"boating" poems
The new # 69 hoochi coochi smoochi
rubberized *** robot ****** sucker model 2.0
now available
****** off
feelin lonely
tired of spats
credit cards charged up from dates that don't put out
don't like the same restaurants
not ***** to your taste
cant stand the in-laws
you wana live costal, they like Kansas
or
tired of internet dating
and no time for a quickie
when the one you love tells you they aren't in the mood
well bunky
its a brave new world
take a spin in our new model
robot 69, 2.0
they talk
they walk
warm all ova inside and out
scented oiled perfumed *** optional
and flavored
to include
chocolate crunch, vanilla, strawberry
and
phooey
replete with an array of assorted interchangeable
***** pussy's and butts
extra sturdy for ware and tear
and those little irresistible spankies and whoopins
you just cant live without
plus any colors, or rainbow rubber chasse
gay straight or mix it up how eva
trans trans gender
buy out right
or rent ala cart
deluxe or standard
voice activated
advanced multi lingual
baby talk and hits the high notes
talks back software program
and
NO always means YES
plus
screams
cu cu cu cu cu cummmmming
cooes I love you
**** me now *****
shred me you ****** ******
and many others
in over 50 languages
Other optional features include
age play
ethnic fetish
banjee
blow jobs
tipping the velvet
**** to mouth
salad tossing
tea bagging
spit roast
bare back
chicken head
death grip
*******
mammary ***********
***** call
Netflix and chill
donkey punch
golden shower
brown bath
cream pie
*******
motor boating
and the shocker
two in the pink and one in the stink
Aug 23, 2018
Aug 23, 2018 at 8:14 AM UTC
Which one you choose; whatever?
Jimbaran, Kota or Nosadua
happiness inside leaves us forever
Took pictures with terrace rice fields background
thinking of hanging on the wall around
dancing decor all surrounds; echoing sounds
Looking for the bedcover pink and blue
Cotton floral design so beautiful true
when we can use it without a clue
Having a candle lit dinner on Uluwatu cliff
beside a table without a script, a band of music
breezing air across the ocean; not restrict
Tasting Luwak coffee on way to Mount Butar
the buffet was not super but we felt like Michelin cook rooster
Thinking of happy ever after
We went for banana boating
I was afraid of chocking though it was floating
while you're holding me tight but soaking
Now you are there without me
I'm sure your eyes will be full of tears
of the memories
can we call it tragedy?
Dec 31, 2018
Dec 31, 2018 at 1:57 AM UTC
On the East Coast of England there’s a small resort
Called Cleethorpes, where I happen to reside.
And out towards the Pleasure Park
A short way from the shore
There is The Boating Lake.
I love to go there on a still, sundowning evening
When the parking is free.
To walk those walkways around the lake,
Dreaming I’m on Starfleet Academy Campus.
Walkways flanked by lawned hillocks and shrubs.
The lake is fringed by red-flowered reeds
And punctuated by ducks and geese.
Families and couples roam about
As I sit in meditation
Watching and listening
To the central fountain play.
Such a tranquil scene,
Far from the madding crowd.
Go over the bridge and cross the mini-railway line:
Before you reach the saltmarsh and the sea
You’ll find a stretch of shrubbery and trees
A haven for the birds
And for me,
As I walk my favourite path.
The lake is thus a prelude
To some splendid growth
As nature does its thing.
Serene and tranquil everything
A spiritual feeling
As I meditate
Beneath multi-layered clouds
Under endless sky.
Paul Butters
Aug 27, 2016
Aug 27, 2016 at 6:21 AM UTC
Flamingos aren't naturally pink
But not for the reason most think
They preen and they dye
And they leave it to dry
Before rinsing it off in the sink
The magpies send me into fits
The ducks have me losing my wits
The crows are a blight
And they crow all night
But I do enjoy watching the ****
Vanessa McRafferty-Fryer
Set alight to the **** of her squire
She took a few shots
Of his privatest spots
And then laughed as he ****** out the fire
A penguin called Panama Pete
Had no love of the snow on his feet
So he stayed for a spell
At the polar hotel
With a pool and Jacuzzi en suite
I met a quite curious swan
By a lake I was boating upon
It tickled my ***
And insulted my mum
With a flurry of wings, it was gone
I know of a Gerald McFitz
Who arouses himself when he sits
For his favorite chair
Is the shape of a pair
Of voluptuous wobbly ****
and one for that special someone...
