#lakes
She is my lover
Of a thousand moods.
I never tire of gazing upon
Her long lithe body,
Her head pillowed
On mountain slopes.
She the mercurial
Keeper of wind
Which come Autumn,
She will swirl just
As a vibrant young woman
Will swing a muffler
‘Round her neck.
I awoke to almost silence,
Sipped Italian roast
To chase away the barefoot dreams
Painfully afoot within my heart.
Stepping onto the deck
A tsunami of awe
Washed with wonder
My heart clean again.
The night’s stormy anger
Had torn
Every star from the sky,
Atop endless wavelets
They now adorned
Her morning robes.
I whispered her name
Wenatchee.
Sep 20, 2025
Sep 20, 2025 at 7:13 PM UTC
The sun seemed to rise slowly, almost hesitantly, this morning - a yellow syrup pouring into a deep, dark blue sky. The air is hot and thick, like a low viscosity liquid. We’re going out on the boat this morning and when you have 9 passengers and crew, everyone’s toting something.
Kim and Bili have towels and a shoulder bag of sunscreen lotions and repellents, Charles has a cooler with everything needed to make breakfast omelets on the grill (the eggs have been pre-beaten, the veggies pre-chopped, the cheese grated, the meat diced).
Anna and Lisa are toting a cooler of sodas buried in ice. Leong has the “dry box” with phones, Nintendo switches, kindle readers and iPads. Leong’s rolling a luggage rack of textbooks, Sunny has a large coffee thermos, and Sophy has a bag with dry clothes for everyone.
The girls are practically running over each other in their eagerness to be last onboard because the first two get to towel the night’s condensation off everything.
I carried the lunch cooler full of Chick-fil-a sandwiches, but my main job is to check the indicators and disconnect the dockside water, drainage and electrical feeds as Charles takes the helm and begins his “preflight” before he fires up the Mercury 500-hp engines. I know we’re a “go” when he turns on the underwater lights - that’s my signal to cast off.
The engines roar to life and then purr as we slowly pull away from the dock, we girls greasing ourselves up with sunblock. The air conditioning begins to help but picking up speed is what finally breaks the hold of the oppressive heat.
As we exit the marina Charles opens-up on the throttle and that’s always a thrill. We usually ski first, before the lake gets crowded, and lounge later.
Sunny, Leong and Anna like to sit in the bow, refreshed by occasional lake spray and the wind-whipped cool. Leong likes to sit in the cabin, like Charles’ copilot while the rest of us recline on lounges facing rearward to watch the skiers.
Our summer mornings have passed like this, launching around 6 am, skiing, then swimming, studying and getting off the lake before the noontime “heat advisories” and afternoon thunderstorms.
Later, I’m relaxing in the shade, having just gotten out of the lake, and I’m on my iPad.
“What are you writing?” Anna asks.
“Oh, I write poetry and stories - mostly stories these days but there is some occasional poetic recidivism.” I say.
“You write poetry?” She repeats, as if shocked, “I didn’t think there were any poets left.”
“Well,” I say, “Most poets died, in the early flames of science, trying to prove the pen was mightier than the sword, but there are still poets around - they live in cities where they’ll try and wash your windshield if you stop at a traffic light, and they’re frequently mistaken for the homeless - or they may actually be homeless.”
“Can I read some of your writing?” She asks, after waiting through my long joke.
“Absolutely NOT.” I answer.
Jul 8, 2022
Jul 8, 2022 at 2:35 PM UTC
i want to watch the sun
bloom from the earth
i want to watch the moon
rise in the sky
i want to lay down
in an empty field in the dark
and look up at the stars
i want to watch the world
be set on fire with color
of the setting sun
i want to see the reflection of clouds
on a still lake
i want to find shiny rocks in the sand
but these are just small wishes
that hide in the back of my ruined mind
behind the boxes filled with words
of telling me that I'm not good enough
Feb 4, 2021
Feb 4, 2021 at 9:30 PM UTC
Sometimes I think how different my life would have been
if I was born in countryside among the mountains and lakes where I so desire to be
Nov 12, 2020
Nov 12, 2020 at 10:12 PM UTC
Its Way...
nature has an assignment to wake up the seasons
seasons have their own special way this should be performed
birds chirping and singing in tune with the sun rising
annual blooming of the desert cactus and flowers
melting of the snow in higher elevations
water gaining speed down rivers and streams
waters that will fill lakes, ponds, and reservoirs
trees are regaining leaves and providing shade for the ground below
all in the name of life succession
nature has its way...
