The Poetry Of.
L. Ward Abel........................................................
Pour the Gamble
Where the bluff rolls
down to edges,
trees
hang over riverbanks;
they cling to weathering
red clay, roots exposed
outward above waters,
waters that they crave.
And it seems in their balancing
too much of a good thing
has blinded them to fear
of a deluge, of being swept
down to sea. Still the thready
dirt just barely holds: all for
ecstasy, all for risk, without
regard of consequence that
always always
overflows.
Frozen River in Georgia
With the clarity of death
November enters,
embraces me. High Falls
freezes in mid drop;
while under it
I could touch the edge
of a halted Towaliga
River. Cornerstones
wait in vain,
they thirst below.
Nearby, only walls
remain in old powerhouse
ruins; I lie wrapped there
naked, my breath rises,
memory. Yes
bright sunlight flakes
onto my expression, but
it is not the air that is
cold.
Passage to Homosassa
There is no water path
across the body of God;
no unbroken flow to catch
through
blooms, moss, forest,
and yet last night I did.
I passed from Flagler Beach
west to the Gulf, point to point,
in a boat of my own making,
reaching out for destiny
or destination
in the waning of light,
land without passage, but
soil and sand turned clear and full
as if melted into moving glass
by a coolness, and
I was led beyond overhang
to a horizon of metaphors
into open sea. Sponge divers
paused
amazed at my arrival,
recognizing contradiction,
whispering through steel
among soft green. I was not
alone.
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