"canoe" poems
*****
The last time, I got an ********
gave the girl my ***** injection,
now I have a bad infection.
Never again did I get laid,
it's going on the second decade,
a new ***** I'd sure trade.
One ball black, one ball blue,
got no paddle for my canoe,
my Horton doesn't hear a Who.
***** swollen, like a balloon,
feeling like a rabid raccoon,
looks like a character from a cartoon.
My ***** hurts when I ***
why did this have to happen to me,
karma is on a laughing spree.
Life will never be the same,
swollen ***** man, is my nickname,
got no fortune, but 15 minutes of fame.
Was on a reality show with other freaks,
it was called house of the rising creeps,
I got booted off after only two weeks.
Apr 28, 2014
Apr 28, 2014 at 2:23 PM UTC
lady craighead played the blues
on a stand-up samick
in the ***** room
along side the parsons project
and squabbling dogs
and night moves
stairs creek
up the mezzanine trek
wool sheets slide
on finished floors
little angels
play late into the seventh
(a closing match nearing
the midnight hour)
croaking toads and cicada
sing in the blue moon
musty smells and mothballs
settle deep in the vault
the kettle boils
and cat coils
as the pump house rolls
its heavy drawl
the red phone rings
and bird clock sings
(behind the ruddy stall)
a sleeman variation of the ruy lopez
employed heartily
by the incomparable master jack
marble toast burning
wringer wash churning
chris craft running
near the old carp canoe
rooster calls
and west wind squalls
rustle through the porch screen door
chicken *** pies
and rogue flies linger
a rocker chair placed
near the sepia face
(softened by the intricate frame)
donkey in tow
(with a fastened ***
maggie in her dreams
of green tambourines
the nocturnes
reflections
and whispering gospel bells
tractors pull on
the grinder stone
horses lay still
in the mid-day sun
a trump card is fingered
at the furnace click
(crosswords and puzzles are next!)
while the sparrow
*and that **** rabid fox*
are drowning
deep in castles well
Mar 14, 2017
Mar 14, 2017 at 10:20 PM UTC
1, for the slumber that tumbles us round,
2, for the remedy, the musics bold sound.
3, for the tree that became your canoe
& 4 for the rain, it's ambiguous blue.
5, to escape, to a world we contrive,
6 for the tricks that I played to survive.
7, because heaven, is supposedly on earth,
& 8 for my mother, and her unknown worth.
9 for the failures, the faults & mistakes,
10 for the fears that keep us awake.
11, for my father, consoles me each night, whispers advice crystal clear, filled with insight- words on courage & kindness, love & delight.
12- when you wake but it's already night.
13 forever, with strength glory and might,
14 with wisdom, discretion, insight-
both numbers together sizing up every fight.
15, for my little sister, and all her turmoil,
15, for her spirit, the last one to spoil,
she and the world but water and oil,
15 for her soul, and like the mighty cobra it's coil,
deadly & graceful defends its home soil.
16 for the evil- the wicked & cruel, the endless hate they spin into fuel.
17, for reason, justice & art,
and all the other virtues life etched on my heart,
18, to redeem, to admit your mistake, to truly move on then perhaps to retake.
19 for that shame, always the same, so familiar it almost comforts my brain. 19, for the suffering, agony & betrayal.
19 true stories retold as mere tales- how they surpass logic and induce other's fails.
20. For my years. For the moment, for now. For to the past I salute, and to the future I bow; All with the hope that next year I'll know how
to do what everyone else can.
Feb 23, 2017
Feb 23, 2017 at 1:32 PM UTC
Who knew the soft breeze
Was merely a tease
And sunrise a false fire,
The waters once calmer
Inviting and promised
A siren’s calling horror.
Quiet Lake a liar,
liar.
My God has watched the wind turn and many a son die, though I did not pay attention to deaths jealous eye.
The shock grasps and pulls until you know its true,
The best of us was taken
And I was left to you
The shadow on his chin in that early golden glow,
stuck inside the tent I did not know.
That the paddle of their canoe through the calm breeze would be
the last I’d see--
Island time clocks slow like a grief as it grows and regret in often company.
Who gives a **** island was stretched from shore to shore,
Divided by that cold wet demon
A womb of lost children, a watery graveyard.
All for smoke and fire they paddled their canoe
One beached on land like a salty sailor
The other exiled to hells blue.
