogs and geese come

north where they belong

my winter ears stretch

and yawn, lean in to hear such

impossible song

Muddy

The Little Spokane is slow and muddy now.
Bogged down with debris from melting snow,
it groans and pushes its shoulder
against the solid banks.
Spring is an effort.
You have to shake off so
many months of cold inertia.
Ice is easy.
It provides the perfect cover
for lies of omission.
Spring requires acts of contrition.
The Little Spokane has no choice but
to move.
But me, I want to build a dam,
then go to sleep.



This is my first poem for napowrimo, a program for National Poetry Month from readwritepoem. The challenge is a poem a day for the month of April!
readwritepoem.org

March makes one more spectacle of himself on his way out

March says ha! And laughs
His way out the door before
He wretches and falls

Drunk winter gives spring the middle finger

(from KHQ.com)

When snow comes in March,
Drunk winter belches, knows it’s
Almost closing time

There’s nothing worse than
The guest who stumbles, gets sick
All over his shoes