"freshwater" poems
“Moby **** Herman Melville
<•>
~for the lost at sea~
after a year of saltwater absence and abstinence,
return to the island caught between two land forks
surrounded by river-heading flows
bound for the ocean great joining
the Atlantic welcomes the fresh water fools,
bringing with them hopefully, but hopeless gifts of obeisances,
peace-offerings endeavoring to keep their infinite souls
sea accepts them then drowns the
warm newcomers in the unaccustomed
deep cold salinity, which
sometimes erodes
sometimes preserving
their former freshwater cold originality
I’m called to depart my beach shoreline unarmed,
no kayak, sunfish or glass bottomed boat needed,
walk on water and my toes, ten eyes to see the bottom,
no depth perception limitation,
reading the floor’s topography,
millions of minion’s stories infinite,
many Munch screaming
god’s foot, heavy upon my shoulders,
a daytime travel guide, hired for me,
not a friendly travel companion, nope,
God a pusher showing off a drug called deep water salvation,
designated for the masses, can handle large parties
my in-camera brain eyes,
record everything for playback -
the lost and unburied, bone crossword puzzles
walk shore to ship, on soles to souls,
is this my new-summer nature welcome back greeting?
puzzled at the awesomeness of vastness,
conclude this clarification for me of the occluded-deep,
is a stern reminder of my insignificant existence,
my requirement to walk humbly, spare my sin of vanity, and
forgive my trespasses upon the lives of others
perhaps then the infinite of my soul perchance restored,
older visions clarified and future poems
will write themselves
and sea to it my predecessors
be better remembered
Memorial Day 2018
May 28, 2018
May 28, 2018 at 11:53 AM UTC
Who will play the river and who will play ocean?
That is to be determined, although I can stretch farther than you.
Where freshwater and saltwater meet;
that will be our special place
where love can flourish.
Biodiversity has never been lovelier.
Let's hope that no dams keep you from coming in to me
and destroy our sanctuary-
our estuary.
But you know how it is these days.
Apr 17, 2014
Apr 17, 2014 at 11:07 PM UTC
The invitation had arrived and I was over the moon
It is really quite a mouthful, and it is coming soon
The Second International Gender Non-Specific
Inter-Denominational, from Atlantic to Pacific
Freshwater Synchronized Swimming Competition
It's been eight years since the first was won by China
It was held in Illinois in a place known as Medinah
Turns out the swimmers used were just not what they seemed
The chinese had a total of nine atheists on their team
So, the time has come to try again and bring it to fruition
The I.G.N.I.D Freshwater Synchronized Swimming Competition
No date has been decided yet, due to issues with each church
So, even though the invitations out, we're still left in the lurch
Saturday is out because the Jews are all at temple
Sunday, the Christians all must set a good example
Friday, cuts the muslims out for they are at Mosque praying
So we've four days to hold this meet, is what I am now saying
The Chinese team is back again, but the Atheists are out
The team's made up of Christians and two Jews who are devout
Their working on a movement that involves making a cross
The Christian swimmers get it but the Jews don't give a toss
The team from Israel's withdrawn because they are all sitting Shivah
They had a coach drown last week, he hit his head while in the River
The Arabs won't be back, you see they're not interested in the least
They get confused while under water and don't know which way is east
The I.G.N.I.D Freshwater Synchronized Swimming Competition
Will take place in the New Year, we just need to get permission
The Jews won't swim with Muslims, and the Sikhs are up in arms
Because swimming with their daggers may cause other swimmers harm
But, we've got a great location at the lake up at the park
We can use it when we want to , but it must be after dark
Remember keep an eye out for a poster where you pray
We don't know just when we'll hold it, it may just be today
This is your invitation and the event is coming soon
It is really quite a mouthful, and it'll be held beneath the moon
The Second International Gender Non-Specific
Inter-Denominational, from Atlantic to Pacific
Freshwater Synchronized Swimming Competition
See you there...
Sep 20, 2012
Sep 20, 2012 at 4:46 PM UTC
Third weekend in July
I love canoeing out on Northwood
Lake, early morning hours melting
into the pines, as I head toward the
island where the wild blueberries
lie. Tiny morsels, abundant and packed with
the taste of summer and beepollen and freshwater
and snow. Minnows nibble my toes, each one
a solid worm for the biting, as I slowly
fill a one-gallon jug, berry by berry,
to use for breakfast pancakes and
Belgian waffles cooked golden from
the waffle iron. Some of the ripest
berries plop into the lake. I swipe
them up before bass or sunfish
see them; always leaving the
green berries behind.