Your pancreas really is grand
Tis a thoroughly marvelous gland
You've a cute little spleen
Though it's seldom seen
And a nose growing out of your hand **
Jun 23, 2013
Jun 23, 2013 at 12:31 PM UTC
Butterflies in the pit of my belly
Goosebumps on my arms
Kisses on my nose
Christmas presents being exchanged with love
Holding hands and dancing in the rain
Kissing as snow falls around us
Drinking hot chocolate
Ice skating
Swinging in the park
And skipping rocks on the lake
Picking apples and eating ice cream
Watching movies
Stargazing and watching the clouds
Fishing and boating
Hiking on trails
Spending the rest of my days with you
Making memories with you
5/17/12
Mar 11, 2014
Mar 11, 2014 at 10:32 AM UTC
On an Ohio vacation, we got the call.
Dressed in a navy t-shirt, and stiff boating shorts
(plucked fresh off a J. Crew shelf just earlier that morning –
I wanted a darker grey)
My mother and I parked by the open grave.
The visitation was packed with strangers.
Stuffy, suffocating almost – I tugged at the new shorts,
coarse, rough-feeling, no time to break in yet –
fibers still unset –
My back hugs peeling wallpaper.
My mother's tears stain my shirt, the salt stiffening fresh fabric –
Baptism. Each tear carves fresh wrinkles, crossing her face like rivers,
slicing into her like canyons. Her hands are childlike upon my shirt,
grasping blindly for anything, her vision blurred, her breath short,
her heart broken.
I peer at the uncovered casket and look at the woman's face.
Thin halo of white hair, skin pale like alabaster –
She is stiff. Eyes fixed, blood cold. Her hands clasp tightly.
Her black cardigan holds her like a piece of glass,
stiff, hard, yet so fragile, threatening each second to crack,
and the sounds of its breaking my mother's muffled cries,
and my hand's rhythmless consoling pats upon her back.
Aug 7, 2018
Aug 7, 2018 at 9:00 PM UTC
It’s thirty years since I travelled back
To wander my childhood home,
To check out the trees I used to climb
And the fields where I used to roam,
I remembered the friends that used to play,
Wendy and Paul and Mark,
And the local bully that had his way
Back then, in the Boating Park.
We’d go up there on a Sunday, pay
Our money and hire a boat,
That fourpence each to the gatekeeper
Saw the three of us afloat,
Each boat had paddlewheels either side
You could turn, and stop or start,
Or spin around in a circle, just
For fun, at the Boating Park.
The Park, laid out in a rectangle
Took an hour to paddle round,
Once out of sight of the gatekeeper
The banks would muffle the sound,
We’d scream and shriek and laugh and beam
As we rammed each other’s boats,
I often thought it a wonder that
We didn’t puncture the floats.
Then over beyond the halfway mark
We lay in the shade of trees,
The sun would sink, it was getting dark
And we’d hear the murmur of bees,
We had to pass there under a bridge
And duck, for the bridge was low,
And that’s where the bully McPherson stood
On the bridge, those years ago.
He’d jeer, throw stones and catcall as we
Tried to get under the span,
Then climb and drop into Wendy’s boat
He wouldn’t have tried with a man.
He’d paddle over the further side
And make her get out of the boat,
Then paddle it back the way we came
Get out, and leave it afloat.
One Sunday I sat under the bridge
With Paul and Mark beside,
While Wendy came along on her own
As if on a solo ride,
The bully tried the very same thing
But we each pulled on his coat,
And when he came up, he couldn’t scream
For the water lodged in his throat.
He splashed about and he tried to grab
The boat, but his clothes, like lead,
Were trying to drag him down, while Paul
And Mark, they stood on his head.
Wendy had clambered up on the bank
Controlled, and well in command,
For every time he tried to get out,
She’d stamp and stomp on his hand.
The paper said it was very strange
That he must have put up a fight,
But hadn’t the strength to pull himself
Up out of the cut that night.
His hands and fingers were shredded, where
He’d tried to climb up the bank,
But the weight of his heavy, sodden clothes
Were the demons he had to thank.
