Poems by Ed Ruzicka

Vowels

by Ed Ruzicka

From Canary Fall 2024

Ed lives less than two miles from the banks of the Mississippi River in a landscape dominated by thunderous downpours and sudden floods that tax the Amite and Comite River watersheds. Baton Rouge itself has miraculously untainted drinking water drawn from the Kentwood aquifer which runs 1,500 feet underground and originates in Canada.

If you listen to
   The language of trees
   It is constantly about sun
   Rain, wind, light, water.
Well, yes, how they
   Provide for the owl,
   The ant, sparrow
   Raccoon, squirrel.
It is only when you listen
   To trees exhale
   Listen to the vowels
   Beneath their consonants
That you understand how it is.
That trees are the lungs of the earth.

© Ed Ruzicka

What Survives

by Ed Ruzicka

From Canary Summer 2020

The six creeks that drain this city are periodically
cleared to insure that heavy rains get swept away.
Laborers yank apart jammed branches where turtles perch
and plastic bags snare. Workers haul out tires, planks,
break up dams from which moccasin and blue runners hunt.
Minnows dart around rubber boots. Before their advance
kingfishers and egrets reposition themselves along the bank.
Rusted culverts, dryers, golden rod, vines, bamboo.

A few blocks from our house the creek runs green-grey
except at night when water segues to black.
Under moon: coyote, skunk, racoon. They leave thin
paths trampled through thorn and scrub but a man
needs a machete or at least a strong stick to force
his way through bramble along mucked bank.
At points creek slopes have been reinforced by a scrabble
of shattered pavement, massive, silt-settled slabs.

Less and less any wandering boys. Less and less the squeals
of children. Hub caps, homeless men, things dislodged.
Behind Broadmoor Junior High, just above where a tributary
crashes in, is a dandelion knoll sequestered enough for teens
to smoke cigarettes and to offer their virginity up to an imperfect
wilderness. Owls, lichen. Stars upside down in the pitch of night.