The tragedy—whose heart weighted in gold left my copper soul rusted, the brakeman sold the purest human I’d known and grief clocks slow when you keep waiting for his body to surface.
Oct 28, 2012
Oct 28, 2012 at 11:59 PM UTC
A porcupine skin,
Stiff with bad tanning,
It must have ended somewhere.
Stuffed horned owl
Pompous
Yellow eyed;
Chuck-wills-widow on a biased twig
Sooted with dust.
Piles of old magazines,
Drawers of boy's letters
And the line of love
They must have ended somewhere.
Yesterday's Tribune is gone
Along with youth
And the canoe that went to pieces on the beach
The year of the big storm
When the hotel burned down
At Seney, Michigan.
6.6k
If a fish
Could make a wish
for what would
this fish wish ?
a wishing fish
you say, tosh tish
but if you were
a wishing fish
would you wish for
a new dish ?
or a knish ?
what would a fish
do with a dish ?
and how would he
eat a knish ?
but if you knew
a wishing fish
exactly what
would this fish wish?
If you saw
a little bunny
on a tree stump
counting money
would you think
that it was funny
if he used it
to buy honey
to eat outside
while it was sunny
Just where would
that little bunny
get a bag full
of such money
To me that just seems
rather funny
If you saw
a blue canoe
being paddled by
a kangaroo
wearing shoes
size sixty two
Tell me just
what would you do
if there beside
that kangaroo
sat a rather large
and old gnu
I think I would
call the zoo
but, tell me
what it is you'd do
A bunny, fish
and kangaroo
were all out walking
two by two
they were followed
by a large gnu
I think this rather strange
don't you?
I don't know just
what I would do
If I saw walking
two by two
A bunny, fish
and kangaroo
in fact i do not
have a clue
but I know the fish's wish
don't you?
Jul 11, 2013
Jul 11, 2013 at 12:17 PM UTC
THE BABY moon, a canoe, a silver papoose canoe, sails and sails in the Indian west.
A ring of silver foxes, a mist of silver foxes, sit and sit around the Indian moon.
One yellow star for a runner, and rows of blue stars for more runners, keep a line of watchers.
O foxes, baby moon, runners, you are the panel of memory, fire-white writing to-night of the Red Man's dreams.
Who squats, legs crossed and arms folded, matching its look against the moon-face, the star-faces, of the West?
Who are the Mississippi Valley ghosts, of copper foreheads, riding wiry ponies in the night?-no bridles, love-arms on the pony necks, riding in the night a long old trail?
Why do they always come back when the silver foxes sit around the early moon, a silver papoose, in the Indian west?
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The sky is painted a pale orange and blue
I'm just out there thinking of you
No way, no how to ever break through
But with a paddle in hand you know that's untrue
A wannigan, a duffle, a heavy deluth
An impenetrable vessel, a wood canvas canoe
Unexplored nature, a spirit renewed
All with friends, an unstoppable crew
No need to run, no need to prove
Rise with the sun, incredible views
There's always a portage, skeg on the boots
But who can stop walking our unfenced zoo
We do what we do, there to feel, be, and move
Nov 12, 2012
Nov 12, 2012 at 2:59 PM UTC
Memories are swept away by the wind
I reminisce all the moments we shared
All my shattered hopes you knew how to mend
No matter what I've done you always cared
Remember how we used to play guitar
On The Road To Nowhere we'd take a hike
All these memories seem distant, so far
I miss those days, I miss you Uncle Mike
I'd like to again visit Urchin Falls
And drag our canoe down The Peace River
Hear the frightening sounds of cougar calls
Fossil dig while the rain makes us shiver
When do we get to spend time together
Play in nature all day, despite weather
Nov 11, 2012
Nov 11, 2012 at 3:58 PM UTC
chocolate fireguard, teapot,
or fender, icecream sofa, dry sea
or wet towel, glass hammer,
waterproof teabag, newspaper
raincoat and umbrella, lead parachute, ashtray on a motorbike,
handbrake on a canoe,
vote in a dictatorship,
loudhailer to a deaf mute,
grief at a wedding,
****** in a monastery.
inflatable dartboard,
spoon in a knife-fight,
screen door on a submarine,
wooden soap, shortbread tires,
knitted light bulb,
bread boat, plasticine wire cutters,
paper hole punch, water hat,
custard floorboards,
ceiling tiles made of gravy,
portrait of a bowl of soup,
a stone cigarette,
syrup knickers, hole in my bucket,
plastic oven, wax truss,
liquorice bridge,
false teeth made of soap,
lemonade roof,
jelly boots,
jam cardigan,
paper bicycle pump,
ice-cream saucepans,
soluble drain pipe,
packet of rubber nails,
see-through mirror,
revolving basement restaurant
roll-on hairspray, rubber pencil,
****** with a hole in it,
limp **** pockets on a lettuce,
**** on a fish, lolly pop van in Hell,
one-legged man in an ****
kicking competition,
meaningless life,
unnecessary death,
forgotten words and deeds,
ignored needs,
this poem.