I went to visit the Boating Park
It was just the way I feared,
I met up there with an older Mark,
A man with a greying beard,
He told me Wendy and Paul were dead
Weighed down with a sense of sin,
And the gatekeeper at the Boating Park
Had gone, when they filled it in.
David Lewis Paget
Sep 30, 2013
Sep 30, 2013 at 5:05 AM UTC
over thinking leads to sinking
just relaxing floats your boat
there’s no success brewed from great stress
clear your mind to stay afloat.
Mar 21, 2012
Mar 21, 2012 at 7:28 PM UTC
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.
Nov 1, 2015
Nov 1, 2015 at 10:50 AM UTC
I find pleasure in the smallest of things
in the glass like wings that a cicada brings
and from the small brown bird in springtime when she sings
I am amazed at the little things
like the slate blue sails of a boat in flight
and a moth who flies into the bright light
I fall in love on a daily basis with feathers I find in the oddest of places
and the ocean spray that splashes the faces
of giggling people in boats at the races
Sep 6, 2016
Sep 6, 2016 at 7:13 AM UTC
Before the hurricane, in my youngest years things were extremely different
My outlook on Louisiana was a place of water and happiness
I was six years old, and boating was what I did for fun every single day
Boating was what basketball is to me today, a treasure, an outlet
The bayous were alive, the marshes were green, and the trees fruitful
You could smell the salty mud, (which smells very different from a beach)
Our white propeller boat sped to the lake, and lake mist sprayed our faces
Fishermen and crabbers littered the banks, pulling in flailing lively catches
We ate the fruits of their labor at the Cajun restaurant on the bayou, inwards
This was no commercial place, but only the locals had ever been
It was rough, light blue paint peeling, men with grey beards laughing
And the smell of fresh fried catfish had taken over the place,
Perhaps the most unique thing about it was the way to get to it, strictly by boat
My childhood is colorfully painted with these memories, however,
The real life experiences have been swept away in the muddy currents
The restaurant was knocked off its stilts and demolished,
The trees now branchless, dead, and the marshes are hues of yellow and brown
No longer is the water lively, but still, no longer is it safe to dive to the bottom
For fear of remains of houses, boats, glass puncturing our bodies
I consider myself lucky to get to experience that everyday, the bayou was my backyard
That was the Louisiana that is on postcards, not the usual experience of suburbs
That was the Louisiana I used to know, the Louisiana that is no more in my life
Mar 3, 2015
Mar 3, 2015 at 12:28 PM UTC
Can you see it like I can,
a boasting child,
a boating child,
an accident
she drowned.
Down,
the bubbles escape,
race like red toy cars
as blood blossoms out ears,
and pressure builds,
and fingers reach upwards
pop
where small fingers are glassed with soapy water
and white and blue frosting.
scribbled over red lettering, "Happy Birthday Meredith."
And cards were presented with pasts and futures,
torn open like a shark attack
and ripping skin,
flapping back like dog ears, as he sticks his head out the window
and howls at the neighbors
for their loud music ways.
Silent crashing waves,
that boom death metal
and ride tidal curls
that bounce off her head.
As she writhes,
a red ribbon in her hair.
Hair of spun gold
like the sun
smothered by the moon.
Darkness eclipses.
And the last of the air is pushed
through her lungs
for light has drifted away,
torn like a suckling pig from its ****
and she is lost.
As her body floats away, pulled down.
Unclasped, she roams free.
groans, "Meeeee. Find mee...eeeee."
And eels slither from her jaw,
agape and brackish blue,
like pirate ship wine
sunken *** and treasure troves,
and streamline red.
Adding to a salty complexity
of tarnished speckled metal
like speckled eggs.
And brown eyes
bore out by hermit *****
that broke their shells after a gluttonous feast.
Unbuttoning her dress
a flower paisley sort of thing,
a useless scrap of sodden material,
for nothing matters,
as she thinks nothing can hold on to her
now and before.
She is aware,
but not really there, because you would miss her
like you did when she stood in the hall,
your eyes passed over,
and so stayed her silent screams.
So she left our world,
or rather hovered and watched
as much as she could without eyes.
She watched you,
and felt nothing over your cries
because she feels nothing
Now.
