"boathouse" poems - Hello Poetry

I am scared But not of the monster under my bed. But not of the undead. But not of the demon in the hallway. But not of the aliens in outer space doing the nae nae. But not of the ghost in the boathouse. But not of the bugs on my blouse. But not of the scars on my wrists. But not of the hurt that, in my heart, exists. But not of the ability to get the flu. But if how much I love you.

0

Aug 6, 2014

Aug 6, 2014 at 10:48 PM UTC

chasingstars

cowardice

I am scared But not of the monster under my bed. But not of the undead. But not of the demon in the hallway. But not of the aliens in outer space doing the nae nae. But not of the ghost in the boathouse. But not of the bugs on my blouse. But not of the scars on my wrists. But not of the hurt that, in my heart, exists. But not of the ability to get the flu. But if how much I love you.

11

As Captain Jack kisses of the last roach Lavender's in the boathouse window shouting that she's grown wings that she's gonna fly over Old Casey's boat above the painted lake past where the music surrounds permeates with the pulse of noise Green Hat pulls me over says my name is Corey or Kelsey Kelly's a **** name I tell him back home people call me Blow Enter Tennessee the cinnamon sipping reds smoking sonofagun Are you Kevin? I ask the fingers that familiar flight of touch leading me down and down and down towards our game "Never have I ever" howls the young Indian chief, scarf draped in madness the fearless warrior Peepeeohpee Someone has trapped the moon behind the window the house on the hill someone has fed the fire with its secret light This stranger this enigma this Laura I am her cousin and everyone I touch is Kevin Then with the sun Tittas steps off the boat as Jesus sacred palms slashed from last night's ritual Bums a cig from Drew or Not Drew with the thousands out west and the lotus flower arms Floats on her back French exhales As I look at our feet stained red with ink all slow spirals soft wind ***** flowers then to the shore the fireflies still dancing through the dawn Flying high Secretly praying to each outshine the fade

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Jun 25, 2012

Jun 25, 2012 at 12:42 AM UTC

krissy-schiller

Blow

As Captain Jack kisses of the last roach Lavender's in the boathouse window shouting that she's grown wings that she's gonna fly over Old Casey's boat above the painted lake past where the music surrounds permeates with the pulse of noise Green Hat pulls me over says my name is Corey or Kelsey Kelly's a **** name I tell him back home people call me Blow Enter Tennessee the cinnamon sipping reds smoking sonofagun Are you Kevin? I ask the fingers that familiar flight of touch leading me down and down and down towards our game "Never have I ever" howls the young Indian chief, scarf draped in madness the fearless warrior Peepeeohpee Someone has trapped the moon behind the window the house on the hill someone has fed the fire with its secret light This stranger this enigma this Laura I am her cousin and everyone I touch is Kevin Then with the sun Tittas steps off the boat as Jesus sacred palms slashed from last night's ritual Bums a cig from Drew or Not Drew with the thousands out west and the lotus flower arms Floats on her back French exhales As I look at our feet stained red with ink all slow spirals soft wind ***** flowers then to the shore the fireflies still dancing through the dawn Flying high Secretly praying to each outshine the fade

26

My home Earth, USA, Poconos, Camp Ramah, Boys Campus, Bunk 12, Third wooden step There is a hornets nest underneath- harmlessly buzzing, we are drunk on youth and invincible Peace draws me back. Leaning back on the fourth step, the wood digs into my elbows but I don't care. I'm too content. In front of me is a sprawling bright green hill of grass plunging downward with a strip of gravel leading to the lake. Feeling the aged, warm wood beneath my feet is cozy. The gazebo is at the apex of the lush hill; it's falling apart. Cobwebs cover it and the wood is flaking, but no one said home was perfect. I tilt my head upward briefly to feel the warmth of the sun and then scan downward at the square pool surrounded by a romantic chain-link fence. Past the pool is a run down boathouse. My first kiss was there. I told her I had a "secret to tell her,” tilted her chin with my hand, and kissed her. A serene manmade lake sits just below the boathouse. The deep blue waters and the bouncing "blob” own my attention. A picturesque scene… the lake surrounded by a dense forest at the bottom of a giant, beautiful hill which houses for just a brief period, some of the best friends I’ve ever had, is home to me. It is serenity, it is comfort, it is love. Home has no definition, but the third wooden step, bunk 12, boys campus, Camp Ramah, USA, Earth, gazing in the hot summer sun over the most beautiful piece of land I've ever laid my eyes upon sure feels like home to me.

