Poetry for Silent River

Dropping Off

By Neal Bowers

To walk on the bottom of the river,

you must sink steadily,

feet first, letting the air go

a bubble at a time,

toes feeling for the mud,

hands two fins

to steer you down,

your head descending

through the amber atmosphere

into yellow--reds and browns,

beyond the brain's small chatter

the heart's insistent kicking,

down to the spring-fed current

where the big fish slumber

in the soundless haze,

a twilight silence

pressing at your ears--

under.

Silent River

By Michael Carey

I.

Falling, falling,

a curtain

of water,

stained glass

staining layers

of time,

which is stone,

which is sand,

moving even,

as this colored water

moves in it

and over it

and beyond.

II.

Yellow tongue,

buried treasure,

tissue of earth

fluttering --

cleanse me,

cool me,

carry me away

from all this

falling.

III.

The river is yellow.

The river is white.

It is fine lace

changing -- red

amber, gray --

according to the fire,

according to the wind,

according to the eye,

according to the light,

in the eye

of the beholder.