Pausing to taste some, they
split between my incisors;
I marvel at the flavor
while a loon’s haunted red
eyes stare at nothing.
Blueberries split like
relationships
occasionally do,
sour at times, always
leaving a taste on your
palate. Families, young
lovers picnicking on the
beach lake, confused couples;
they branch off, moonlight
silhouetting their outlines;
silent elegy softly blossoming
downward as their paths skew.
They won’t cross again.
My jug filled, I oar
back to the dock,
ears filled with
humming of birds,
insects, boats;
brimming with
the bream from berries
splitting apart,
and the intense
silence of blueberry
picking in late July.
Feb 26, 2015
Feb 26, 2015 at 3:09 PM UTC
Mountains
Freshwater creeks
Coach Lambert
Dry Prong
Basketball bus rides
Old Music
Latch Disclosure
Orca whales
Spirit
Openly gay couples
Church songs
Windy plains
Grinding at school dances
Four wheelers
Mr Rodriguez
Cold weather
Snow skiing
Christmas
Fir trees
Canada
Planet Earth Movies
Fizzy Feelings
Dec 6, 2014
Dec 6, 2014 at 9:16 PM UTC
my colours have become muddy, confused and foul
but now it is our song that winds will howl
creation of yet another distance between you and i
on my journey drowning as you stay high
little by little, lost the sparkle that you devour,
and hopes became frail like a sick little flower
hollow, even meaning has lost its meaning
with me i carry sweets such as love-lies-bleeding
from earth not a sight, not a soul, not a beam
can reach to the depth of my misty dream
now embraced by the waves and foam, i sink
petals escape my fingertips, bleeding and pink
you, dearest colour-eating, joy-sucking vampire
forsaken, yet my yearning for you is always dire
even once sweet promises became bitter poison
sunken, my eyelids and heart grew heavy as iron
lilies stay afloat and your light can't reach to me
tongue-tied, lips-shut, no more letting a single plea
my tears now accompanied by freshwater pearls
from my chest to the surface one last daisy swirls
Aug 1, 2022
Aug 1, 2022 at 7:36 PM UTC
When I was sketching this afternoon,
my strokes seemed unsure
and my lines were all wrong and
I realized some things about you.
The reason your fingers
always seem to be slipping
every time you try to catch a
handful of waterfall
is because once upon a time
the rocks that your soles were planted on
crumbled.
You used to be a deer,
the way you stood on new heights
and how you looked on
with a steady eye, so
when was it that you decided
one more step was too much for you to climb?
The burying must stop.
It has been proven time and time again
that no matter
how deep a grave is dug,
the flowers will give the bones away.
I don't understand why you
confuse seawater with fresh, because
I know that you've already stuck out your tongue
and tasted the sweetness of real freshwater
or have you?
You are dust
walking in deep shadows
where I cannot find you.
I have only a candle
and my words, but I will wait.
After all, in the beginning,
something beautiful was made from dust
and from a word
sprung a world.
And lastly I realized that
I hope that you someday read this poem
and we will sit together in the afternoon sun
and you will listen to the sound of new things
as I sketch with sure strokes
and just the right lines.
Jan 14, 2014
Jan 14, 2014 at 1:12 AM UTC
So, now we must go,
Choose a direction and flow-
Do not worry about the destination:
Enjoy the adventure in meditation.
For ebbs and flows will come
And do not forget where you came from;
Small veins in a cloistered rock.
That eventually leave and flock.
The showers clean and fill our souls
And end up, sometimes, in dark holes
I have cried over the thought of reaching the salty abyss-
But let your motifs be safe with this freshwater kiss.
We may meet again on a sunny day...
Or, up in the clouds when the sky is grey
Let the moon guide you to an eternity,
For we watch over and envelope you in fraternity.
Aug 12, 2018
Aug 12, 2018 at 10:45 PM UTC
I rolled in Michigan
strapped to a kayak in the namesake lake
vision obscured by freshwater
I plunged under the blue surface
out of my element
panicking as a fish out of water- in water
I reached for the release and
missed
but grasped swelling panic
Dread thoughts of
the end...
my family…
last words…
Still submerged- somehow a semblance of sensibility surfaced,
unlike myself
frightening fantasies flitted-
shot like skeets in the sky and
peace prevailed.
