Out On The Lake
Out on the lake I sit, the
by Jonathan Ballam
grass is emerald, and the
lips of the leaves are green.
Alone, the birds talk like lovers,
They fly like children whose dreams
are still capped with their mother’s sleep,
in my zinc-tipped boat.
Out on the lake I row, I
face the sun, and its
worm-teeth test my flesh.
Thinking, I stir up some one’s essence
and I dig in with wooden-arms, a clear
head and a pale face full of ripples,
at a naked lake.
Out on the lake I watch, the
branches become people, the small
holes in the bark stare back.
Learning, I see rubber snakes who
throw out silver tongues at you.
Under the lake, murk turns to
Man, hidden notions rumble on.
In a flash, the buddha-peace
sets my sails. And with a curious
heart, I begin to travel
Out on the lake.