Brian Hill - 2020 # 114
Apr 23, 2020
Apr 23, 2020 at 2:27 PM UTC
Ivy climbs gnarled knotted trunks
Darker lines and streams divide where white wool digs below tufts of heather and tall tipped reeds
Calm flat lakes vacate
Pale hues of birch become rocky barren lands of moss and brown broken bracken
Thick conifers multiplied for miles
The mountain side tipped with ice
Houses change like the hedgerow from new to old
Some unfurnished whilst others glow
Feb 23, 2020
Feb 23, 2020 at 3:21 PM UTC
the raised lakes of Beijing
are fitted with the finest glass walls
parents go there to unload their unwanted children
the squids of the lakes grab hold of the children,
hug them
adopt them
teach them to breathe
people walk by, pay no attention
but the glass walls are built tall
wiped clear
to the point where i can’t help but to notice.
the orange plumed tentacles
grown straight from the children’s backs
pulsing like a flame
like a phoenix
like a poppy’s bloom
smeared by the color of the water’s haze
or the tourist’s awe-shot eyes.
Nov 14, 2019
Nov 14, 2019 at 6:14 PM UTC
Al Petroleum.
Fazing in n out.
The flicker.
The whisper.
She's here.
You took too much man.
You took too much.
Who said that.
Garrett Johnson.
Aug 3, 2019
Aug 3, 2019 at 5:28 PM UTC
Hey **
Oh my ghosh! What a day this is.
Lightning streaks across the sky,
The clouds clap and roar,
Little lakes bubble with joy,
The rivers rumble gaily down the mountains.
Not to mention,
The trees stand with limbs akimbo,
Drenching from leaves to roots
in the lovely rain,
The birds cuddle in their nests,
All sing tra la la la.........................
For its raining, raining,raining.
Nov 17, 2018
Nov 17, 2018 at 8:44 AM UTC
I tried to take a picture
Of everyday I was with you
I tried to take a picture
Of all the happiness you bring
I tried to take a picture
Of the flowers that you sent
The ones that were red
With that very strong scent
I tried to take a picture
Of the day that shined so bright
The way the sun radiated yellow
Giving us its light
I tried to take a picture
Of the nights by the lake
Where we sat in the blackened dark
Smoking getting baked
I tried to take a picture
Of the smile on my face
But I turned the camera around
To hide the clear but staining tears that raced
I tried to take a picture
Of the love around me,dear
But an uncompromising flash burnout
Causes me fear
I tried to take a picture
Of the happiness you bring
But what I captured
Was the truth and its sting
Apr 27, 2018
Apr 27, 2018 at 2:31 AM UTC
these lakes hold nothing more than the emptiness of my own two hands;
than the silent fall of my breath.
because the birds are awake and the sky is still an empty canvas
that I didn’t finish, that I chose not to because these fingers would not keep still, because they were too focused on tracing you,
and trying to twine you back together again,
and the sun does not speak to us, not like we speak to it,
It does not open its sad, dull mouth to try and herd together our aching, empty words,
It does not speak in tune, it does not speak at all.
and the moon does not look at us, not like we look at it,
It does not try to study the placing of our bones, or our wide open arms and how they got that way,
It does not wonder why we sing to it, why we sing to it with our hoarse throats and heavy eyes.
these lakes write in cursive. These lakes write in ripples
from our lips, whistling over them, delicate, trying not to disturb.
these lakes know us. These lakes do not forget -
can’t forget, because we have fixed our naked backs into their stomachs, floating,
trying to write our way into the sonnet,
trying to be a part of something other than our own selves.
But the birds cry from grief, and all the water tries to do, is drown us.
So we both walk home alone, bare feet parading over torn ground, shoes grasped between our bleeding hands.
It’s better off this way.
It’s always been better of this way.
Dec 3, 2017
Dec 3, 2017 at 12:39 AM UTC
Standing by a crystal lake,
With the surface as still as time,
I gazed into the reflection's soul,
The same time it stared into mine.
As the moon fell down the sky,
As slow as an autumn leaf,
It crept its way into the painting,
Making the two of us feel complete.
A gush of wind suddenly came,
Revealing the fragility of our bond,
Leaving the both of us,
Simple vagabonds.
Conceding, I walk away,
On a path only by me explored,
Whether our fates will ever cross again,
Nor you or I will ever know.
The wind is gushing again,
Disturbing the serenity of willows,
They sing, and sing again,
About the love they just witnessed.