I stretched through the moist blindness,
found the release- my sweet release.
Gasp air.
Freedom from death's clutches
I see
my unpreparedness for death,
ability to survive
Fifteen seconds to find my inner calm, my inner panicked strength, the depth of my composure
fifteen seconds for reevaluation
Fifteen seconds
submarine style
to find who I really was and am
Arguments are made
that safety and tranquility are the best mindsets for
education
But,
safety lacks motivation,
tranquility lacks demand,
Life's trials breed introspection.
Jun 22, 2013
Jun 22, 2013 at 4:51 PM UTC
I can't risk it
I won't let myself
Put myself through all that **** again
I won't.
What?
You don't believe me?
...
It's how I look at you, isn't it.
The hope.
I didn't think it would show so plainly on my face.
Never wanted it to.
I suppose now that is has you expect me to explain myself
I refuse.
well, maybe just a little.
I parallel myself to the man who drowns on a boat in a freshwater lake
Surrounded by love
And somehow distanced from it.
I have grown to slap the hand that reaches for the water
And that hand has learned to remain
hidden.
I am a lost soul who speaks in metaphors because the truth would hurt you
and God knows I don't want that
Playing with words, toying with a melody
It keeps me sane.
So if a glance slipped out from within
I apologize
It won't happen again.
Jan 9, 2011
Jan 9, 2011 at 6:01 PM UTC
She was a beautiful girl
radiant and bright
A freshwater pearl
glowing with inner light
The world tried to beat her down
Submit to the gloom and despair
in jealousy and hatred she drowned
Her glow masked by the water
murky and dark
She fought hard against the saltwater
I saw her dying
slow and tortuous
And sent a knife flying
in mercy
I buried her in a coffin
filled with roses, tulips, lilies and
other flowers whose names
I have long forgotten
I placed her coffin in my heart
the only warmth left in my body
With every beat
my heart aches
I think of the girl
who was too good for the world
Aug 8, 2015
Aug 8, 2015 at 1:18 AM UTC
*As the crystal-clear freshwater
trickles steadily off the glazy rocks,
The sound replenishes my soul
with vitality - on my heart,
serenity, it knocks.
As the dying rusty leaves
float along
the heavenly stream,
My peace-filled mind
goes off into
a beautiful, sweet daydream.
I ponder over recollections
of all the precious magical moments
that together
we have both shared
over the years,
All of the memories we have made -
all of the beautiful words he spoke,
they were all remedies,
conquering all of my fears.
The struggles and the challenges,
together, we took them all on,
Hope, love and faith
were the tools we both used,
hand-in-hand, to rid them
and have them all vanish and be
forever gone.
As the birds flutter in the branches
of the giant trees above my head,
In my mind,
like a delicate melody,
I hear all of the beautiful words
he has said to me
over the course of our lives together,
as far back as the day we met -
before we wed.
Like the crystal-clear freshwater
rushing down the heavenly stream,
All of the amazing moments
and the not forgotten good times
flood my beautiful sweet daydream.
And once again,
revitalized by the serenity
of the heavenly peaceful creek,
the incredible amount of love
I feel for him increases
once more,
My undying love
is born again,
I am to be in love
with my beautiful man
infinitely - forevermore.
By Lady R.F ©2017*
Jan 31, 2017
Jan 31, 2017 at 10:10 PM UTC
emotions scattered on a page;
manipulating letters to form
feelings.
in a world with so much to give,
all I could offer were words.
a beautiful soul like yours
deserves endless compassion.
love is honest.
love is kind.
love is patient.
love is everything I am not.
you've crept and crawled
into the deepest cavity
of my heart.
a baby bird nestled in
the comfort of their home.
words that flow like
freshwater down a stream
are all I could offer.
as I tried to be
the mama bird nestling
and caring, I realized I'd
only let you down.
many nights I lay awake,
with the trials and tribulations
fencing in my head.
you saw a beauty in me
I had lost sight of myself.
I saw a beauty in you
You never realized existed.
you are flawless.
a beautiful swan
resting and gliding
upon crystal clear water
that is life.
in every such way
you represent perfection.
a masterpiece discovered
by an unknown artist who is me.
you are fire;
sparks sparkling and
embers flashing.
mesmerizing every
gazer who glimpses.
you are marvelous and
you are radiant.