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Jun 25, 2013

Jun 25, 2013 at 2:27 PM UTC

steven-fried

My home

My home Earth, USA, Poconos, Camp Ramah, Boys Campus, Bunk 12, Third wooden step There is a hornets nest underneath- harmlessly buzzing, we are drunk on youth and invincible Peace draws me back. Leaning back on the fourth step, the wood digs into my elbows but I don't care. I'm too content. In front of me is a sprawling bright green hill of grass plunging downward with a strip of gravel leading to the lake. Feeling the aged, warm wood beneath my feet is cozy. The gazebo is at the apex of the lush hill; it's falling apart. Cobwebs cover it and the wood is flaking, but no one said home was perfect. I tilt my head upward briefly to feel the warmth of the sun and then scan downward at the square pool surrounded by a romantic chain-link fence. Past the pool is a run down boathouse. My first kiss was there. I told her I had a "secret to tell her,” tilted her chin with my hand, and kissed her. A serene manmade lake sits just below the boathouse. The deep blue waters and the bouncing "blob” own my attention. A picturesque scene… the lake surrounded by a dense forest at the bottom of a giant, beautiful hill which houses for just a brief period, some of the best friends I’ve ever had, is home to me. It is serenity, it is comfort, it is love. Home has no definition, but the third wooden step, bunk 12, boys campus, Camp Ramah, USA, Earth, gazing in the hot summer sun over the most beautiful piece of land I've ever laid my eyes upon sure feels like home to me.

29

An old friend invited me to his lake house, surely to get away he mentioned. A dock leading to a pristine lake, not a ripple in sight. He left spare keys on an island table. Said he would be back in a few hours, apologized, and instructed me not to go into the boathouse, something or other about it being repaired. His headlights hit the home and by the lake until it hit the gravel ahead. I walk to the pier to get a better view of the lake. To smell whatever it is that you smell at times like these. The pier is maybe fifty feet. The boathouse is at the end towards the left, not exactly hidden by shrubbery, at least not maintained in a few years. Surprisingly the door opens easily. Light is scarce. Water is beneath. I'm not country nor wealthy enough to know that not all floors are solid. A switch is to my right. It enluminates a workbench. Tools are absent, besides some rope to tie boats, I suppose. Instead it is covered with pictures. All of a boy. Possibly seven. I'm intrigued, delighted being a lie or an embellishment. Many photos are taken at this location. On the pier or besides the house, as others are taken at places I'm not familiar with. There's a photo with a boat, the boy is sitting and smiling, saying cheese with as much force as a wave. Under the workbench is that very boat. Flipped over, but still kept. I stand still for what seems like minutes. I'm walking toward the house pulling the door shut behind me. I make my way to the kitchen. Married couples always have notepad and dry erase boards hanging around. They did. I decided to head back to the city. The air here is too clean for me. Also, I went against your wishes and went into the boathouse. I'm sorry for your son. Your loss. I haven't touched a thing in my boy's room for six years. I keep the door shut. I'm afraid I'll drive myself crazy, ya know, just sitting on his bed and he runs in to grab and go. It's completely irrational, but so is burying a child. I know that I won't be all smiles when you return, possibly you as well after reading this, but I felt compelled to act and explain. Call me if you want to talk, I'm not sure I can give guidance on how to cope, but sharing stories is always good for the heart. All the best

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Jun 18, 2014

Jun 18, 2014 at 3:02 AM UTC

charlie-chirico

Two Sons

An old friend invited me to his lake house, surely to get away he mentioned. A dock leading to a pristine lake, not a ripple in sight. He left spare keys on an island table. Said he would be back in a few hours, apologized, and instructed me not to go into the boathouse, something or other about it being repaired. His headlights hit the home and by the lake until it hit the gravel ahead. I walk to the pier to get a better view of the lake. To smell whatever it is that you smell at times like these. The pier is maybe fifty feet. The boathouse is at the end towards the left, not exactly hidden by shrubbery, at least not maintained in a few years. Surprisingly the door opens easily. Light is scarce. Water is beneath. I'm not country nor wealthy enough to know that not all floors are solid. A switch is to my right. It enluminates a workbench. Tools are absent, besides some rope to tie boats, I suppose. Instead it is covered with pictures. All of a boy. Possibly seven. I'm intrigued, delighted being a lie or an embellishment. Many photos are taken at this location. On the pier or besides the house, as others are taken at places I'm not familiar with. There's a photo with a boat, the boy is sitting and smiling, saying cheese with as much force as a wave. Under the workbench is that very boat. Flipped over, but still kept. I stand still for what seems like minutes. I'm walking toward the house pulling the door shut behind me. I make my way to the kitchen. Married couples always have notepad and dry erase boards hanging around. They did. I decided to head back to the city. The air here is too clean for me. Also, I went against your wishes and went into the boathouse. I'm sorry for your son. Your loss. I haven't touched a thing in my boy's room for six years. I keep the door shut. I'm afraid I'll drive myself crazy, ya know, just sitting on his bed and he runs in to grab and go. It's completely irrational, but so is burying a child. I know that I won't be all smiles when you return, possibly you as well after reading this, but I felt compelled to act and explain. Call me if you want to talk, I'm not sure I can give guidance on how to cope, but sharing stories is always good for the heart. All the best