Apr 30, 2016
Apr 30, 2016 at 4:11 PM UTC
Bouncing down the tall stairs
Hazel eyes and short blonde hair
Daughter, the first of two
She looked up to you
Mama’s girl was so small
Not like her dad at all
Daddy liked to fish, hunt and hike
Kayak, canoe and mountain bike
She liked all the little girl things
Barbies, crayons and trampolines
Today I sit in your old kayak and gear
And think about us as if you were still here
I wish we could do all these things together
Now we’re the same, but you never got better
In and out of hospitals all the time
Still we all thought that you would be just fine
No answers, no cure and little treatment
But you had hope in the discouragement
Time has passed and you’ve been missed greatly
I realize now just how much you gave me
Your stubbornness, determination and drive
Your deep love and passion of all things outside
Dad, so many things we could do
I want to be back there with you
On the water with that kayak
But nothing will bring those days back
So many things you’ll miss
Stories of my first kiss
Frightening my prom date
Seeing me graduate
Walking me down the aisle
Tearing up all the while
Dad, you are loved and you are missed.
Jul 23, 2014
Jul 23, 2014 at 4:28 PM UTC
I think of mom often.
Like when I read anything by Jack London
or Ernest Thompson Seton.
Her memory swirls around me when I see a dead opossum by the roadside
it reminds me of the one we had as kids.
Yes, we had an opossum.
It wasn't a pet as much as it was a wounded soldier,
convalescing in a field hospital close to the front and cared for by Florence Nightingale,
except the field hospital was our carport under a suspended Old Towne wood canoe,
the battle, with a Ford or Chevrolet, on the main road near our house in Connecticut.
Florence was Mom.
She peeks at me around corners in the kitchen when I make fish,
or soup,
because I hated fish as a child.
She made us eat it because it was healthy and the blocks of frozen Turbot were cheap
and she was a single mom at forty two with three hungry mouths to feed.
She tried to make me think it was exotic because it came from Iceland.
I thought Turbot was Icelandic for "more bones in your mouth than you ever thought possible".
Mom was, however, an accomplished homemade souper.
She's by my side as I explain wild things
to other little wild things which hang on my every word.
Words put into my head which make it seem,
to the under four foot set,
that I know everything.
Knowledge put there by her in our yard,
by the lakes of New York, the mountains of West Virginia or deserts of California.
She is in every frog that jumps, whippoorwill that calls or each stalk of Jewel ****
which is a cure for poison ivy by the way,
that grows near a stream in the woods.
But then today
as my daughter opened the overhead sunglass holder in her car for the first time,
the Subaru she inherited from Mom over a year ago,
and Grandma's sunglasses fell out,
there were no thoughts of lessons learned
or knowledge imparted.
Today,
I just thought of her.
Jul 14, 2013
Jul 14, 2013 at 1:10 AM UTC
I met Mother Taro once,
She is an angel you know
I saw her in the greenery of
John Pia's Taro Patch.
She dawned the past, the present
and the future
More plant than woman,
and yet more root than angel wing--
Though her heart shaped wings
Repelled water as well
as any albatross or nene.
A rare bird in spirit.
She shared her plight to me
Of this modern time,
Watching the changes
In the faces of human kind
She remembers being a Goddess
And providing for all the people
In a time where she
traveled with the people
Over waters near and far
In double hulled canoe
To share her spirit
With new families.
And now, she feels like a myth
Told and retold by the elders
Alive more in the memories
And less on the land.
As she spoke, the message
Became more and more clear.
When might and power and greed and money
Seem of more value than
Root, wing, earth and pluck
We must take the time,
take the time
To tend each keiki and tend with care
So they may multiply
In healthy soil, water and air
So We the Living
Can live into eternity
For the winds of time
Will spite the might,
She said.