Apr 17, 2013
Apr 17, 2013 at 12:25 AM UTC
Today,
you'll not find me at home
don't knock my door
don't telephone
I've gone to Brighton by the sea to catch a boat to Italy,
and underneath a pasta tree
I'll write a card to you
from me.
Feb 16, 2014
Feb 16, 2014 at 2:04 AM UTC
Treasure your holidays
in Llandudno, Alice.
Skip along the promenade,
play tag on the beach
and when it’s time for bed
wave goodnight to the sea
as it drinks the sunset.
Go boating on the Thames.
Paddle your fingers.
Listen to stories, doze.
Chase a talking white rabbit
sporting white
kid gloves.
Take tea with a dormouse,
play croquet with a Queen:
this is not your dream
but makes you smile.
Don’t wish too hard
for womanhood,
it arrives soon enough.
You’ll be feted, photographed,
posed as holy Agnes
and noble Alethea.
With "dreaming eyes of wonder"
Discover Alice
in your own looking-glass.
And when it’s time to dance
in your bridal gown
cherish the moment.
Two sons will die
fighting for their country.
Remember them
as flames that burn
long after each candle’s
blown.
Mar 30, 2016
Mar 30, 2016 at 1:08 PM UTC
Ironic how each loafer lacked a penny,
though I'm sure they cost him a pretty one.
They gleamed meticulously
(aside from the scuff inflicted by his Benz)
and closely resembled his fathers $2,000 humidor.
His father always smelled of cigars and leather,
once you got past the 25 year old scotch.
He was taught that pewter spoons were childs play
and nothing but.
Born to a wealthy accountant and flight attendant of New Hampshire,
he was not accustomed to the word no.
He was a typical, grade A snob,
who looked down a nose so bent out of shape,
it made Owen Wilson cringe.
"That bar exam didn't pass itself."
This was the phrase he had coined
after years of being told
he'd never worked a day in his life
and he cowered behind the truth in knowing
its the only thing he'd ever accomplished.
It may seem pompous at first,
but ultimately,
the phrase reflected his utter worthlessness.
He would never know the meaning
behind that very word,
nor did he care to attempt to understand it.
He made the superiority of his wealth,
in comparison to others,
evident with every chance presented to him.
His selfish attitude was a close second
to the first thing you noticed about him;
his anchor-print, linen button-up,
his gold LeCoultre,
and his khaki Lacoste boating shorts.
Funny how such a pretty boy,
turned out to be
the ugliest person you could ever meet.
Sep 2, 2013
Sep 2, 2013 at 10:37 PM UTC
I can't take you with me
the trail's too steep
but I'll pack a few blurry pieces of you
sea shells and sand grain
boating and Busch Light
I'm rolling up your long, loud laugh
and putting it where the socks go.
so when I rest again,
I can unzip,
and hear you.
through tattered mesh pockets
holding fuzzy drunk photos
too fleeting and fast, your face
I’m taking you with me
The scraps of your smile folded into my sweater
Your voice explodes
As I roll my sunny yellow dress to fit
Perhaps I'll wear your laughter
to a party in some other town
to compliment my flower crown
Sep 28, 2021
Sep 28, 2021 at 12:33 AM UTC
I stand on the gleaming rocks
and gaze out toward the pond.
I've been coming here for years now,
ever since I could throw
bread crusts to the mallards without
screaming and running away.
Across the lake are mansions
dripping with frosting and gumdrops,
but their pretention gets no heed.
I dream of inhabiting the island between us
that measures about six steps wide and just as far long.
There's a "no boating,
no fishing,
no swimming" sign to my left,
so I don't know how the dilapidated shack sits
between two steps and four, but I
want to sit there forever and
stare back at the people
who stand on the gleaming rocks
and stare out at me and
don't run away from the shrieking mallards
or the East Eggers on their gingerbread balconies
who rock back on their heels
and laugh at the show as birds
rip open their sandwiches
then turn to top off their schnappes.
I'd pay attention to that island, though.
I think it's made of breadcrumbs.
I don't own a boat,
fishing is useless,
and I'm too afraid to break the rules.
So I let the waves lap my feet
and convince myself that I'll come back
and do the deed at sundown,
even though I know I won't.
Apr 27, 2010
Apr 27, 2010 at 1:47 PM UTC
expanding progression part 1
July 18, 2011
You can be the greatest man in the world.
