One of My Favorite Days

[lizbethbrown]

One of My Favorite Days
(written August 2005 about summer 1998)

Raft guides show up to work every day. Because the more you show up, the more you get to work. The more you get to raft. The more you get the river on you.

Which is why we were all there. Because we loved it!
The life. The dirt. The freedom.

The power everywhere.
In the mountains. The river. The desert.

Our own solid selves that never sat in a cubicle.

Never got bored. Or dulled.
And anyway, all your friends are at the boathouse all day waiting around for customers so what else are you going to do?
Plus, your tent gets hot early so you have to get up.
You brush your teeth. But that’s about it.

Sometimes I would jog or walk the mile and a half from Cogan’s where we all camped for the summer, down to the boathouse.
People bumping along that terribly rutted dirt road, always in need of a good grading, thought I was nuts.
It really got hot early in that high desert.
But I liked looking at the cows on my way in.
The little baby ones. All innocent.
The big ones sort of shifty, protecting their babies.

None of them acted as freaky as the rodeo calves.
That’s a sad thing.
These cows were owned by the prison just across the expansive acreage towards Buena Vista. My dog loved running in there after them. Bad girl.

I still dream about the river.
Every move.
Every soft pillow.
It’s all in slow motion now.
Every mistake I ever made.
The two times I flipped the boat.
The whole 12 miles. or twenty depending on the trip.
Every rock. Every tree limb hanging down. Every sparkle I ever saw on the water.
Every person I ever pulled out.
Every full moon adventure with boat loads of wasted guides.
In a mushroom haze. Wasted in that glowing tripped out light.
Or total darkness where the walls were high.

Every eddy.
Every time we pulled over and explored the shore.
Every goat. Every time I heard someone had died.
My dog and her little friend Wolf on the side a few miles down one day.
Go home girl. Go home. To the tent in the hot desert.

So I got down to work one day.
Was dragging. For some reason.
It was well into the summer.
I was working a couple of jobs actually. Babysitting someone’s kids now and again.
I got down to work and Gonzo had set up a circle of chairs behind the boat house.
He had a cooler of beer. And was recruiting.
Slackers,
for a day of drinking and hanging out.
Understand, our whole lives were hanging out.
But for some reason, this was the most delectable well-timed perfect thing ever.
I had no choice.
Really.

It was right in the middle of summer and we were busy.
So, we had to convince some other boaters, to take our places.
Which they gladly did. Boaters work every day like I said.
So we rounded up a few of us and were changed forever.
The ability to get to work and say ya know what, I’m gonna hang out and drink cheap beer out of cold cans this morning.
And all day, until we order pizza, which our poor asses never usually did. It was pure luxury. Gonzo. Man. Where are you? South pole in winters still?

I love that day. Lotta laughing. Lotta sunshine. Lotta good folks.

[Marion Poirier]

Hi Lizabeth, Nice to see you posting here. Welcome.
I like your work though IMO - much too wordy-
but I find that in so many of the poems here.
This one looks like it's written from the perspective
of a teenager though you wrote it years later -
the language and perspective is from an adolescent's
view. That's fine; I can buy that - but I was wondering
why it's posted as a poem until I came to this part.

I still dream about the river.
Every move.
Every soft pillow.
It’s all in slow motion now.
Every mistake I ever made.
The two times I flipped the boat.
The whole 12 miles. or twenty depending on the trip.
Every rock. Every tree limb hanging down. Every sparkle I ever saw on the water.
Every person I ever pulled out.
Every full moon adventure with boat loads of wasted guides.
In a mushroom haze. Wasted in that glowing tripped out light.
Or total darkness where the walls were high.

Every eddy.
Every time we pulled over and explored the shore.
Every goat. Every time I heard someone had died.
My dog and her little friend Wolf on the side a few miles down one day.
Go home girl. Go home. To the tent in the hot desert.
[/i

I like the above verse very much - simple and poetic.
Therein lies the poem by itself. The beginning was not
that impressive and the ending disappointing - but
the above lines are very good - moving.

You need to learn how to trim your work and not over-write,
and I think you can be very good.

Marion

[Tina (Firefly)]

Totally agree with Marion on this one. There is a fine poem beginning with 'I still dream about the river," and ending with 'go home, girl.' There are other lines which you should save for other poems..but not in this. You've obviously got a poet's eye and ear..now the work of editing is what lies ahead..