Seize this time
Seize this day,
Seize this moment
to tend
We the Living.
Apr 11, 2019
Apr 11, 2019 at 3:00 PM UTC
It's been cold this summer,
I'm inside this delicate house
more than I'd like to be,
Watching through
the glass window - nature is a moving
picture,
in my backyard
the lake shimmers -folding with the wind,
The gray clouds are often brighter
than I expect of them,
The water rises to my lawn
at times,
A swan swims through it,
Her nose always looks so
congested
- eating the grass or the worms
and possibly
the small bits of wood
from my fireplace,
She's heavy and light-footed
and those eyes are
pitch black - wings absolutely white,
I remember the day
you went into the middle
of my lake,
The kayak ripped through
as your paddle
skimmed the surface,
The prized fight
with that swan
you were so beset on,
no doubt you were better
for the job,
My canoe right beside yours,
Maybe I saw her
fly through the middle - Her wings
wider than anything
you could have possibly expected,
Or maybe she broke your neck
with her crest,
Then again,
Could you have flown away together?
May 16, 2010
May 16, 2010 at 6:34 PM UTC
This morning, out in lightly falling snow, I heard geese
as flights of them flew overhead. Like a shot
I was ten again, Grammy and I at the lake. I’d sit in the bow
of my canoe, pulled awkwardly ashore, neck craned back to watch the sky.
I was always sad to see them go; their calls so many cold goodbyes.
Ice encrusted water slushed against the dock in slow motion waves.
It was time to seek new horizons, where waves
of Floridian waters would embrace the geese.
My grandmother said that every new adventure started with goodbyes
to one thing or another. If I were ever to have a shot
at following my dreams, there’d be farewells as I reached for the sky.
Instinct would lead me onward to my accomplished bow.
One year Momma and Poppa Goose stayed behind, a nest in the bow
of my boat. The wintery sky turned black with departing waves.
They would call out as the flying ones filled the sky.
Wounded wing grounded Poppa. (Canada geese
mate for life.) Momma would not leave her mate, recently shot
during hunting season. She would not yet say her goodbyes.
This, then, was the winter of no cold goodbyes.
Before school, pony tailed hair with ribboned bow,
blowing in the stiff breeze, I’d take a shot
at keeping ice from the edge of the lake, waves
arrowing out as they swam. The geese,
with an itch in their wings, anxious for a return to their sky.
That summer Poppa introduced his flock to the sky,
practiced formational takeoffs leading to goodbyes.
Clouds overhead gathered gray with unfallen snow as the geese
took flight. My two watching for a moment, dipping heads in an elegant bow,
before joining in the aerial ballet of strong winged waves.
Grammy’s strong hand gripped my shoulder, then-- the parting shot.
Grammy joined the geese beyond the horizon. No miracle shot
or endless love could keep her with me. Heaven was in the sky.
I knew she was watching although there’d been no time for final waves.
Her new adventure started without time for goodbyes.
Outside, snow blanketed as I cried myself to sleep. Her final bow
had been silent, but she’d been telling me, as had the geese.
Overhead the geese are shaftless arrows shot
from an instinctual bow piercing the morning sky
with their raucous goodbyes. Time waves.
Oct 23, 2011
Oct 23, 2011 at 6:16 PM UTC
Becoming... hmmm...
what am I... becoming...
is this the enlightenment
of my trip? hmm...
journeying through the seasons
of inner time and place...
therein which lies... a space....
not that sort.... not the sort of the
spicky icky spacky... space...
it's the... hmmm... sleepy space...
I sit and wonder... this place is where I... ponder...
fabric... the fabric of this life...
I AM FLOATING INTO THIS CHAIR
CONCEPT BANDS
CONCEPT ALBUMS
THAT'S WHAT I WANT TO SEE I AM JUST LIKE TIMOTHY LEARY
... but that... that is only a character.. the outlook I assume in..certain moods...
that state of worry... that's what I mean.
I am the wind
the sea
...
speak friend,
enter...
speak...
speak to me.
'I see we meet again... hmmmm...'
The music keeps changing my moods, you see...
Subconscious... I must be more mindful...
