The Mighty Missouri, Longest River in the U.S.
—Poetry by Kimberly Bolton, Jefferson City, MO
—Public Domain Photos
I followed in the footsteps
of October
all the way through December.
I waded deep through January snows,
and shivered with February’s chilblains,
til I came to the sheer drop off of March,
where the trees stood holding their breath in suspense,
and the wind blew, searching every nook and cranny
for spring,
filled with the expectant elation of the common flower
left to bloom alone in the woods,
as if brought to life by a sprinkle of angelblood,
as silver as rain.
of October
all the way through December.
I waded deep through January snows,
and shivered with February’s chilblains,
til I came to the sheer drop off of March,
where the trees stood holding their breath in suspense,
and the wind blew, searching every nook and cranny
for spring,
filled with the expectant elation of the common flower
left to bloom alone in the woods,
as if brought to life by a sprinkle of angelblood,
as silver as rain.
HIGHWAY
This highway I travel today and have driven so many times
in past wanderings on my way to somewhere else,
where others, in their cars, trucks, SUVs, RVs, Porsches,
Harleys, Fords and Chevys, go their own way to wherever it is they go.
This highway, was once a thoroughfare,
was once a road heading out of town,
was once a prosperous trade route,
was once a rutted wagon trail,
was once a backwoodsman’s footpath,
was once an old animal path through dense woods.
It is a route on a modern day map
that saw millennia of generations leaving,
on foot, by wagon train, by bus, or moving van,
some never to return,
while others felt compelled to come back
to the place where their journey began.
I think of them as I drive this lonely stretch of highway near sunset,
and I think I see them out there,
ghosts in the twilight, traveling along with me through a landscape
of buried memories and a past, which when it sees my headlights
coming at a distance, vanishes beyond the hills.
This highway I travel today and have driven so many times
in past wanderings on my way to somewhere else,
where others, in their cars, trucks, SUVs, RVs, Porsches,
Harleys, Fords and Chevys, go their own way to wherever it is they go.
This highway, was once a thoroughfare,
was once a road heading out of town,
was once a prosperous trade route,
was once a rutted wagon trail,
was once a backwoodsman’s footpath,
was once an old animal path through dense woods.
It is a route on a modern day map
that saw millennia of generations leaving,
on foot, by wagon train, by bus, or moving van,
some never to return,
while others felt compelled to come back
to the place where their journey began.
I think of them as I drive this lonely stretch of highway near sunset,
and I think I see them out there,
ghosts in the twilight, traveling along with me through a landscape
of buried memories and a past, which when it sees my headlights
coming at a distance, vanishes beyond the hills.
STORIES
My stories belong to hills and hollers of my ancestors.
My words push up through the earth,
like slow-growing trees,
trees that tell the stories that are never finished,
as each descendant pioneers its own generation.
Memories move over these hills,
chasing each other through the fields and woods,
reminding me where I came from.
Where I’m going.
Where it is I may end up.
The wind picks up the thread of each story
it has continued to tell for millennia,
looking to find a willing ear.
My stories belong to hills and hollers of my ancestors.
My words push up through the earth,
like slow-growing trees,
trees that tell the stories that are never finished,
as each descendant pioneers its own generation.
Memories move over these hills,
chasing each other through the fields and woods,
reminding me where I came from.
Where I’m going.
Where it is I may end up.
The wind picks up the thread of each story
it has continued to tell for millennia,
looking to find a willing ear.
ALL OF POETRY I EVER WROTE
All of poetry I ever wrote grew up in this town by the river
that moves with ease from past to present,
wrinkling in the sunlight as it rounds the bend toward the future.
Sometimes I don’t think I give the river due credit.
The river speaks to me, fills me with words, luscious and sweet,
dredged deep from its immortal soul.
Its beauty and its beautiful words touch my soul,
the way a chalice of wine touches the lips.
The river says drink your fill.
The river tells me I haven’t said nearly enough yet.
______________________
Today’s LittleNip:
Storytelling is the most powerful way to put ideas into the world today.
—Robert McKee
______________________
We celebrate Jefferson City, MO poets this week, as we welcomed Michael Brownstein yesterday and Kimberly Bolton today—both fine poets who are most welcome in the Kitchen, even if they DO still have snow on their boots to shake off onto our welcome mat. Hey—your snow is a pleasure to hear about! We could sure use some of our own out here in the West! (For more about the Mighty Mo, go to www.legendsofamerica.com/mo-missouririver/.)
This coming Thursday at 7pm, Poetry Night Reading Series in Davis presents Michael Melody with Spencer X. Rico and singer/actress Gabrielle Battista. Open mic after the readers (four min. or 2 items). John Natsoulas Gallery, 521 1st St., Davis, CA. Please mask your vaccinated selves before entering the Gallery. Host: Dr. Andy Jones. Info: www.facebook.com/events/627486974980865/?acontext={"source"%3A"29"%2C"ref_notif_type"%3A"plan_user_invited"%2C"action_history"%3A"null"}¬if_id=1645777416148073¬if_t=plan_user_invited&ref=notif/.
______________________
—Medusa
Photos in this column can be enlarged by
clicking on them once, then clicking on the x
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Would you like to be a SnakePal?
All you have to do is send poetry and/or
photos and artwork to
kathykieth@hotmail.com. We post
work from all over the world—including
that which was previously published—
and collaborations are welcome.
Just remember:
the snakes of Medusa are always hungry—
for poetry, of course!
clicking on them once, then clicking on the x
in the top right corner to come back to Medusa.
Would you like to be a SnakePal?
All you have to do is send poetry and/or
photos and artwork to
kathykieth@hotmail.com. We post
work from all over the world—including
that which was previously published—
and collaborations are welcome.
Just remember:
the snakes of Medusa are always hungry—
for poetry, of course!
