Quickwords Vol. 27 – By the creek


School is rather busying and I’ve quite a few academic projects that call for just as much creativity as I’d like to put into my writing, so I’m rather grateful to have been taken up by a sudden wave of inescapable inspiration that led me to write this. Welcome to the twenty-seventh volume of Quickwords!

Autumn leaves flow between stones in a wide gentle creek. Beyond a treeline of dark evergreens, snow tops distant mountains.

| Shack by the creek |

He who lives in the shack by the creek
Hears running water
Every minute, hour, day, and week
Once, upon a withered time, they advised
For a restful hiatus from being fodder
From a world that never dared be meek
A trip somewhere, you earnest have to try it
So bags he packed and never bothered
To fear, alone, he’d find a way to fill the quiet

| Black Leaves |

We sat down on the creekside
and dipped our feet
into the water
It was crisp, calm,
A crystalline ichor

“I like watching the leaves pass,”
I said, under the ringing bells
of autumn’s call
as foliage sailed the brook
He just nodded, and
She took a deep breath

Sunbeams bounced off
the ambrosia current
into my flickering gaze

But,

A black leaf caught my eye
and my heart
Squeezed in the way of boas

I sprung into the stream
Tearful mountains erupting
in my wake
I wrenched out the rot
I amputated that which
Brought my real face to wince

They watched my breathless return
“What is this?”
I cried
With coal crumbling
in my palm

“You don’t have to do that,”
he said
“The creek would carry it away anyway.”

Fractal fear on my face,
from the ferocity of the first flame
Makes the blood rush
The lungs tighten
The skin itch

“All this fuss,”
she said,
offering towel and austerity,
“You’re tired, soaked, and afraid.
Let the black leaves pass as all things do.”
She made an
embracing gesture to the water

“The Flow of Time,”
he followed
“The Stream of Consciousness,”
she added
“Everything passes on,”
they ended,
viewing the venture of the verdure

Sobbing elixir,
Dazed by nonchalance,
I mumbled to myself,
“Don’t worry, it was nothing,”
and abandoned
an inconsequential
product of my mind

Yet static veins broke in
On the opposite bank
Dressed in riches
that were never rags,
and smelling of
cologne I’d be dead before I wore
A smirking man knelt and said,
“If the bad ones don’t matter, then neither do the good,”
And I lost my grip on myself

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