Scene4-Internal Magazine of Arts and Culture
The Hudson River | Griselda Steiner | Scene4 Magazine | February 2017 |

Griselda Steiner

The Hudson River
New York City


This is the river

My river

The mighty famous river

Whose coasts grow tall weeds of steel

That reflect glittering lights at dusk


This is the river

My river


Whose source is named "Lake Tear in the Clouds"

Called "The River" by the Iroquois

And Mohegans named "The River that Flows Two Ways"


This is the river

My river

Whose tides bear down to the ocean

My ocean

Whose salt waters

Life's womb

A baptism of spirit


My ocean

Carrying boats, tankers, kayaks

Tugboats, yachts, cruises ships

Sailboats north, south in the sunset

That navigate the currents

Sharing their colors with the clouds

Grey, green, blue, teal, pearl, red, purple

Orange and yellow beams

Become a violet and pink seduction


That turn black with stars hovering

Over secret war planes

Whose engines low roar

Steal their way to foreign wars


As massive river tankers

Dark whales glide slowly

In the cold wind stirring ghosts

Ghosts on pine lined banks

Launching Indian fishing canoes

Lanape footprints in the sand


Ghosts of Washington's fleet

Sad wooden ships immortalized

As gallant messengers of the new nation


Ghost liners filled with emigrants

Hovering over the rails

To greet our majestic Lady Liberty

Whose promises called to their weary hearts


Ghost of a floating airplane

Attacked by a flock of birds

Rescuing folks on its wings

The Miracle on the Hudson


Ghost of a hurricane

Overpowering her

With moon waves surging wild

Flooding streets

Cloud mountains of rain

Whipped from the sea


The midnight river

Black silver ribbon

Cuts two cities like a sword

Swallowing sleepers' dreams

Dredged up as truth in the dawn


Sunrise glints on the mammoth cranes

Swinging containers from their metal beaks

Port Elizabeth - Port Newark

Host to mariners' cargo shipped across the world

That feeds and clothes people with soft middles

Blind to the ghetto origin of their wares

Packed like dead fish in the holes

Trucked on highways

Then laid out for sale like precious treasure


The rivers' seasons teach time

By being the Tao of flow

Changing landscapes over millennia

Set upon by humans dressing her shores with icons


This is the river

My river

Whose never ceasing rhythm

Washes my pain to the sea

Leaving my body

Floating light in the dawn.

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Griselda Steiner is a poet, dramatist and a freelance writer and Senior Writer for Scene4.
Visit her website
For more of her poetry and articles, check the Archives.

©2017 Griselda Steiner
©2017 Publication Scene4 Magazine




February 2017

Volume 17 Issue 9

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