The ocean’s discipline,
never calm or serene,
with storms and waves
to punish me.
The sea’s great brilliance,
wise with age.
Sea-gods and pirates
tell tales of rage.
The puddle’s innocence,
made by the rain.
Splashed by a footstep,
muddy tears of pain.
The river’s beauty,
so misunderstood.
A few people fish it,
but that’s not very good.
As two brothers come
to the river to fish,
the river realizes
he's getting his wish.
The brothers cast
their rods like whips.
The river, he cries.
There's no grace in their grips.
Just when he thinks
That someone could care,
he is beaten with gall,
and his family’s not there.
The brothers go home,
the river left bloody.
He feels like a fool
since he trusted somebody.
As he weeps silent tears,
the river seeks pity.
His waters are troubled,
his streams are gritty.
Out of the abyss
of the river’s pain
comes a salty breeze
and a seaweed rain.
He hears a voice
like the sound of the wind
come 'cross the earth
from his aqueous kin.
His mother speaks
and his sister listens.
His father watches
as the river glistens.
The water spells “love”
and the river is pleased
as their kindness
spreads over the autumn leaves.
He finally realizes
that all things are one,
that they are connected
by blood and by bone.
The river is joyous,
for now someone cares.
His heart is not empty,
his emotions not bare.
The ocean’s his mother,
his father’s the sea,
his sister’s the puddle.
But the river is me.
I swiftly flow over
the basement of time.
Under rocks are words,
and the words are mine.
These waters have merged
into a body of fluid.
We are fused into one,
and a river runs through it.
YOU ARE READING
A Golden Afternoon: The Collected Poetry of the Late Matthew Packard
PoetryThis is simply a collection of previously unpublished (and unseen) poems written by my late Uncle Matthew. I hope you enjoy reading them as much as I enjoyed finding them.