'Increase mindfulness'
I must bring the feelings... out
don't shove them away...
don't shove me away...
on this normal
squashy day
Love your dark shadow love the wolves
streams of consciousness I must cut up all of these streams
I worry too much about the future... am I crazy? or just afraid of being...
telepathy
Here's this concept that I have that represents all of these feelings that I have that I tell
to you and you receive as whatever feelings you associate with said concept
and hope they match up
I only write when I have something to preach... a sermon, you see..
yet I write every day...
to preach a sermon to me
'Does it make me bad?' this way I am?
does it make you.. mad?
mushy swampy bog filled mushrooms
I sag into the soppy plants in me
this world is my swamp
and this swamp is me
into the swampy swamp I romp
All day I ravage roam
I stomp
jive my vibe...
Exotic exodus execution
into the deep reeds
paddling the little cellophane canoe
Must... move...
Must... go...
Jan 13, 2014
Jan 13, 2014 at 1:21 PM UTC
You've got a lot to learn now, honey.
You ought to take it slow,
But please don't take forever, honey.
We've got a ways to go
Here on this road to nowhere, honey,
And nothing in between.
Maybe we'll last forever, honey,
Unless we're too obscene.
Timewise, I don't have much too spare
On property, that's not my fare.
Little bits of lost lives; stolen,
Given to the egos; swollen.
I understand security,
I'm my arms, secure you'd be.
Maybe you don't need protection, honey.
But, still, it could be nice to know.
I'd lay my coat down for you, honey,
To bridge the puddles in the road.
Whenever we are elemental, honey,
I'd shield you from the chilly wind.
And raise the walls and ceilings, honey,
To build the house of fire again.
We could sail the oceans blue,
Or a rapid river in a canoe.
Sacred are the hearts of two
Who syncronise the avenue.
I can fix when you have need,
And you can fit my heart, indeed.
The letter of the risen law, honey,
Cannot dam the rushing flood
Of power you have over me, honey
I'm feeling mighty good.
Don't take advantage, honey.
Don't pass a good thing by.
We got some synergy, honey.
All good things will come in time.
Only if we hesitate,
There is a time when love is late.
Maybe love might come again.
Maybe no heart ever wins.
Maybe hearts in hand will soar.
Lesson one: I love ********
Oct 6, 2018
Oct 6, 2018 at 4:30 AM UTC
Here, passing lonely down this quiet lane,
Before a mud-splashed window long I pause
To gaze and gaze, while through my active brain
Still thoughts are stirred to wakefulness; because
Long, long ago in a dim unknown land,
A massive forest-tree, ax-felled, adze-hewn,
Was deftly done by cunning mortal hand
Into a symbol of the tender moon.
Why does it thrill more than the handsome boat
That bore me o'er the wild Atlantic ways,
And fill me with rare sense of things remote
From this harsh land of fretful nights and days?
I cannot answer but, whate'er it be,
An old wine has intoxicated me.
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Close your eyes,
now imagine yourself on an island
that doesn't need make-up to be beautiful.
Imagine yourself,
walking joyfully through an exquisite flora.
Imagine you and your family
camping in a tropical rain-forest
swimming in cool hidden pools,
great mountain streams,
and magnificent waterfalls.
Imagine yourself on a canoe,
gliding atop blue lagoons.
Or, rather than an evening at a theater,
how about a romantic evening
with your love, by the beach,
with a beautiful sunset glistening
through your eyes,
while nature sings peacefully, to you.
Imagine walking through a tunnel,
that was left behind by the **** in World War II.
Imagine going on an adventurous trip,
through a mysterious archeological ruins,
with immense stone logs,
stacked crisscross to form a wall.
Imagine all of this,
and open your eyes,
and you'll find yourself
on my island - Pohnpei.
Nov 5, 2013
Nov 5, 2013 at 9:24 PM UTC
The aqua water reflects
white sunlight
immersed within
and throughout
the lake
A wooden pier
leans toward
the other
side of the water
An empty wooden
chair sits at the edge
of the pier
a canoe is quietly
drifting amidst
next to it
Across the lake
the dark green
shapes of mountains
appear.
Beyond them, purple
mountains in misty
focus
The soft blue sky
is powder blue
with fluffs of
white clouds drifting
The flickering light
sparkles
The scene ignites
The day is serene
and still
I look at the empty
chair at the end
of the pier and
I see Mother Nature
sitting in it -
overlooking the
beauty she's created
The stirrings of
water are splashing.
The harmony of
birds singing echo
in the background.
