Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
A green streetcar is standing alone in the rain,
The man on the corner is staring at the green street-
Car . He is trying to remember

His daughters fifth birthday.

The green streetcar is alone in the rain.
The man is alone on the street in the rain.
He is staring at the streetcar, trying to remember

His daughter’s best friend’s name.

The man can hear the rain falling on
The empty green streetcar.

Rain is running down the back of his
neck and it is making him cold.

She is so much older now.
This is an old unfinished poem
She buys a torn and faded map
All the continents are misshapen
The rivers smudged.Her faith is
inexhaustible. So here I am,
the bridge she will never cross.

The cataratic mapmaker rubbing his
eyes knowing only one route.

I stand on the other side
watch her put on a mask
so we will know exactly

how she feels, watch
her turn away
with map in hand

watch her
as she gets
and smaller.

I am on the otherside,
sitting on a chair,
in an empty room

in an abandoned house,
the windows have been boarded shut.

With my finger I erase
the ring of water
left behind by her glass.

It is true that I loved

her.  I am gaunt
and my ribs are showing.

copyright c.a. leibow 2007
Published in Rat Fink Review
Anais Vionet Aug 2023
I love spending nights on the lake.
Once the oven-like sun disappears,
things get suddenly quiet, except for
the occasional hoot of an owl, crickets, frogs
and the soft lapping of the lake on the boat.

When the moon rises above the pines
the sky lights up, like a fireworks bloom,
its reflection is brushed, in scatters on the lake,
giving insubstantial moonlight a sharp substance
not unlike a fractured, undulating, glittery lace.

This evening, there’s a rumble, stage left, off to the west,
and a thunderstorm’s growl, like a wolf on the prowl.
The wind was picking up, so we began battening down,
stowing things in the galley and taking in the flag. The wind,
had become almost solid with its insistent and restless energy.

The question, with these daily, southern, summer thunderstorms
is whether you’re going to catch the edge of it or get the full onslaught. The doppler radar, of my iPad weather app indicated the monster was headed right for us.

Just as our phones, watches and iPads began chirping
with National Weather Service, “Severe Weather Alerts,”
Charles asked, “You two still want to stay?” His voice fighting
against the stiff wind as he watched the tall pine-tree tops bob,
like boxers, afraid of the far off lightning flashes in the sky.

“Of course!” I chimed in, wearing a grin, I LOVE boat storms!
“Lisa, there’s a storm on the way but we’ll stay on the boat, ok?” I asked, trying to English the question with both a sense of adventure and nonchalance. Lisa, of course, followed my lead, saying, “Sure.”
“It’ll be ill,” I assured her.

Charles nodded and leapt to the dock, replacing the gunwale rope lines with longer dock rods to distance and secure the boat (lowering front and back anchors too).

“We’re staying,” Charles walkie-talkie’d Carol (his wife) below in the staterooms where she was probably making the beds. “10-4” she replied.
I love her, she’s so game for anything. While Charles worked, Lisa and I sealed the upper deck from cockpit (helm) to transom, putting up sturdy plexiglass windows and closing the transom doors.

Charles came aboard just as we turned up the air conditioning and thick raindrops started falling. Having finished our work, we looked up and the moon was gone, hidden by dark clouds that writhed like some angry, mythical, steel wool animal.

The rain went from a delicate pitter-patter to a generous applause and finally, a steady torrent. We felt it initially pass over us from port (left) to starboard (right). The wind whistled, like a giant’s breath, rocking the boat, alternately, in two directions. It was wonderful.

The far-off thunder had become intimate, bomb-like and personal, with its Crack-k-KA-BOOM! Every time such a concussion rocked the air, the boat and our teeth, I cackled, with joy, like Poe’s Madeline Usher, the madwoman in the attic.

“HOW DO YOU LIKE IT!?” I yelled to Lisa, but she made an ‘I can’t hear you,’ sign. Carol, who’d been working the galley, produced yummy tuna-fish sandwiches, potato chips and milk. We played a dominoes game called ‘Mexican Train’ until the rain stopped, then we watched ‘Jaws’ on the fold-down TV. Lisa had never seen it!

The boat had rocked, lightning had flashed, the cutting wind howled and the thunder boomed, but it was the clawing rain, like a tiger trying to break into the boat, that made it an unforgettable night on the lake.
My parent’s boat is Tiara-43LE
Pagan Paul Jul 2023
Take my hand and let us go so lightly,
walking 'pon the lake of lovers dreams,
gentle ripples interlace our smiles brightly,
lighting the stars within romantic streams.
Making love as we sink beneath cool water,
drowning lustful in passions liquid embrace.
The dream shimmers, as the images falter
and the still lake reflects your delicate face.
Zywa Feb 2023
From the isle we sail

across the lake, a man sings --

and the sun is low.
White Island in Lower Lough Erne, near Enniskillen (Northern-Ireland)

"Het Bureau - Het A.P. Beerta-Instituut" ("The Office - The A.P. Beerta-Institute", 1998, Han Voskuil), pages 866,868

Collection "Not too bad [1974-1989]"
Alpha Jan 2023
Legend goes there is a lake
Made of the darkness of the night
Spangled with stars a comets' wake
Lit by pale silver moonshine.

