A memory from when i was 7-9, on a river near Lake Texhoma
3-27-2013
Grasping at solid none to be found
gasping for air where none is around. Eyes bulging in a murky surround
while sinking farther away from ground.
Does your life pass before you as told
no, just panic as life loses hold. Hands and feet flaying unbold
while clenched teeth forestall liquid enfold.
Then a soft mushy bottom is touched
with a glimpse of survival is hoped. All fingers and toes clawing ahead
in a state of false euphoric dread.
Living air now completely gone
can"t behold through the red to see on.
Just as all is totally foregone
fingers strike air and life does go on.
Want to review or comment on this poem?
Need a FREE Reader Membership?
Reviews of "foundering"
Reviewed by Gert van Weenen (Reader)
Reviewed on April 7, 2013
I memory from long ago and luckily you can tell us about it. The vivid way you tell it shows that it's still in your memory as if it happened yesterday.
Budd,
A 'breathtaking' tale, no pun intended.:) I am thankful that you survived. I've always felt drowning would be terrible, to not be able to breathe. I am very claustrophobic and get the 'feeling' I can't breathe if I'm in tight or crowded places. I cannot imagine what you went through. You have an angel watching over you.
Oh my Budd...beautifully descriptive! You captivated your audience by words, pulled us into the deep, while treading water in our minds, and waiting for our next breaths!
An interesting work with the mind alternating both a conscious interpretation and one of enigmatic value, i.e., projecting these words into our daily thoughts of what death might be like. Then, taking the literal value of the piece, one is struck with the confirmation that ONLY life as we know it dies, relenting to the infinite nature of matter, be the remains of flesh and bone, or ash. Matter knows not the cessation of existence. That's what it is...what it will always be. Provocative and insightful.
An intense portrayal of what drowning must be like. From your note, I assume it must be first-hand experience.
While I found myself flailing trying to swim at seven, I first visited the city swimming pool where for ten cents one could put your feet solidly on the bottom of the 2 foot end of the pool, see in the chlorine stinging clear water, and find that underwater was more pleasant than trying to struggle at the surface at something called “swimming.” Rivers and lakes came later when I had already learned the basics and never had to “put my foot down on murky bottom” to make it to shore.
Great write Budd,the vivid language
expresses the danger very clearly. Kind of scary for
for those of us who don't love the water.
Continued success-
Barbara J Henry
~Budd~
A living from completely gone can't behold through the red to see on.
A very heartfelt and clenched teeth in this liquid enfold.
I'm thankful for the life to go on.
When I was that age you speak of I used to surf and body surf in the ocean where I lived for the most part of my life...used to get caught in the occasional rip tide, like that of what Jerry speaks of, but as kids that lived at the beach, we knew how to handle rip tides...but when we got dumped off our surfboard by the power of a wave and got bounced off the bottom or ocean floor, that was when we might think we see God or "the" light, as all breath is knocked out of u and you do finally come up choking on salt water...but damned if we didn't go back out and on the same day and take the chance to have it happen all over again...THIS IS A VERY WELL WRITTEN, DESCRIPTIVE PIECE, BUDD, PERHAPS YOUR BEST SO FAR...ENJOYED READING IT...e
I was a lusty twenty-something-year-old and was at Jones beach in Long Island, with Nanette, my wife and a few friends. I was into the surf, got caught up in a rip tide. I had figured I was going to die, but, like this poem said, my feel finally touched bottom and I made it to the shore. I'll never forget my close encounter with death. I had that same close encounter a number of times in years to come although of a different nature..
I tried to envision how awful it must be to drown. A very descriptive poem of such a sad event. If it was you, I am so glad you lived to talk about it…
From the author of Jupiter Remembered and Until It’s Time: Embracing Life In Our Later Years comes Petals of Love: Poetry of a Woman’s Soul – a heartfelt collection spanning more than thirty-five years. Through tender reflections, these poems offer g
Using Calgary as a backdrop the author satirizes the self-serving nature of the public as it continues to fatten itself, not only physically, but egotistically as well.
Share
Print
Save
Follow
a very frightening experience
Gerrit
Completely I feel it within...
I feel the air being sucked from my lungs...
What a terrible memory Budd!
Well written!
Love and Light
Lily
*Budd* for the heart and soul of
who you have become being thankful!
Lady Vivian
A 'breathtaking' tale, no pun intended.:) I am thankful that you survived. I've always felt drowning would be terrible, to not be able to breathe. I am very claustrophobic and get the 'feeling' I can't breathe if I'm in tight or crowded places. I cannot imagine what you went through. You have an angel watching over you.
Many blessings,
Linda+
Peace be with you
William
Totally moved!
Teresa
Anna
While I found myself flailing trying to swim at seven, I first visited the city swimming pool where for ten cents one could put your feet solidly on the bottom of the 2 foot end of the pool, see in the chlorine stinging clear water, and find that underwater was more pleasant than trying to struggle at the surface at something called “swimming.” Rivers and lakes came later when I had already learned the basics and never had to “put my foot down on murky bottom” to make it to shore.
Ron
Cheers,
Dan
expresses the danger very clearly. Kind of scary for
for those of us who don't love the water.
Continued success-
Barbara J Henry
A living from completely gone can't behold through the red to see on.
A very heartfelt and clenched teeth in this liquid enfold.
I'm thankful for the life to go on.
Lady Mary Ann
Love ya,
Jane
Ingeborg