The Creek

From Dreams Of The Motherland, one of my nine chapbooks of poetry self-published between the years 1999-2004:

The Creek
(Formerly labeled as “Untitled #1”)

The creek started out a tiny stream
Emerging, first, from the hills and beneath the old bridge
Creating a pond on the upper beach
that you could row a boat across
And then trickling its way, carving
its way through the sand, inching its way
by memory of the moon, instincts of time
finding its way, crawling its way to
the wide open endless ocean
It was like that for as long as I can remember
I used to go down there
and wonder about the world
I was young, but old enough
to read the writing on my soul
Bare feet, legs and more, toes in the sand
splashing through the creek
which you could jump across anyway
but if you’d just dove naked into the
cold ocean waves, then why would you?
Walking down the forbidden
into endless stretches of unknown beach
Gambling with the tide
and the towering white sand cliffs
It was all very raw and beatitude
and I found it easy to accept myself there
Never noticing the stories
which lined the high-reaching earthen seawalls
as my own story unfolded
so tiny like that trickling creek below
More than  a quarter of a century has passed now
The creek has grown into a baby river
Pond emptying into the great watery horizon
leaving timeworn wooden relics
scattered throughout dry sands
I was off scanning other horizons
Reading the faces of distant cities
of high desert walls and granite mountainsides
telling stories of other lands and other lives
I would still visit that beach
but never made it past the block of rushing water
Always in a hurry
chasing some adult dream
never willing to kick off my shoes
get my clothes wet
To the edge of freshwater stream would be as far as I’d get
Only gazing at, never crossing into
the mesmerizing distant tunnel of sand, mist and sea
Until the other day, just a while back
I drove down to that old haunt
I was ready to feel some elements against my skin
wade up to my knees, my waist, swim out
if I had to, to reach the empty stretches beyond
And I arrived to find
the river had changed, altered its course
like a giant arm welcoming, beckoning me to olden shores
It turned the corner of the cliff
and weaved its way down along
the foot of endless sandstone walls
Opening up vast, forgotten dreamland turf
before finding its way back to the tide
Without having to cross it, I went barefoot anyway
I walked, and walked, and kept on walking
down primal paths decorated with fossil clues of ancient life
and the colossal carving arms of ocean
that shone like a mirror, reflecting infinity
Ashes of native souls drifted in with the fog
as the cliff-side came to life
Towering imperial bluffs with faces
all blanched white and tan and moldering
eroded, crumbling, sculpted by a nautical wind
Deep sad black eyes
staring out from el tierra
Mouths open and twisting
moaning echos of the Pacific Ocean and the great beyond
Chiseled skulls and elder spirits, so many haunted expressions
like colonies of spectors
carved from every bit of rubble
by unrelenting weather and the planet’s orbit
The sad and noble motion of time passing
And the faces moved and breathed
flowed and changed like ether
Exuding raw emotion, something untouched
caught in the edge, trapped between planes
Ripped away from the Motherland
so abruptly, so long ago
and staring out with longing over oceanic skies
to a home even they only dreamed of
while once freely roaming these shores
High above, the roadway climbs over secret hills
where hidden broken walls below
harbor countless stone entities
returning, revealing their stories through the process of nature
Crowned with pampas leave headdresses
scattered along the highway and smooth canyons
which roll on in abysmal silence
And the fog never stops rolling in
Since that day the creek-bed has again changed its course
Taking the shorter route, straight down to the big salt water
I could still just roll up my jeans and wade across
into that mysterious corrider
But I haven’t
I’d like to think
that for one special day in this world
the gate was opened
Allowing me to enter
into a lost and forgotten sanctified sphere
 

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About Unsungpoet

Life-long poet, numerologist, author of other previously unpublished works :)
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5 Responses to The Creek

  1. What a beautiful account and entry here Unsung.. arrgh you have had me rolling my own jeans up as I paddled across the water.. I think sometimes we only need that one ‘Gateway’ in which to reflect and allow ourselves to be swept back up within the memories of it all.. Savouring it as we taste again that experience that lives so vivid within our minds… I know I hold sacred a few of those.. And with a tear that trickles from the corner of my eye.. I am so Happy that you revisited this place and were able to capture it within your heart once more..
    Love to you.. Your writing is an excellent discription full of nostalgia and love.. ~Sue xxx

    • Unsungpoet says:

      Much gratitude for your rich insights and kind words. This poem means alot to me because it is a very special place and was an incredible day, one I’ll always remember…These reflections hold so much timeless spirit, feeling and sentiment that can sometimes be emotionally overwhelming but is life-blood of the soul all the same…

  2. Enjoyed this – thank you!
    anne

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