Volume 24, Number 140,

3 poems: New Brunswick is Water, Cedar Song and The Sound of Light On Water
by William Wren

New Brunswick is Water

New Brunswick is water
continually flowing
to rivers and bays
and the ocean, Atlantic.
It dribbles and floods,
gushes and spurts,
with a pause now and then
for catching its breath
before it starts coursing
all over again.
It runs through the parks
and the forests abounding
as rain, as springs, as
rivulets seeking
to merge with the one,
forever Atlantic.
Everything smells
like creation’s first day
as it launders the streets,
past the curbs to the drains,
and further to other
drains that are waiting
for water that’s flowing,
perpetual movement,
dirty and clean,
driven to rivers,
and bays, and the ocean,
forever Atlantic,
in the wash of a wish
to never run dry.

Cedar Song

Below the cedars,
beneath the sun,
a weave of memories
comes undone.

Chipmunk on the right.
Chickadee ahead.
A circling buzz of bee
about your thin-haired head.

Sitting by the fire pit,
ashes long gone cold,
recalling the adventures had
when even you were bold

and playing under cedar trees
below a brighter sun.
Playing, weaving memories.
The you that was, now gone.

The highway hum of distant waves
beneath the cedar sound
of a shushing breeze.
It’s nostalgia you have found.

Is any of it real,
this weave of false and true
memories you’re recalling?
What’s it mean to you?

What does it mean?
How does it appear -
the cedars, waves, the ash cold pit?
Does anything cohere?

And if there is no meaning,
what are you doing here?

The Sound of Light On Water

A cry of a gull as it curves off the land.
The hiccuping chitter of jays and chickadees
in pines and maples and the fully leaved
birch, that flexible sentry. The shush of a breeze
brushing the cedars. A prattle of squirrels
and the lapping of water at the side of a boat
like the licking of dogs at a bowl.
The laughter and cries and shouts of surprise
of the children on the beach, finding feathers, building
castles, playing tag with the waves rolling in.
The sheen of the rocks, petted wet by the lake,
a gurgle of giggle with every caress.
The dulling hum of lawnmowers, grooming lawns
in a pretense of order, as lovers
whisper a stroll on the damp of the shore.
Down an oiled road, a radio plays,
and somewhere a cell phone rings
that no one will answer. No one will care
on a day made of sun and all we can hear
is the sound of light on water.