4

The Canal stands out in early morning splendour. Freshly painted small boats Line up in the early morning sun. Mallards duck and dive Across on the far side. The white clad houses reflect In the water in mirror fashion. The Red of the boathouse stands out against the Green of the summer dressed trees. Yes, sometimes it's good to be alive. Keith Wilson. Windermere. UK. 2016.

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Jan 26, 2016

Jan 26, 2016 at 4:35 AM UTC

keith-wilson

THE CANAL

The Canal stands out in early morning splendour. Freshly painted small boats Line up in the early morning sun. Mallards duck and dive Across on the far side. The white clad houses reflect In the water in mirror fashion. The Red of the boathouse stands out against the Green of the summer dressed trees. Yes, sometimes it's good to be alive. Keith Wilson. Windermere. UK. 2016.

14

behind the boathouse in august, he moves to her side. she pulls away from the boy with the violet eyes. in his eyes, tinged in red, like the sun that inflames above, burning the land and sea, scorching the grass and her skin. then too, an intense blue so wide and empty, it rivals the deepest sky that seeks to swallow the sun within these colors, a rush of purple springs forth. as it surges, he leans forward, to take the girl with his violet eyes.

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Jun 19, 2010

Jun 19, 2010 at 9:41 AM UTC

omegadrax

the boy with violet eyes

behind the boathouse in august, he moves to her side. she pulls away from the boy with the violet eyes. in his eyes, tinged in red, like the sun that inflames above, burning the land and sea, scorching the grass and her skin. then too, an intense blue so wide and empty, it rivals the deepest sky that seeks to swallow the sun within these colors, a rush of purple springs forth. as it surges, he leans forward, to take the girl with his violet eyes.

16

Norman Rockwell weekend Faded baseball gloves Slick stones off the water Fishing for lost loves Boathouse Road revival Rope swing double back flips Red serape twilight Rolling back for night dips Adirondack north woods Boy Scout jamboree Telling age-old stories Felling age-old trees Back seat back road banter Front seat small town blues Lukewarm diner coffee Corner TV news Swearing off old demons Swearing at red lights Chasing down old crushes Long into the night Headlights on the highway Headlamps in the mines Mountains in the rear view Main Street on my mind Norman Rockwell weekend Corduroy on wool Campfire snap and sparkle All-nighters to pull

0

Oct 3, 2016

Oct 3, 2016 at 4:57 PM UTC

michael-burkholder

Norman Rockwell Weekend

Norman Rockwell weekend Faded baseball gloves Slick stones off the water Fishing for lost loves Boathouse Road revival Rope swing double back flips Red serape twilight Rolling back for night dips Adirondack north woods Boy Scout jamboree Telling age-old stories Felling age-old trees Back seat back road banter Front seat small town blues Lukewarm diner coffee Corner TV news Swearing off old demons Swearing at red lights Chasing down old crushes Long into the night Headlights on the highway Headlamps in the mines Mountains in the rear view Main Street on my mind Norman Rockwell weekend Corduroy on wool Campfire snap and sparkle All-nighters to pull

28

Earth, USA, Poconos, Camp Ramah, Boys Campus, Bunk 12, Third wooden step/ a hornets nest underneath- harmlessly buzzing,/ we are invincible/ peace draws me back./ Leaning back on the fourth step, the wood digs into my elbows but/ I'm too content/ a sprawling bright green hill of grass/ plunges downward with a strip of gravel leading to the lake./ Feeling the aged, warm wood beneath my feet is/ cozy/ A gazebo is at the apex of the lush hill/ falling apart with cobwebs and flaking wood/ no one said home was perfect. I tilt my head upward briefly to feel the warmth of the sun/ downward a square pool surrounded by a romantic chain-link fence./ a run down boathouse./ My first kiss./ I had a "secret to tell her." A serene manmade lake sits just below the boathouse./ deep blue waters/ and the "blob” capture my attention. The picturesque scene… the lake surrounded by a dense forest at the bottom/ the giant beautiful hill which houses for just a brief period,/ some of the best friends I’ve ever had/ is home to me./ It is serenity, it is comfort, it is love. Home has no definition,/ but the third wooden step, bunk 12, boys campus, Camp Ramah, USA, Earth,/ gazing in the hot summer sun/ over the most beautiful piece of land/ I've ever laid eyes upon/ sure feels like home to me.

