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Cindy Renouf Jul 2010
Shimmer and flow
Wood Lake at sunset seems to emit a  soft glow.
Waves like edges move and dip
Feathering out, tumble and flip.

I hear the giggling of happy little girls
Dunking heads underwater and wetting their curls.
Scraggly young boys jump off a long pier
Showing their bravado that they have no fear.

Mallard ducks and tan little birds soar and float.
Passing patient people fishing off docks, or in a boat.
As I watch natures glory a gentle breeze caresses my sleeve.
I am at peace with myself with nothing to grieve.

I am very grateful for the time I spent here.
It gave me the chance to think with a mind that is crystal clear.
I was in my own world relaxing on my inflatable chair
With the sunshine as my companion floating here and there.

This quaint little lakehouse is a Godsend to friends
Who need  some time to heal, make changes or amends.
The owners are loving in spirit, generous and kind.
They open their home as a haven for the heart, soul and mind.

Copyright *CindyRenouf @2010
www.stumbleupon.com/stumbler/Cindy1128
July 9-12th I spent time  at a quaint little place on a lake
haley Feb 2018
i. the curly, green-haired
leo with the cry-baby tattoo
on her left calf; fish net stockings and
loud guitar playing and
menthol cigarettes. driving through
the park at 9 pm, ***** shots,
the white house with the a-frame roof,
hugs that made your heart feel as warm
as she did

crying as i left my room again to be
intertwined with a girl who did not love me, but i wanted to;
months pass, lonely car rides with
one-sided conversations and
seven years gone,
quiet disconnection
that made you feel as cold
as i did

ii. brown eyes, brown skin,
round glasses and chicago streetlights.
holding each other close on the subway
lakehouse parties in the beginning of spring and
pisces season and tarot readings and
soft kisses on the train.
holding hands at the aquarium,
sweet poetry and calm and
a sense of oneness that made you feel
important

hurt for the third time
a panic, a loss
i held their heart in my hands and
let it fall
harsh
unimportant
i still carry the guilt on my fingertips

iii. short hair. freckled cheeks, i
fell in love with the way the skin
crinkled around her eyes when she smiled.
an apartment, a home built
around our lips touching
wrapped in blankets on the couch,
dense smoke and her hand on my leg while she
drove. chinese food and
waking up against her chest and
laughing so hard
my ribs hurt

crashing. her anger withering away my
heartstrings; pain and
crying alone in the bathtub
moving away
drunk tears on the interstate
punching my thighs
in place of the way her
words made
me hurt
feeling extra lonely these days. they come and go.
vircapio gale Aug 2012
ok, so this is the upswell
of wheeling free without wheels--
you taste the unknown on the wind
and endless vigor vibrates in your bones.

sidewalks, dumpsters, fields for beds,
star-gaze drowsy thinkings, underfed

but overzealous of an openness we'd never seen, we'd never see again! the planet turning magical in unexpected
ways of wanderjest--
consummate rest of freedom undenied, joyful celebrants of every day!

the strangers sudden friends stop
to gather in the journey up 'til then--
tales of kindness or of danger
sharing in some facet part

integral, shining, random and forgot--
we each diverge in thanks
or so it's been with me
despite mass fear of ****** sprees
we help each other's spirit's free

some begin and end with sore feet soothed,
the destination moved;
others with a steath-pipe harshly clean:
ember throat-smack numbs the breath
and giddy paranoia settles in
as 'the white house' sailing by perverse
-ly urban planning plotted bums who smile missing ob
-ligatory chili dogs in crowded bl
-are full to frighten morning parking lot we pitched
our tent and woke to soaking feet and sleeping bags submerged in runoff corner-lake

another time we simply waited at a truck stop,
piles of the rigs just running ready there
and one for us, he said he'd bring us north,
and more, he told us of his brothels,
his debt-collecting days, the cokehead legs he shot
for honesty, he said, and sang us poems (he wrote)
of foreign women loved, some with pictures,
pickled eggs and cooler-hotdogs stale,
my first menthol cigarette: inhale and fall
into an understanding outlaws have
of skipping all the weigh-stations, of
friendship gleaned by chance, ephemerality
in strength of truth to last:
he took our picture on the exit ramp,
gave us hugs and left us waiting there,
more than just an ex-**** trucker,
hired gun for pushing coke, but a human
sentimental in a context undefined
like justice in the sense of kindness to rewind

the rain... a joyful merciless accord
of being in the storm of open-ended
waywards torn in being home and on the road
life untenable in farther reaches worn of ages never understood

but standing in a trailer whipped with highway gusts of water-gratitude
though slipping in the bouncing hay and horse manure fertileness
we joke eternal swinging backpacks soaked and knocking spin on balance play

meeting lovers simply known as such
for nights or only one, talking into dawn
at random campus dormroom sheltering
when sober, high, tempted into impulse act
afraid or pleasant easy unknown facts
just passing by she offered for the night
his first intoxicant beyond the ***
surrounded puffing passing groaning
in the rooms above below i'm listening
smirking at the undeserving joy i swallow in her eager kiss
to throb the floating line of destiny in endless acts of freedom's light

though a ride can be a head-ache too...
piled beer cans on the floor,
clanking with each swerving,
the driver even stopping for a ****,
thankful? to be riding, not walking,
but observing when we're there, the ground, this time, i bend to kiss

Sam was the most generous:
he brought me to his home, his father took me sailing, swimming with the family
serving food on lakehouse dock and later
reading with the kids, dinner bonding
then such sleeping    deep    peace
and in the morning, after breakfast
on my way with lunchbag tastes of kindness never lost

there are many more
tucked away in word-gifts, also
blueberries to pick along the roadside, more
than i'd ever seen or thought to see
cows to sleep by, horses randy for an audience to claim the pasture for

the offer is a type of gift you question to refuse,
not to lose your wits
some are quiet, kind,
most are liberal in ways they couldn't ever elsewhere be:
snapshot saints in momentary boons of spontaneity and love.
some cross lines.
so, grateful i'm ok, but never worried otherwise. i run the 'risk' it's called,
and run it still: i ask the random for assistance,
in upturned eyes discern the weather
as in ancient times the host and guest stood cultural across
in making kin of unnamed walking in,
gifting company for company along the way
trusting always in the limned choices traveled, with a existential grin
Ytoc Arucnav Jul 2014
i could leave.  i could go squat at my lakehouse in wisconsin.  i could cut all ties and never speak to anyone ever again.  i could live alone as a ghost or as close to it as possible.  i could eat easy mac every night for the rest of my life. i could watch seinfeld reruns every day until i passed out and then repeat until the disks get scratched beyond repair.
i wrote this last year.  get ******.
Lily Apr 2018
I change so often,
I hardly know what I truly am.  
One minute I’m a grand mansion on a hill,
Overlooking everyone and everything with
An air of pompous superiority, taking
Everything for granted and appreciating nothing.
The next minute I’m a humble cottage in the woods,
Allowing animals and wanderers to frolic in my midst,
Even welcoming them into my home.
I can also take a form of a modern lakehouse,
Feeling rushed and unused and fake,
Trying to stay with the times,
But never being fully enjoyed.  
From time to time, I’m a
Makeshift shelter that the homeless traveler
Builds in a hurry, that feels unwanted,
Unloved, and temporary, liable to fall at any second.  
Even though I change forms frequently,
No one questions it.  
No one bothers to try and get to know
The true me.  Maybe the real me is a
Cozy family home, comforting and familiar,
Or maybe it’s the slightly cramped apartment space,
Frantically trying to piece itself together.  
No one will ever know.  
Yet all they would have to do is
Just knock.

— The End —