This lake is said to be surrounded by trees
Rising their black boney fingers to the sky
Groaning, shivering in the breeze
Barely alive and waiting to die

When the full moon casts a ray
Upon the ---
I'm totally sorry, but I never finished that one.
There was a fairy supposed to show up, eventually.
Something like the Lady of the Lake from the legend of King Arthur...
Maybe I'll finish it someday, when I find the muse to do so.
If there's someone out there with a good idea for that, please comment!!!
Robert C Howard Jul 2022
for Mark Richards

It was a spur of the moment thing -    
     One message freed us from Tuesday’s calling -
The next offered a morning's sailing.  

So rather than spray water for Rocky's plants,  
     We skimmed over Carter Lake’s, crystal waves
With steady and ample winds at our backs.

Boaters and tubers speckled the waters
      While verdant foothills smiled assent
From every shore and horizon.

Captain Richards skippered his Flying Scot    
     Toward the far off shore before tacking our
To and fro way back to the mooring ball.

In years past Mark had captained the Health works    
     For all the good folks of Pennsylvania,
But this morning he guided a much smaller tiller.

So we sailed and sailed under fairest of skies    
    In a swift and charmed little craft
Mark chose to call, Spur of the Moment.

Robert Charles Howard
Andreas Simic Jun 2022
I am awoken from a restful sleep aware of the fresh air

the open window brings as she begins to sing

it is the sound of the loon calling me to her side

I stride towards the beckoning sound and her shore

as the door swings open to a new dawn and a rising sun

the early morning mist departing to reveal her beauty

she is glass like this day, stillness the allure

her stillness belies her truth that she can be rough enough

as I stand beside her admiring the horizon she willingly displays

my ears are attune to her lapping sounds,  my heart calm

launching my canoe I begin to paddle amidst her blueness

each stroke like the combing of her hair with twirls and curls

today she allows me to glide with ease yet she can also be a tease

the gentle breeze now professed can transform into a mighty storm

it is within her grace that she allows me this place of serenity

for she could as easily sweep off my serendipity with a rough sea

sounds of gulls take my eyes upwards into the clear blue sky

watching them soar all the while jealous of their ability for flight

a honking sound now has me looking to my right to catch sight

of a gaggle of geese in mid-flight her back their launching pad

and without warning there’s a splash as a fish leaps into the air

in search of its morning dish of insect and bugs, as it dives

back into the water, its sanctuary, its home I am reminded again

of her kindness that she provides in sheltering bays

her gentle waves taking me on a journey into the depths

of this lake they call Placid

Andreas Simic©
Anais Vionet May 2022
It’s a cool, Georgia, Wednesday afternoon - not quite 80°f. The sky is clear, and the sun is dazzling against the cadet blue sky. Its reflection is multiplied a thousand small times, creating glittering, broken mirror glares that ripple, relentlessly, across the water’s blue surface.

On the lake, if you’re not wearing polarized sunglasses, then you’re going to suffer - no worries though, we have drawers full of them. We’re on my parents' Tiara-43 ski boat, at anchor in the sheltered-cove of an uninhabited island. It’s windy, Leong and I, bikinied and fresh from the water, race shivering for our giant, Turkish-linen beach-towels.

Charles, a large, redheaded, retired, NYC cop, (who’s been my full-time driver and escort since I was 9), is our boat-captain (I am not allowed to dock the boat). Charles, a chef of steaks nonpareil, is working the grill and unconsciously swaying to the music. The aroma is mouthwatering, and my tummy is growling with anticipation.

Ashe’s “Another man’s jeans” is bumpin’ from the stereo, and I can’t help but feel this somehow beats going to class. As we wrap up and settle in our lounges, a green and white ski boat careens into view, about a quarter mile from the cove entrance.

The sight of it makes me smile. It’s going so fast that it seems to hover over the surface of the lake, only jerking slightly as the boat lightly touches-off the water. It zeros in on us like a missile, its approach flat out - perhaps 60mph (52 knots).

I knew who it was instantly - Kimmy - of course. I look at my watch - 3:30pm - she got out of school at 2:15 and must have made a hot bee-line for us using “find my friends” GPS telemetry to uncover our hidden cove location.

As the boat edges the cove lip, Kim cuts power - the boat heaves as it settles into the water and quickly decelerates. Charles, anticipating the approaching wake, secures things (spices and utensils) in the galley area. When the boat’s closer, I can see that Bili’s onboard too.

Kim and Bili are my two homie BFFs. They’ll graduate high school in 2 weeks. Kim is a small, pretty Asian American bound for Brown University, to study public policy in the fall. Bili is a tall, gorgeous, chocolate-brown Nubian princess who’ll attend the University of California, at Berkeley to study “financial engineering” - whatever that is.

When Kim’s boat is about 80 feet from us, Kim and Bili jump on deck, water-ready in bathing suits. Each girl, used to the boating-life, tosses an anchor - one to port, one starboard, and not bothering to look back, dive off the bow and begin swimming toward us.

Kim’s boat, which briefly seemed intent on catching them, jerks to a stop, like a wild thing suddenly restrained, as anchor lines catch.

When Kim and Bili draw along aside, they reach up with clasped hands which Charles uses, like a handle, to smoothly hoist them one-handed, as if they were weightless, in turn, from the water with long mastered ease - presenting them to me for squealing embrace.

As I excitedly introduce them to Leong - summer has officially begun.
BLT Marriam Webster word of the day challenge: Nonpareil: "having no equal."
Abandoned in place,
Time erased,
Sky in our arms,
Stars on the lake.

Fire on the beach,
Sensation on the rise,
Warm in the dark,
Candles inside.

Reclamation proclamation
made way out far,
We took what was forgotten
and made it ours.
An abandoned hotel in disrepair,
Far away from interfering glare.
Next page