0

Jul 9, 2013

Jul 9, 2013 at 11:51 AM UTC

steven-fried

My Home (revised)

Earth, USA, Poconos, Camp Ramah, Boys Campus, Bunk 12, Third wooden step/ a hornets nest underneath- harmlessly buzzing,/ we are invincible/ peace draws me back./ Leaning back on the fourth step, the wood digs into my elbows but/ I'm too content/ a sprawling bright green hill of grass/ plunges downward with a strip of gravel leading to the lake./ Feeling the aged, warm wood beneath my feet is/ cozy/ A gazebo is at the apex of the lush hill/ falling apart with cobwebs and flaking wood/ no one said home was perfect. I tilt my head upward briefly to feel the warmth of the sun/ downward a square pool surrounded by a romantic chain-link fence./ a run down boathouse./ My first kiss./ I had a "secret to tell her." A serene manmade lake sits just below the boathouse./ deep blue waters/ and the "blob” capture my attention. The picturesque scene… the lake surrounded by a dense forest at the bottom/ the giant beautiful hill which houses for just a brief period,/ some of the best friends I’ve ever had/ is home to me./ It is serenity, it is comfort, it is love. Home has no definition,/ but the third wooden step, bunk 12, boys campus, Camp Ramah, USA, Earth,/ gazing in the hot summer sun/ over the most beautiful piece of land/ I've ever laid eyes upon/ sure feels like home to me.

33

The scene is an old boathouse on some forgotten lake A sleepy memory that reminds me of my great mistake My inspiration for self hatred and obsession with cause and effect But I ain't smart enough to figure it out, at least not yet My biggest fear was never dying alone, I wouldn't mind that at all But hating the company that has to watch me when I fall 'Cos there ain't no way in Hell I'm gonna end up in Heaven Maybe I never had a spirit and I am not my Father's son When I finally break in two and they strap each piece into a chair They will curse my wretched name they will cut off all my hair My last words to my one and only a girl from way down South We'll meet again my love I'll see you in the Devil's mouth

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Jul 8, 2010

Jul 8, 2010 at 6:51 PM UTC

joseph-c

Lament's Ballad

The scene is an old boathouse on some forgotten lake A sleepy memory that reminds me of my great mistake My inspiration for self hatred and obsession with cause and effect But I ain't smart enough to figure it out, at least not yet My biggest fear was never dying alone, I wouldn't mind that at all But hating the company that has to watch me when I fall 'Cos there ain't no way in Hell I'm gonna end up in Heaven Maybe I never had a spirit and I am not my Father's son When I finally break in two and they strap each piece into a chair They will curse my wretched name they will cut off all my hair My last words to my one and only a girl from way down South We'll meet again my love I'll see you in the Devil's mouth

12

My mind is in a constant dream I used to dream of adventures Solo adventures Traveling the world Living free Loving myself first Nature second And maybe then a guy On the occasional lonely night Then I fell for you and you changed everything I can no longer dream of anything without you My mind works you into each new dream I have Thailand I guess a travel buddy would be pretty fun Boathouse Living with our best friend is going to be dope Backpacking Central America We have a lot of shopping to do babe... Adventure after adventure with you I want to do go see everything with you My mind is in a constant dream But it's different now My dreams your dreams are slowly becoming our dreams

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Jun 25, 2016

Jun 25, 2016 at 6:09 PM UTC

Iloveyougenny

These Words

My mind is in a constant dream I used to dream of adventures Solo adventures Traveling the world Living free Loving myself first Nature second And maybe then a guy On the occasional lonely night Then I fell for you and you changed everything I can no longer dream of anything without you My mind works you into each new dream I have Thailand I guess a travel buddy would be pretty fun Boathouse Living with our best friend is going to be dope Backpacking Central America We have a lot of shopping to do babe... Adventure after adventure with you I want to do go see everything with you My mind is in a constant dream But it's different now My dreams your dreams are slowly becoming our dreams

29