A Trip Into the Swamp

A TRIP INTO THE SWAMP

By Jeffrey M. Bowen

I stood in my back yard

And pondered the pine forest.

It looked calm, still, inviting.

As I walked in, pungent pine needles cushioned my feet.

Patches of bright sunlight and

Blankets of quiet shade created peacefulness.

The terrain levelled out.

Gradually, almost Imperceptibly,

The ground started to shift.

My feet began to squish.

I stumbled a bit as swampy water

Curled around my boots.

There were more mosquitoes who wanted my blood,

Persistently seeking patches of skin to exploit.

Soon I sank to my calves.

And then to my knees.

Reedy little islands beckoned.

I pushed toward one but could not reach it.

With each step I sank in further.

No longer could I move anywhere.

The swamp made sucking sounds.

Crickets answered and small frogs

Croaked as dusk approached.

Then dimly I spotted a man watching me.

Leaning against a scrawny tree on more solid ground,

He stared at my helpless situation

And seemed to smirk.

Then I heard him say,

Relax, you are SO safe,

In fact, you are in the best place ever.

Count my helping you get out.

But what have you got to give me back?

I like leverage and loyalty.

Can you give me that?

Compassion?  Forget it.

Give me your soul instead.

I gasped, could hardly breathe.

I said, OMG, are you the devil or something?

Why have I have been trapped by this mess.

How did my beautiful pine forest turn into a swamp?

He smiled quite gleefully and said,

Credit me. I did this, all me.

I have a real talent for it.

 You see, it is easy to trap people into getting what I want,

I make sure they have no choice.

Desperately, I grasped at surrounding swamp grass.

It just tore loose.

Then I noticed a noxious smell of methane gas and saw bubbles rising to the oily top.

I swore at this strange, alien figure,

But he just stood and smiled at me.

What can I do, I furiously yelled, as I swatted buzzing insects.

And by the way, how the hell did YOU get here?

Oh that was simple he replied:

I promised everyone I would make them great again.

I made sure those who opposed me got hated more.

All I needed was to be elected, to become the chosen one.

Then I built a swamp.  It works. I win. All the rest is fake news.

No one works together to get themselves out of this swamp.

They just argue about it and

Disagree over what part of the swamp they come from.

Don’t you remember?

You did this to yourself.

Let me know when you start swimming in your own juices.

Then you can count on me to give you another promise.

6/20/18

In The Boathouse

In The Boathouse

By Jeffrey M. Bowen

The deck of the old Chris Craft shimmered,

At rest in the shadows,

Silhouetted by the slits of sun

Around the doorway of the old boathouse.

The wood frame walls

Had been cured by the decades.

The walls were dark, smelled tinder dry

As if nothing had changed since 1920.

This was a dwelling place of memories.

I peered down into the clean clear water,

Saw rippling sands,

And in them my dad’s face was smiling.

The lake scent promised his fisherman’s paradise.

I kneeled in silence

On the boathouse deck.

Images of a young life drifted by,

Weaving together the boat, the lakes,

My dad and me.

I climbed down the deck ladder

And felt the cool water surround my waist.

The air hung still and warm

With the sweet feeling of summer.

As the water lapped around me

I could almost hear his voice.

Time disappeared for just a few moments.

But soon the inboard would awaken

And loosen our harbored tether.

The gentle burble of her engine

Would leave our reverie behind.

As her bow cruised into the path of sunlight,

A distant scent of Borkum Riff would linger.

FATHER’S DAY JUNE 17, 2018