Hold power in the palm of your hand like a deck of cards.
Whoops flipped upside down, impending doom, the jokes at your feet.
You're mediocre at best, a solid 2.
You're a dim light bulb in my closet, helping me spend too much time searching for what I want.
You guide me so great, that I feel lost even when I'm found with you.
Your moves are so new and fresh, you remind me of my annual rereading dusty books from the shelf.
When you dance, I feel the rhythm pulse through my immobilized knees, as they collapse to the ground.
You can make the very trees dance as they sit still in their roots.
You're the fiery flames on a boring sultry day.
I don't care to do much today, yet on today of all days, you are there eager and ready to go out and play.
Your fire is so fierce that even when burned out, it's far too expansive.
I think that I may be on to something.
So you're not good at what you're good at at all.
Maybe if you try something that's not quite your passion.
Farming, stock trading, free running, leaning on walls.
Boating, animal tracking, forensics investigations, and conjuring spirits.
Dec 24, 2013
Dec 24, 2013 at 7:24 PM UTC
Armpits, legs, arms
pits of arms.
Instrumental music--dancing.
Hopping, shaking your hips, moving your feet.
Stretching, drinking coffee, going to the bathroom.
Taking a walk, taking a drive.
Deodorant!
Bookbag, handbag, no bag.
Watering flowers, looking at flowers, getting naked.
Looking at your nakedness.
Dressing, re-dressing, ********** dressing.
Salad dressing, soup, eggs over easy, black beans.
Singing in the dead of night.
Blues, pastoral folk fleeting, flowing,
meeting again.
Traveling, boating, tripping and falling.
Bird-watching, laughing, joking,
(Midwestern jokes)
Leaving, grieving, waking up.
May 17, 2014
May 17, 2014 at 12:09 PM UTC
Thank you.
Such abused words.
Too often they are a lie.
Lists of names barely remembered,
slurred together in a hasty speech,
a meaningless slip of arrogance.
I had no audience,
no beautiful faces
like drowning lights,
yellow eyes in a smoky room.
Fearful and cold,
I wrote them alone,
birthed in my mind
by desperation and giddiness,
those flighty muses.
But you were there,
my euchre girls
and boating boys,
and I held you
tightly to my chest.
I release them now
my handful of
teardrop butterflies,
And they fly home to you.
Oct 10, 2010
Oct 10, 2010 at 10:59 PM UTC
It was me and him boating on a lake, under an autumn night.
I seduced him into this, knowing everything seemed right.
He put his huge hand on my tiny knee
and away we pushed the boat off of a tree.
My head spun, years waiting for this.
Just for the right time when he would avalanche with kisses.
It was only a matter of moments.
Years I have waited for such atonement.
The years of being semi-raped had lost their thrill,
and only would I be satisfied with a spill, but not ***** this time.
Six years had taken it's toll
and tonight it would end with this boat's stroll.
The kisses came, and I wet my lips.
I could smell his laundry detergent when I was in between his hips.
I undid his zipper with my mouth.
Surely he felt he had an adventure coming down south.
Licking around his length,
He was ten times my strength.
But it wasn't a fair fight, because
I had knives my father bought off the t.v. late at night.
My mother always chastised my dad for such a buy.
Little did they know, it would help their girl out of a lie.
I reached in my purse, what a great hide!
I brandished the blade as he wanted to come inside.
And just like that! I removed my mouth from his rice-sized ****
I sliced him, and it happened way too quick!
I spared his ****** for some reason or another.
Maybe some other lover would feel pity, or a boys choir hiring.
I grabbed my purse with the moon showing his stunned face.
I jumped in the lake and swam at a pace.
The tiny member still in my hand.
I buried it in the sand.
And after all of this, I learned something new.
Listen to the late night commercials and what they spew!
Their commercials may be cheap and constantly on the air.
But every so often their gadgets may leave you with extra time to spare.
And take care of the important things that have been bugging you all along.
