Blanco River Valley

Where the Wild Rice Grows, The Bard of the Blanco, page 1

Publishing duties have curtailed my writing efforts of late. Published 3 books, and working to finish my own novel. To take up the slack and to keep my Substack intact, I’ve decided to begin posting my poetry for free. These poems were published in Where the Wild Rice Grows and are copyrighted. I’ve also included a sound recording of each one. They were narrated by Wes Elliot. You can listen as you read along, or just read the poems below. Thank you for your attention. You may purchase the book at https://www.Aim-HiBooks.com

Blanco River Valley

Bubbles forth from beneath the ground; cold and clear and perfect;

Water pools beneath live oak trees

In sunny, summer shade.

Source.

Separate pools accumulate amongst the trees and ridged rocks,

Bleed their liquid produce forth

Into shallow silted basins.

Blanco.

Beneath shaded cliffs and limestone marls, past mossy marble boulders,

Moisture strains through stone of honeycomb

Beneath ancient Cypress.

Golden.

Southeasterly now it runs past moon-pale cliffs and sentinels of stone,

Swings and dips unseen below; bubbles forth to rise again.

Fuller. Faster. Fresher.

Frio.

Other springs now join the flow beneath the blue, deep, Texas sky.

Fluid playfully splashes across shallow riffs as the hot sun evaporates.

The gain outweighs the loss.

Moving.

Turkeys roost on grassy knolls strewn of color beneath blankets bright,

While hillocks echo garbled gobbled calls of love,

As deer browse verdant valleys.

Serene.

Stair-step hills like balconies; escarpment crippled Dolomite,

Appear where hidden leaks and seeps carve caverns deep

In soft, chalk, limestone, marl.

Karst.

Dropping now beneath the hills, wider, slower, and richer still,

And deeper yet, the Chroma-blend of sky on water mirrors

The blue-green hue of peaceful, far-off places.

Shady.

Wild bees leave their honey trees; Quiet places – cool oasis

Sweetness free for the taking,

Sustains the hungry soul.

Paradise.

Wends and bends now past Pecan, joins in wedlock, fuller streams.

Home for man for untold time –

San Marcos – below the springs.

Haven.

Heaven.

Blanco.