The sky becomes a
more and more
brilliant blue
As each second
passes my heart
excitedly beats
in sync with
the experience
Feb 9, 2015
Feb 9, 2015 at 8:45 AM UTC
Sitting here
Waiting, wishing, wanting,
I can't even focus.
The distraction of you pervades my mind's eye.
Write it down, the eye tells me
As if it were the messenger perched upon my shoulder.
Each breath that crawls in and out of my lungs feels heavy;
Saturated with wishful thoughts and flickering candle light
Like shards of glass
Shining and reflecting the unseen.
The wind blows cold here.
Can you feel it too?
When I was young, the teachers said I had a vivid imagination.
They deemed me "creative"
Because I liked to play pretend.
That 8-letter C word hasn't left me since.
I still like to play pretend, so
Let's make believe we can touch.
Put that scene on repeat please.
Ever since I was young I've had this vivid imagination.
The night I cried a monsoon for lack of you,
Somewhere between each breath lost
I found a realization of epic proportions.
I sat with myself in the dim light,
My arms wrapped around me,
White knuckles,
Cradling this vessel that felt hollow as a canoe,
Pretending the arms weren't mine, but yours.
Wanting.
In bed with the blankets tucked around my silhouette
And your thoughts in words cradled in my hands,
I can imagine your front against my back
And your warm breath on my neck.
I can almost feel… a rush of blood to my heart.
Name that song.
Sorry I have to plagiarize that thought but it comes so easily.
A rush of blood straight to the core.
Pumping, pulsing
Sometimes I just sit alone with my heart.
Close my eyes and listen to what it has to say.
It seems to tell me, hey I'm keeping your engine running, but you have to do the rest.
And I say a prayer for that motor inside my chest that keeps everything flowing
But I know that it won't do it all for me.
Isn't it miraculous to be alive?
Earlier today I thought: my God, do I have trust issues.
I'm confused about what's real and about how to believe.
I've been told plenty of things that aren't true
Like how pluto is a planet...
Just kidding it's only a moon.
But who's to say it's only a moon?
My moon is your moon and that seems pretty swell to me.
People say it's a comfort to look up
And know you see the same moon as someone far away.
Maybe I'll take that for truth.
Might as well.
What've I got to lose?
On second thought I might want to avoid that question.
What have I got to lose?
My head, my heart, my sanity...
It's a question for another day.
But for now I'm sitting here
Wishing, waiting, wanting
For my make-believe to get real already
And for all my distraction fantasy to spring to life.
Mar 28, 2014
Mar 28, 2014 at 4:25 PM UTC
I said I love you in the field of honor
and she was like a colt, her name
like the moon caught in my throat,
she was water I held in my hands
like the canoe I worked through the river,
and she was a flash at two-thirty
in the morning of the suicidal knife,
and she was a fire of pine cones,
a butterfly that lit on the float of my pole,
and she was like the night herself.
Aug 8, 2016
Aug 8, 2016 at 8:09 PM UTC
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©
Jun 17, 2022
Jun 17, 2022 at 7:16 AM UTC
I want to be a safari woman
I will stand in a regal position with my elephant gun cocked,
Finger resting firmly on the trigger.
Will I dress as an Indian war leader?
Will I choose to look like a gentleman?
Or will my attire consist of camouflage paint and steel toed boots that walk with a purpose?
It may change daily, but I still possess the same desire inside-
To be one with this habitat so intriguing, so mysterious and concealed.
The rivers call my name.
As I paddle my silver bullet canoe into the abyssal waters ebbing and bending around my streamline vessel,
The water calms at my own will in a passive manner much like the coo of a dove
The trees know my presence
-Such a command I boast-
They know to bow at my arrival and whistle their harmonious flutters.
The babies cower at the sight of my polished machete.
The mothers stiffen when I equip it with a cool hand.
I am Simba.
I am ruler.
Africa,
Asia,
India,
I own this land as my own,
And I understand it is needy.
I care for it in sickness,
I check its fever regularly,
I mother every animal, every bush,
And in return they signal their respect.
As the day ends, the sun sings "good night" and the moon chimes in with a "good morning".
I watch as the fish jump from the waters to catch their dinner airborne,
And the bats chirp above me while my campfire crackles in response.
I watch the stars mirror themselves onto the water, yearning to be remembered as something great.
A day of accomplishment achieved.
I am a real woman,
I am a safari woman.
Jan 27, 2014
Jan 27, 2014 at 4:13 PM UTC