May 10, 2010
May 10, 2010 at 12:20 AM UTC
a
wee
leaf fell
into a stream
as leaves are wont
to do. the water carried it away
it's boating to persue. the fragile
leaf then came to grief in a
swirling thrall, it's just not
fair, it said to air i did
not ask for
f
a
l
l
soulsurvivor
catherine jarvis
(c) october 6, 2014
Oct 7, 2014
Oct 7, 2014 at 12:31 AM UTC
Wonderful town of Whitby, hundreds of marketplaces,
England's own astounding alleys of traditional aces,
Many things this obscure area tends to hide,
the most enjoyable boating docks and brine and quayside.
With cobbled streets aplenty,
Whitby is where I'd like to be,
no matter where on earth,
Whitby is the best for me.
Wonderful town of Whitby, Honour be upon it's history,
But how it's backstory came to be differs as a mystery.
Once upon a supposed legacy of legend and lore,
One quite possibly never seen before.
With it's Mystic vampiric anomaly,
Whitby is certainly my place,
no matter where on earth,
I'd love to be upon this space.
Wonderful town of Whitby, many books wrote about it,
with Whales, abbeys and vampires, it's hard to doubt it,
rare and beautiful creatures, dance within the mist,
Humpback, White and Minkeys on this list.
With it's Whales and sightings,
Whitby is my Sweven,
no matter where on earth,
This town is my Heaven.
Jun 10, 2017
Jun 10, 2017 at 7:03 AM UTC
Destiny
i think I’m in love with you
your freckles placed in all the perfect places
i have never laid eyes on anyone as beautiful as you
your belly, your kisses,
i want to make you my mrs.
everything about you radiates like sunlight,
bright, the light of my life
maybe i knew i was in love with you
when we snuck into the city pool
the different evening hues of blues reflected
onto the most beautiful face God ever created
tomboy, you exude confidence
you’re my destiny
my excellence, my queen my princess
your eyes, sea specked emerald
your hair, damp and curly
you.
your culture, you represent
your skin, you take pride in
you.
your tattoos, like braille under my fingertips
goddess of the moon
i love you, i belong to you
maybe i knew i loved you
when we baked apple pies to have a picnic,
(i still have your floral blouse,)
and you rowed us out to the rivers
between the mountains behind your house
when we were boating, floating, breath holding,
you need love to feel alive
and i need you to love being alive
you are so free, a butterfly, the wind, my high
maybe i knew when we stayed up watching Pokemon
on an ancient glowing box, the ones that have VHS slots
not quite a television
the ones that say play in blocky letters
where we would sit and watch in nothing but our oversized sweaters
your energy,
your hands between my thighs
the days we would eat fries, through the window,
watching the sky pass by
there are many things about you,
you are unapologetic, i admire that
you have me under your spell, witchcraft
maybe i knew when we clung to the end of the train
instead of paying two fifty for a ticket,
the wind whipping, slapping the hair into our faces, onto our lips
everyday we were together was an eclipse
our hearts practically mended into one
you were the most splendid, the most fun
maybe then i knew
ripped denim jeans, black belt
you’re my Calvin model
with a brush of your fingertips,
you could make me melt
the comic books spread messily but aesthetically
across the white bedsheets we lay on, unmovingly
in each others arms for days,
we had no price to pay
you are the most fabulous ***** in the room, i agree
no other could have what you have, you are someone i need
maybe i knew i loved you when the sun set,
as we watched on the roof tops of the endless new york skylines
you are a gorgeous woman, i agree
our chemistry,
the way you walk
your personality, i need to pause just thinking about you
your voice, your accent,
our matching checkered vans, our matching tattoos
i love you.
May 4, 2018
May 4, 2018 at 5:42 AM UTC
My dreams are bright
feather light
at night
conditions right
Carefree
Mind free
Life's challenges
to be won
Feeling warmth
from noonday sun
I dream of water
floating
boating
with Dad
Sparkle Lake
water ripples
Lost Dad
Double nickels
Still sad
Memory trickles
I dream of sky
Fly
High
Cropduster
Single prop
Big John
Name drop
Macho swagger
Li’l Baby
Taildragger
I dream in hues
greens, blues
Love so true
dancing with you
Faces aglow
manhattans flow
******
Need a drummer
Low-rent venues
party continues
I dream less bright
feather light
at night
conditions right
Carefree
Mind free
As when I
was young
Colder now
in the setting sun
Mark Toney © 2021
Oct 9, 2021
Oct 9, 2021 at 10:48 PM UTC