Her Smile Springleaping
in the Liquidy Morn

THE SAN MARCOS RIVER CLEANUP

Rolling, bubbling, spinning with glee,
she escapes into light...and is running free.
Pristine, pure and clear as air
her waters wander downhill from there.

Life abounds in her gathering purity
though men need glass-bottom boats to see
the fair, the rare and the one-of-a-kind
that inhabit her mouth at the peak of her climb.

Along the banks, the lonely earth can hear
the fleeing river's joy through elephant ears.
Above the San Marcos whispers the breeze
through the flickering wands of cypress leaves.

My love and I launch our trusty boat
and amongst the water hyacinth we float
down the curling, curving path
carved by the river in eons past.

Along the banks, the cypress knees
like coiling anacondas brace the trees
against the flood that always comes
to wrench and tear at their wooden bones.

As our canoe glides ‘round a curve
a fallen giant lays overturned
and we must leave our bobbing boat
and climb across the leafy moat.

Then, once again, we're on our way
down towards the Guadalupe and San Antonio Bay,
down towards the Gulf of Mexico,
where the waters of the San Marcos finally go.

But we can't think so far afield.
The river is up. The rapids are real.
There's many a hazard to body and boat.
It's a glorious challenge just to stay afloat.

Soon, she and the sparkling Blanco converge.
A song of two sisters begins to emerge,
There, a flotilla of lilies show bloom.
In this bouquet of beauty, an old tire is entombed.

We glide up to join a few kindred souls.
To clean the San Marcos is our lofty goal.
Paddlers have gathered to pay recompense
they owe to the river for past dalliance.

We set to work the best we are able
to wrest man's filth from the river's cradle.
Beer cans and hyacinth crushed together in rafts
float down river shrieking man's lapse.

Styrofoam shrapnel, good for eons of blight,
bobs on the surface in flashes of white.
Glass and fishing line caught in the mire,
an occasional car battery or radial tire.

All promise doom for the birds and the fish
and fulfillment to mankind's same old death wish.
We fill up the bags. We pile up the boats.
We load up the trucks but it's all a big joke.

“Only a miracle could clean up this mess"
I think in despair halfway through the test.
"No matter how much we gather,
there'll always be more"
as I survey the river with anger and scorn.

As we work, my righteous rage starts to build
at all of the power we so blindly wield.
Like a craven scavenger, a passionless vulture,
so works the detritus of casual culture.

At first, I shout at the people upstream.
"Can't you see what you're doing" I scream?
"This is the river that named your whole town.
It's the City of San Marcos" I cry all around.

Then I blame it on the state and the nation.
"You are the conservator of this situation!
You are responsible for the future” I call.
I heard only echos and no action at all.

Then I blamed it all on myself.
I dusted off the conscience that sat on the shelf.
I was a hypocrite, a wastrel, a tool...
The fate of the planet was in the hands of a fool.

"I talk a good game but I play along.
I indulge myself first, whether it's right or wrong."
Into this banquet of self-recrimination
a raindrop did fall, then more precipitation.

A springtime shower becomes a deluge.
We paddle for safety. The rise will be huge.
We load up the boats and head for our homes.
It rains for three days then I come back alone.

The river had risen and brought a small flood.
The wildflowers lay on their sides in the mud.
As I stood there that day, I noticed one thing.
Something was different. The river was clean.

The heavens above had finished our task.
The river was cleaner than we could have asked.
I slowly realized as the water rolled by
that the real river clean-ups always happen on high.

The earth's not at risk. It's we who will die.
Like the dinosaurs before us, humans will try
to rule the world with tooth and gun.
But, the earth makes the rules... and it's will be done.

We will learn to fit in or we will not survive.
The planet cares not if we’re dead or alive.
The San Marcos River will run clean one fine day.
Perhaps we'll be there, perhaps gone away.

THE WILD SISTERS DANCE

"Come to me" their breathless sigh.
"Here is where your seed should lie.
Come taste, come touch our sweet desire.
Come join us in our dance of fire."

An adventurer on a hunt for gold
hears their call so frank and bold.
It sets his hardy heart abuzz
to hear their wanton song of love.

He lands and takes the nearest hold
dancing in her fragrant folds
seeking out her sweetest parts
their union blessing both their hearts.

Then as he rises up to go
she whispers softly, "You should know,
my sisters desire caresses fair.
Wild sisters, their lovers, always share."

And so, a stalwart lover true
he gives his best from bloom to bloom
and flies around the flowering field
as each sister's lusting petals yield.

If love can be so wild and free
for a field of flowers and a honey bee
why not also for you and I?
Are our hearts too cold and shy?

Come with me my special one.
Lie with me in the morning sun
on a rainbow bed with sisters fair
like garlands 'round your flaming hair

We will make the heavens blush
with passions wild in gardens lush
and if cold-hearted men should disdain our play,
we shall answer, "It's nature's way."

"So off with you and your icy blood.
Our hearts are filled with naught but good.
"Leave us now to our romance
lovers who with wild sisters dance."

Copyright 1998 - Christopher K. Travis

More Chris Travis poetry here.

Return to Arts Page