May

Waterways: Poetry in the Mainstream, Volume 25, #5

The boatmen and clamdiggers arose early and stopped for me,I tucked my trowser ends in my boots and went and had a good time,You should have been with us that day round the chowder kettle.

Walt Whitman

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WATERWAYS: Poetry in the MainstreamVolume 25 Number 5 *MayDesigned, Edited and Published by Richard Spiegel & Barbara FisherThomas Perry, Admirable Factotum

c o n t e n t s

Waterways is published 11 times a year. Subscriptions -- $33 for 11 issues. Sample issues — $3.50 (includes postage).

Submissions will be returned only if accompanied by a stamped, self addressed envelope. Waterways, 393 St. Pauls Avenue, Staten Island, New York 10304-2127

©2005 Ten Penny Players Inc. *(This magazine is published 3/05)http://www.tenpennyplayers.org

D.T.Bolling 4-5Joan Payne Kincaid 6Andrew Fader 7Ida Fasel 8-9Herman Slotkin 10Jonathan Friedman 11-12

Geoff Stevens 13David Michael Nixon 14Lee Evans 15-17Jeanne Whalen 18Cynthia d’Este 19-20

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We mourn the recent deaths of long time supporter Sylvia Spiegeland poet, Herman Slotkin, whose work will continue to appear in thismagazine.

Coastal Motions — D. T. Bolling

This returning to what never withers,thought quickening along shoreas though world’s slow grind alreadyfades in sea gulls’ swift flightcarrying mind along up therewhere air sings, blooms, opensbeyond stale episteme, tropismbelow, whitecaps race in rhythmsof wind and sea speaking in tonguesscorning history’s cage,conjuring of desirewanting salt air anddreaming clouds

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a sea gull’s flightgreat white wings loftingin grace of motionfree of all fearendlessly

I want them never to die,or always over water,wings cruising airsmoothly as sleep in warmbeds of winter, all crueltyand cold banished to somewhereelse, or nevernot to find gulls’ wings or billsor talons askew in the sand or

rotting among rocksindifferent, busy insectshaving their timeless fill,precious soarings broken apartin death’s ignorant maw

thinking and matterthe stone and thedream of the stonedreaming within the stone,outside

our collars of hardness,our flights towardedges of things and beyond

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Joan Payne Kincaid

phragmites line the trail we stumblepast mud and puddlesGreat Black-backs watch the sea

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Deep in the Grove of Maples — Andrew Fader

on the south side away from the rock ledgethat falls off to the creek below,we finish the last wall of our fortby ten, crawl through its low doorto that small green meadowcut by time from the grove,then lay on our backs to watch scudswhose way is slow, uncharted.

All the while the creek below overrunsits banks, empties into a pool, and calms.

The one creates the two,the two create the ten thousand.

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Stymied — Ida Fasel

A mannamed Green assignedyou to oblivion,Whitman. Emerson took his praiseback fast.

A Gay*insisted youweren’t gay, but how much youcomforted and coveted your dear boys.

*Gay Wilson Allen

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Clean youngAmericanspreferred to foreigners.Your letters show you up. You area fraud.

Your yawpdistresses me,yet there are times the skybreaks out your Sound and Light show to my ah!

Times, too,I want to letit all out, whoop it upas you do, barbaric, then runand hide.9

GOOD DAY — Herman Slotkin

Crow caw,burble of dove,drifting in the sweetof new-cut grass,wing my morning walk.

Cackle of cutlery,simmer of sauce,spearing the muskof golden curry,fill the afternoon.

Tattle of talk,clatter of ideas,

stretching me outto dear, near people,enrich my evening.

Silence of sleep,dumb-show of dream.

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The Fishermen — Jonathan Friedman

The water teemed with fins.The water’s wobbling wavesdevoured them as the salt-air streamedfrom where the ocean roared.Their hands laid low; their eyeswere shrouded by their hands.

A voice sang strongly;from a raspy throat it soared.Then silence crept upon the men,lips arced to sky in bated breathsswimming, musing dreamily of fish.

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They matched the tide’s slow sighto the rowing rhythm far from shoreand crest to tow, toes laid lowanchored in sand where crabspinched and dragged their jagged clawsalong the shifting sands.

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Never Mind Never Again — Geoff Stevens

There are not plenty more anymorewe cannot all of us go fishingquotas have been handed outless are to be landed than before.Our opportunities have been diminished.There are plenty less fish in the sea.

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In Cold Sun — David Michael Nixon

I am a fishI am lifeI swim on

you are a birdyou are flightyou fly off

she is a turtleshe is earthshe remains

in cold sunin cold sunin cold sun

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Beachcombing — Lee Evans

Nothing: dazed fog,windy awesome surf rain;eyeglasses steaming nowhere;ocean flounders restlessly.White waves leonine manesleap crash against pier pilings,fierce predatory splash,roar foggy muffled. Boardwalkshops invisible facade;shadows where gulls fly;murmured seashell voices;dark tracks bare feet;beachcombing lost tide.

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End of Summer — Lee Evans

Giggles of delight:Two babies squealand splash at the beach,while Mama and Aunthold them under the armpits;waves coming up from behind,soaking the ladies’ rear ends.Look at those diapersbloated with brine!

I limp on the sand,my ankle still throbbing

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from yesterday, when Iwas knocked down righton the living room rugby a Samoyed whirlwind.

Four little handspat down the meek wavesthat vanish at four naked feet.Two smiles without teethflash instamaticallywith the camera’s wink.(If you want them again,just look in the album—they wait for you there.)

“Did you ever,” I askedthe Old Man of The Sea,as he leaned on his tridentand stared at the waves,“have so much fun playingout there in the water,you forgot who you were—and became Everything?”

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Orcas Island — Jeanne M. Whalen

Everything cold,water, wind,ending a perfect dayof beaches and barbecued salmon,dark snuggled uson the ferry rideback to realitywhile we wrapped ourselvesin sleeping-bag defense,spit cherry pitsinto black liquid glass,shouted Pearl Jam lyrics

until we cleared the deck and made it ours.I loved you then,but I knew it was a paradise disease,that I would bequarantineduntil the summer endedand my hormone-cardiologistcalled me home.

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Hearth Tender — Cynthia d’Este

Morning early,the moon’s just finished scoring symphonies on snow.The east’s awashwith ice cream.It’s very cold.

I must go to where the wood is buried,deep under white drifts,so I might feed the heartha teasing feast of sticks

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and dry branches—offer it some locust logsin sacrifice for heat.

The morning firefollows a ritual progressionbut seems each time new.

A new daya new fireset withnew fuel.

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