Two Poems by Bob Barminski


We know

We gather at the river
from a thousand points of land,
dots on maps, sprinkled here and there.

The river drifts our dreams
upon her smoothness,
when she thunders in the deep,
our hearts resound.

We cast our wild wonder
as far as our wide arms can fling
driftwood upon dappled waters.

We will be carried
all our hopes married
with the river.

The Creek

It’s got to rain
and then rain some more
and then rain some more
then the creek might run.

After the rain soaks the rocks
and spills down into cracks
and fills the spaces between sand grains
then the creek might run.

And the tumbling rumbling sounds
of water over the rocks
will resound in the night
and will be with you and in your dreams.

The creek didn’t run last year
or the year before that
or the year before that
but it might run this spring.

Maybe it doesn’t matter if the creek runs
but it sure is nice.
Maybe it doesn’t matter who loves you
it matters if the one you love loves you.

Bob Barminski