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o'er night's dark canal
the moon's bright crescent did sail
like a gondola
rowdy lee May 19
as far as I am aware
you are not wonderful
of course you can have
other positions
you may be good
from another point of view

but from mine
I see just a girl
without eyes, without ears
without a face, without a head
as they are
too clear

there is just this behavior
too superficial
to know something deeper
to try to know something deeper
to want to try to know
something deeper

but still, something about you
there is
that is why
is this poem done

however, if you are able
there is a chance to see
how bad this poem really is
written in one minute
like you
history will swallow it
as nothing
as a useless, silly
nothing
Maybe there is a grammar/meaning mistakes in my poems as English is my second language. Glad if you'll warn me. Thank you.
Adrian Dec 2019
I’m currently looking at a canal.
The blue water is opaque,
Yet clear as blued silver.
My eyes reflect its iridescent glow,
Sending back it’s judgment upon my soul.

Beyond the silkily shining stream
Lies lines of trees,
Each a different eerie shade of blue.
They fade into the baby blue backdrop,
Looking almost like layers on a painting.

And further back I see an industrial feat;
A bridge, standing tall, strong, and stoic.
It’s steel beams uphold the innumerable
plethora of cars, which tread over its solid joints.

This time I know this happiness is real
Even though I haven’t lost it yet;
Even though I’m still in this sun-kissed morning.
I just decided to write about what I was looking at. Hope you get the picture in ur mind. Also it’s actually 1 in the afternoon, but it’s close enough.
Dominique Nov 2019
Give the knots that line my spine
The milky film that clots my eyes
The pride that grips my jaw
To be suspended

Hair blown out in rat-tail haloes
By soft ochre dispersions
To bob, a boat returned
Plunged into the myth of algae
Nymphs that bring dimension to the depths

To be an oil spill clearing canvas
A gliding watercolor rag or
Submerged irradiant water hag
Concealed by a cocoon

The overhang where beads of light
Exaggerate the urban dream
Freed from the stingy binds of gravity
The filthy nihilistic scene above

Just on display way down there
Beneath the ziplocked airless sky
For passers-by to glimpse the paradox
This wilful tragedy of mine

Through a waterlogged trachea
Umbilical cord to godliness stretched
Returned to me mangled and sore
Drowned in the canal of Little Venice.
"I had a dream I got everything I wanted"
saranade Nov 2017
Ten years miserably passed before..."At last!"
Four eyes dizzely cast into blue and brown,
and four, no, six legs on the ground.
Wistfully down a park laid sidewalk, we walked
to meet one another, blissfully.

We walked inside the dried canal, a river of the desert.
It hurts that we go there, no more, to flirt
with the dirt and our companion... infinity.
Is it you with me as I find kin company
in the molecules of divinity?

Repeatedly, I go searching the vicinity and nearby
For anything with similarity that I can call you by.
Any tree, light, shadow or star in the proximity
of where we met that belonged to you and me.
Or a feeling of solidarity that I cannot see.

Son, don't let me now survive ten years expeditiously.
Destructively alive, left with the intangiblity of life
that we left at that decision tree at 5:45.
Repetitiously I continue to apologize,
but apologies won't bring you back to life.
Seeking the sureness of his afterlife.
D Holden Jul 2017
Gliding through glistening ripples,
mirroring the milky blue from above.
Viewing the world side-on,
yet gracefully moving forwards.

Golden corn wave their hello.
The passing landscape rolls like revolving stage scenery,
painted by the finest.

She rests at her pilot’s will,
then moves forward once again;
gliding through glistening ripples.
Toby Lucas Jul 2016
Prowling through the undergrowth
In our barging juggernaut,
Ploughing the rolling hills of water,
Which crease as the narrowboat sluggishly gliding past,
Brushes the bulrushes like a tiger in the reeds.

For four intrepid days
Our film and photographs are empty to show,
No sign, only missed whispers,
Of the hummingbird blue blur.

A darting flash cresting the morning chill,
Regal turquoise stealthily steals
Our attention, our focus, and our tiller
Noses toward the bank hugger.

And we have him.

Small amber-royal fisherman,
Eclipsing his heron heralds
And the swans silent vigil
In majestic lapis lazuli.
Swift and sure he graces the water,
Fisher King,
Which bends beneath his dive.
Resurfacing, his golden breast
Mottled with silver minnow.

There recluse in his exclusive spot,
Fish foundering still in the ******,
The kingfisher's poise frames his catch
Aperture, shutter, captured shot.
Spotting a kingfisher from a canal boat - Summer 2016
sometimes
if you stop breathing
you can hear
you can hear the sound
of the single drop of water
as it drips
onto a bit of tin
amidst the grass and the mud
or the sound of the ducks’
feathers as they play
in the eddies
or the sound of the sun
as it rises over the grey canal
kissing it to life
over treetops that are
japanese watercolours
and boats moored in the marina
memories of a time gone by

sometimes
if you stop breathing
you can feel
you can feel the breeze
on the hair of your arms
the wind as it chills your fingers
and you exhale
dragon breath
sometimes
if you stop breathing
you can feel
life
in death

sometimes
if you stop breathing
you gasp
as you take in the details
the masthead
on a boat
a dragon
with horns?
a greek god
to keep storms away?
hammered iron and blue
a totem
a good luck charm
a protective spell

sometimes
if you stop breathing
everything fades
and all we have
is the now
the single breath
pain vanishes
and all that remains
is bliss
We’re hand in hand and walking, down where the Camden canal runs away from us
and breaks faintly in spires, under the floating patches of, olive tree, street lamps.
She shivers on her cigarette, smoke watching, a furnace strong and foreign,
like the ******* of the incense in Rome, tracing flaming *** trails.
The bird living in my ribcage beats it’s great and terrible wings
again, and has another. I have her cold elbow fit my palm.
The pigeons obliviously sleep to the draw
of that burning London moon.
The draw I feel moving me.
down into the world
that acts as a cellar
to the one we know.
So much colder
than the heat
is, in her
~
Tony Luxton Nov 2015
We're boating on Brindley's cut
cruising to the cotton city
Manchester where it all goes on
the engine of our empire.

Eight hours of ease from Top Locks,
meals provided, plenty to see
here on the cutting edge
of British engineering.

A night out on the tiles
then back again to dear old Runcorn,
something to tell our kids,
the start of a transport revolution.
When the Runcorn branch of the Bridgewater Canal first opened special boat trips to Manchester were organised.

— The End —