a crestfallen swan passes,
the forest curtain, lovely drawn.
like me, but
perhaps just my reflection

sitting in my driftwood shoe
gliding over another mirage,
the buried clone of sky.


covered in the
smell of mountain thaw
and ever-

the watercolors fading like
my hands' signatures
with my paddle. I

dip my oar into wise wrinkles
disrupting the stillness

like rain

the wetness
makes me al-
so water.
"like glass" they say too often,
too often.

how stillness carries voice and soul
for miles, if i wish
catching me an impromptu icthus
slippering through the wadi bed. they

search for the epileptic waters
and the hard shade
to stash their baby grapes.

but why murder?
the quiet.

by Doyen Lingua

Comments (2)

Reflections of this poem is So deep in nature. I liked the way you rendered your ideas in alluring words. Very creative of its type!
I have two friends, avid canoeists, who will love this poem. They moved to Portland for moutntain climbing. Alas, my dear friend Richard passed, but his widow still lives there - I will send the poem to her. Just for a moment my mind revolted against the fact of his death. I won't erase this. There was a reason for it... This poem strikes as another luminous poem like INVITATION. The events in the outside world are meshed with the interior monologue'. It's hard to say this prose, but inner and outer are no contradiction. They exist in tandem in the suspended moments of poem with the steady motion of paddling, the presence of water that solvent working on the speaker's mind, a kind of alchemy is happening herein.