Jun 14, 2014
Jun 14, 2014 at 2:04 AM UTC
It is a furiously humbling experience
to be helpless before the gale
and exposed without cover,
knowing that cotton takes roughly a millennia to fully dry.
Even though I know that skin is waterproof,
in the moment it is hard to envision a future
where water is not dripping salt and sweat
into my mouth,
even if I know that just such a future
lies just minutes over the horizon
beyond the rain haze that blurs the twinkling city lights.
My shirt clings to me ever tighter as the storm waxes wroth;
the heavy fibers seem to cower from the far-off flashes of lightning,
the thunder to which we never hear.
Freshwater tears course unbidden down my face
in forks and rivulets, washing away the sand and grit and anger
as I trudge through the blowing sheets of broken glass.
And then, the inconceivable future dawns,
and as quickly as it had spawned,
the downpour abates,
leaving behind a sodden figure plodding slowly
through the newly-dappled sand.
Jun 2, 2013
Jun 2, 2013 at 8:59 PM UTC
before we make
love i will take a magic
marker to your skin and
draw the streets
(intersections of veins on the insides
of your wrists) I will
connect the freckle constellations
read your
mountainsvalleys with my fingers like braille I will
drink from the freshwater streams of
your cinema paradiso tears
bathe
in the salt sea of your skin—
a baptism.
before you break me
like bread.
Nov 2, 2011
Nov 2, 2011 at 4:21 PM UTC
The only thing that ties me to this quilt-patched land, is memories of a flag: red, white, yellow, and blue.
Red is the blood used to paint our doorways—protection from ghostly wolves that sought our firstfruits. It is fight, even if our weapons are terribly flimsy. Bamboo tinted spears, mashed with berry paint and maskara on our brows is our arsenal. We fight in, and with the shadows. Light chases them down. Memories of GomBurZa, Noli Me, Balintawak, Tirad Pass and even EDSA remind me of how the wounds are slowly closing. Red is the color of our scars.
White is the gifts we received from our conquerors. The plow and the print: an awakening of consciousness new. White is the color of skin that polished us. White is also the gift of void, bleakness and forgetfulness. In exchange for the new, we shafted the old: our language, our anitos. A gift of disconnect: resolute Babel collapsing, burying us in tongues filled with sorcerous lisps. We curl in vain our own lips to fit their shapes. We speak gibberish now. The ghosts scoff at us in an even newer language of their own invention.
Yellow is the sweet sun which kissed us tenderly—even as we were surrounded by bolo, spear, sword. The sweet sun fights to give us light, and reaches out to us misunderstood. It shaped our land—softened our soils and gave it fruit. It is mangos, and papaya skins, and ripe bananas. It gives us joy and sweetens our sweat.
Blue are the lakes beneath which linger our roots. With the water is our identity: our hearts, our gait, our dance: the light shuffling of feet, the sway of brown hands, the wind waving at the rice buckets bobbing on our heads. We were never a warlike people. When we are wounded, we seek refuge in our seas, in the saltwater wounds that so painfully clean us of dastard memories. They sting like a freshwater song. Like the harsh howling of the monsoon rains, and the tides rising and falling with our chests. Humming.
We forget and we remember, like the ebbs and flows of the shore, the coastal highways that we leave in peace, like a languid dance. They float in and out of history—as one hops in and out of bamboo rods as they dance the Tinikling. The songs, they string us well. String names like humble Rizal, larger than life, and manic Bonifacio, who looked us straight in the eye. Names that sing of the prairie wind—softly massaging the hard grains that we till quietly in the fertile soil.
Soil—what ties us together is our history.
Oct 19, 2014
Oct 19, 2014 at 11:26 PM UTC
A dark night
Littered with stars and rain
freshwater claims a sliver of consciousness
A simple word
a lonely question
"Why?"
You take my face into your hands
letting your eyes close on minor chords
It's almost silent
save for piano
and nervous breathing
Your forehead on mine seems to speak
directly to my thoughts
an arrow to my subconscious
An injection to my strength
weakness in quiet trembles
lovely petals of black and grey
falling on our awestruck countenances
augmenting the watery streaks of light
strewn sideways across your freckled skin
A hesitant thirst
not eager to be quenched
finally satisfied
Consent in closed eyes and soft pressure
Fingers caught lovelily in strands
of tired hair
Jan 8, 2014
Jan 8, 2014 at 6:32 PM UTC
A symphony of woodland imagination , Sycamore trees that mimic the forlorn's indignation .. Persuasive River Birch's cover quiet brooks , compel the fragmented light crossing the waters surface between moss covered stones , Honey Locust armed with their crown of thorns , instruments of the Passion stand majestic as regal Live Oaks command the high cliffs above the swirling tributaries confluence and utter confusion ..