Nov 14, 2017
Nov 14, 2017 at 1:48 AM UTC
Woke up,
at Lake Balaton,
wrote up,
some words like Babylon,
or rather,
a rant on like the Tower of Babel,
chant down,
Babylon we build up and gather,
or rather,
we collect then scatter,
collect the thoughts,
then write them in patterns,
sort of,
like what prose is,
bitter sweet,
like what a rose is,
smells good,
but has thorns,
stormy seas,
but calm shores,
snore,
no,
sleep,
yes,
wake,
up,
re-,
freshed,
at a resort on a vineyard,
overlooking Lake Balaton,
with a girl who is gorgeous,
that let’s her ball of yarn unravel some,
she says she’s my “substitute,
in other words a replacement,
for the other girl I was going to bring,
with me on this 24 hour vacation,
and at first this sounds like an insult to her,
like she’s just here because the other one couldn’t make it,
but really if she can so easily replace the first girl,
then that means that the first girl was actually basic,
and was easily replaced with,
the new one,
see the first is so last night,
and this new one is so new dawn,
I’m on,
a level seldom reached,
like a secret state of enlightenment,
the type that’s so sacred it’s rarely preached,
enlightenment,
secret,
oh there he goes again with that Illuminati talk,
Jesus,
Jesus,
has nothing to do with this,
the new one is on the balcony dancing,
in the sunshine’s rays she’s beautiful,
the old one is gone now,
has no place in my life at all,
except for on the shelve of Past Memories,
that hangs on the Mind Museum’s wall,
although,
I had had an intense dream about the old one,
I’d dreamt about her Illuminati tattoo,
and we’d made love some of the best love made over,
as if I was Adam and she was the Forbidden Fruit,
ooh,
what’s the truth,
what’s perspective,
what’s the proof,
than any of this ever existed,
what are we doing here,
and how much longer will we be,
why are so many slaves to their own projected fears,
while so few are liberated with love and set truly free?
And this all comes to me like a never ending dream,
as I write this words which come to me in a conscious stream,
as my new love dances outside on this resort’s balcony,
overlooking Lake Balaton which is so big it looks more like the Caspian Sea,
see,
I woke up,
at Lake Balaton,
wrote up,
some words like Babylon,
or rather,
a rant on like the Tower of Babel,
chant down,
Babylon we build up and gather,
or rather,
we collect then scatter,
collect the thoughts,
then write them in patterns…
∆ Aaron LA Lux ∆
author of the largest collection of poetry in the world.
Oct 4, 2017
Oct 4, 2017 at 5:26 AM UTC
We cruise rattlesnake bends.
Once in, you
find phantom lakes;
I - a full moon
over mountains of clay.
Sitting at the wooden table
the sun rises to my right
and the mountains become blue
under a grapefruit-shake sky.
My hands are ***** My lips
dry.
Sep 26, 2017
Sep 26, 2017 at 1:19 AM UTC
Holding hands
Creates wet lands
More like sweat lands
Our palms become lakes
That precipitate
Oh great
He don't seem to mind
All that water dripping behind
Hope we don't cause a flood
That'd be dangerous
'FLASH FLOOD FROM SWEATY LOVE'
Maybe we should wear a glove
On the hand we share
So that there
Is no cause for dismay
YOU'RE OK!
WE WON"T DROWN YOU IN OUR SWEAT
OR BETTER YET
WE WON"T DROWN YOU AT ALL!
I laugh aloud
He asks, What was that about?
Oh great
What should I say?
Don't wanna offend my babe
But anyway
Can't lie to his face
So I say, Drowning people.
We suddenly stop
His blue eyes, pop
Right out of his face
But confusion's erased
As our sweaty hands, interlaced
Become free once again
I give a big grin
Kissing his chin
As we continue to make our way.
May 10, 2017
May 10, 2017 at 3:55 PM UTC
The woods are softly snowy deep
Their noises all lain down to sleep
While silver branches wrapped in white
Send a thinly message plight
A hush floats through the foggy air
And think I oh if life was fair
It would not be so bad to go
Where dips and hollows fill with snow
I feel no cold, it bites no more
And far away a frozen shore
The waves lap softly gently sweep
As I drift downward ever sleep
The birds fly quiet softly coo
And now shall I fall silent too
Dec 14, 2016
Dec 14, 2016 at 3:33 PM UTC
Languid lakes levitate my soul.
Mists hang low upon those hills,
While mountains scratch the surface of the sky.
The world is whole,
So full of thrills.
No time to reason why.
Galaxies spiral, out of control,
Stars swirling in milky swills.
Scenes I hope will never die.
Yet time, I’m sure, will take its toll.
And do whatever our God wills.
Oh no! I hear you cry.
Yet look at coal, or any tree bole.
And look at fields of daffodils.
Life’s next cycle is always nigh.
Paul Butters
Sep 14, 2016
Sep 14, 2016 at 2:53 PM UTC
*
some poems
long to be gardens
or more likely lakes
enclosed and safe
ideal for thinking
suitable for letting go
where even silence
is guarded precious
embracing yet
leaving time out
somehow a small
palpitation held
between hands
Jul 12, 2016
Jul 12, 2016 at 9:51 AM UTC
Many drops are in
the mysterious oceans,
the filthy lakes,
the murky rivers,
the cloudy brooks,
in the vast world.
It's hard to find a drop
that's different
in the mysterious oceans,
the filthy lakes,
the murky rivers,
the cloudy brooks,
in the vast world.
But all it takes
is one divergent drop
willing to break from
the mysterious oceans,
the filthy lakes,
the murky rivers,
the cloudy brooks,
to persuade
the drops in the
vast world into becoming
something gloriously
beautiful.
Apr 19, 2016
Apr 19, 2016 at 10:13 PM UTC