Paul Stansbury
My Creek
When I close my eyes,
The memory of my creek flows fiercely
Through the cataracts of my mind.
The bustle of its clear water fills my ears
With the rush of getting where it's going - and fast.
Burnished stones push their shaven heads
Above fall's parched stream,
Forming slippery pathways from bank to bank,
Tantalizing the sure of foot to cross.
Cold feet splash in puddles at its edges
Crawdads back under rocks to hide
From curious hands.
Winter bonfires glow along the bank.
Ice skating till dark,
Then, hot chocolate and marshmallows.
My creek swells with the spring rains
Rushing out from its banks,
Filling the bottom field with muddy water,
The color of my Grandmother's coffee.
Bluegill and catfish gather in the pools,
Waiting for bait dangled from old cane poles.
Feet dangle in the cool bath on a hot summer's day,
Between innings played on a makeshift field,
Laid out with hats in the hollow nearby.
Mulberry and sycamore trees form the nave,
Branches stretching out across the water,
Sunlight breaking through
The stained glass mosaic of their leaves.
Now, I stare down at my creek,
Prodded and pushed to make room,
For streets and roads, houses and restaurants.
Nothing more than a drainage ditch of progress.
How old I feel.
Paul Stansbury is a life long native of Kentucky. Now retired, he lives in Danville, Kentucky. He frequently reads his work in public. His poetry has appeared in Kentucky Monthly and has been accepted for an upcoming issue of Rising Phoenix Review. His stories have appeared in the anthologies, Brief Grislys, published by Apocryphile Press, Neo-Legends To Last A Deathtime published by KY Story, and Frightening published by SEZ Publishing. His work has also appeared in a variety of on-line publications.
My Creek
When I close my eyes,
The memory of my creek flows fiercely
Through the cataracts of my mind.
The bustle of its clear water fills my ears
With the rush of getting where it's going - and fast.
Burnished stones push their shaven heads
Above fall's parched stream,
Forming slippery pathways from bank to bank,
Tantalizing the sure of foot to cross.
Cold feet splash in puddles at its edges
Crawdads back under rocks to hide
From curious hands.
Winter bonfires glow along the bank.
Ice skating till dark,
Then, hot chocolate and marshmallows.
My creek swells with the spring rains
Rushing out from its banks,
Filling the bottom field with muddy water,
The color of my Grandmother's coffee.
Bluegill and catfish gather in the pools,
Waiting for bait dangled from old cane poles.
Feet dangle in the cool bath on a hot summer's day,
Between innings played on a makeshift field,
Laid out with hats in the hollow nearby.
Mulberry and sycamore trees form the nave,
Branches stretching out across the water,
Sunlight breaking through
The stained glass mosaic of their leaves.
Now, I stare down at my creek,
Prodded and pushed to make room,
For streets and roads, houses and restaurants.
Nothing more than a drainage ditch of progress.
How old I feel.
Paul Stansbury is a life long native of Kentucky. Now retired, he lives in Danville, Kentucky. He frequently reads his work in public. His poetry has appeared in Kentucky Monthly and has been accepted for an upcoming issue of Rising Phoenix Review. His stories have appeared in the anthologies, Brief Grislys, published by Apocryphile Press, Neo-Legends To Last A Deathtime published by KY Story, and Frightening published by SEZ Publishing. His work has also appeared in a variety of on-line publications.