The Goose
by Ken Wuetcher
Rich slope
of grass
greens interfused
luxuriant.
However, dandelions had invaded
like the Charge of the Light Brigade.
They covered large patches,
soft white heads
swayed gently in the
morning breeze.
A goose waddled across,
gray body of various shades.
Its long black neck
had a ring of white
like a furry beard.
Its webbed feet
sunk into the
teeming greenery.
I saw tiny white specks
reflected in its cornea
as it looked at me.
The goose bent over a
dandelion.
Its black beak pecked at it
as a chicken pecks grain,
over and over.
Seeds wafted everywhere.
Then the goose stopped,
turned and looked at me.
On the underside of its bill
white fluffy seed heads
formed a full beard,
comical
like something from a
Vaudeville act.
I waited for it to stick its
Tongue out at me.
I chuckled.
It continued to eye me,
a puzzled look,
unaware of its appearance.
No knowledge that it looked
like a silly goose.
Water Skiing on the Ohio
He popped up
Out of the muddy gray water
Standing as if on solid ground
He skidded across the surface
Whooshing sound steady
White foam roiled all around
Small waves grew in a
V shape on both side of him
Fiberglass ski jutted forward
Slicing river water
Feet vibrated
Tension strong
The orange and yellow
Ski rope tied to the
Back of the runabout
The motor roared
She stood behind the wheel
Legs spread to handle
The bouncing motions
Mostly a gentle rock
But at times a hard
Pounding as the hull
Lunged into the surf
His slalom ski thrusted forward
Slicing the creamy white water
Jumping over the wake
He landed in smooth water
Like taut skin
He pulled back hard and a
Rooster tail stretched behind him
His adrenaline spiked
Soon the boat slowed
Engine quieted
He leaned back
Rested
He was spent
Raw Music
Before him stood
a luscious honey goddess dream.
He heard the summer moon moan
with a sweet pant.
He staggered with a liquid tongue.
Drooled a drunk chant
incoherent babble
an ugly song.
She was an icy sea storm
staring.
A blue cold flood
churning.
An ebbing tide
flowing away.
He felt death’s eternal crush
and a bitter ache.
Resulting in barren sleep
lonely dreams.
BIO
Ken Wuetcher lives in Louisville, KY. He holds a MA in English Literature from DePaul University in Chicago. His writing has been published in the United States, Great Britain, and Canada.