Pan awakens the creatures at Dawn with the song of whippoorwill and Mourning Dove . Helios sets the floor aglow , Redtailed Hawks deliver their morning anthems..
Angels walk freshwater streams without question , forever charged with unfolding the tapestry of divine creation ..
Dec 24, 2015
Dec 24, 2015 at 10:18 PM UTC
Maytime romance under the vernal lamp
of creation
Wrapped with invisible arms
Under the spell of sylvan charms
Appeasing lanes embellished-
with pink Begonia and baby-blue -eyes
Catalpa trees blushing in the marmalade sky
Strawberry thoughts , young lessons-
from green pinecones
Brandy freshwater branches fill river neighbor-
saplings
Nuthatch mothers sing of the day in sunflower gardens
Apr 7, 2016
Apr 7, 2016 at 2:01 PM UTC
In the mitten
The ground rolls
In glaciers' paths
Her wooden teeth
Fertile and free
Beneath canopies
Of evergreen
Cravings breed
On beaches
Of golden sand
And freshwater seas
The beauty of erosion
Aesthetics genetic inclined
Mother Earth divine
May 1, 2015
May 1, 2015 at 10:38 AM UTC
There is more to living
Than just a breath
Or a heartbeat being
Just as there is more to swimming
Than the ocean
Freshwater streams
And the pools filled with meaning
Simply put
There is always more
To be
Than being
Sep 11, 2019
Sep 11, 2019 at 7:07 PM UTC
.
*she stood barefooted
and feeling so beautiful
staring out
the frosty
daybreak window
visible breath ,
enslaved by a kiss ,
a clouded waft
exhaled
between chapped lips ,
as smeared tracks
of dripping freshwater pearls
slide down the little pane glass
the downward trickles
stirring tingling goose bumps ,
pushing out
blossoming
fighting gravity ,
as the chilled air spills
upon
sleepy toes
and naked smiles
enigmatic eyes
penetrate through
the beclouding
sighs released
passion wanes gently
with night’s fleeting shadows ,
the sandman still lingering ,
yet gazing shamelessly
at intimate breaths visible rouse
starry eyes recycling blind hope
like the lightly arising steam ;
the glistening
frost heave’s sparkle
just outside the window ,
where the dawning light
a single morning sunbeam ,
enkindles a renewed shine
aglow
tantalizing
untamed diamonds
burgeon like splendor
faceted dreams* ...
Wild is the Wind
Sep 16, 2016
Sep 16, 2016 at 12:34 PM UTC
poetry composed in perfect silence
doesn't exist...
for there is no such thing,
perfect silence
there are no
noise canceling headphones,
a coachable prevent defense,
protecting my inner ears from
hearing words forced to the surface,
loudly spoken, up floating
unto the mind's constancy of enraging waters,
the highest definition of
mental disquiet,
the imperfect silence
frag grenades, IED's detonate,
all nicknames for the brain's multi-voices,
all argue raucous,
unafraid of exposure,
over~shouting to be heard,
freely secure in the
seeming silent privacy
of my brain,
mine owned
internecine mental slaughterhouse
and yet,
what I write down,
mine to keep...
my home,
and my mind,
an isle,
an atom of Earth
and flesh cells,
split surrounded by a
broad freshwater river
*the isle of the mind
spits fingers of land and voices,
injecting themselves into
the two~sided, belly~soft riversides,
forming bays and coves,
hiding places for
crafty human devices*
my poor mind,
mind it well,
as this sailing craft called poetry,
now, but a tiny ketch
to keep me afloat upon the
river surround,
while avoiding the backwash wakes
of larger enemy ships of state,
those who gladly drown me
for pleasure,
enjoying the pretending-to-be-quiet
internal screams denouncing
the myth of perfect silence
but the imperfect
poetry
born amidst
imperfect sleep,
the residual,
mine to keep...
Jul 2, 2015
Jul 2, 2015 at 9:28 PM UTC