"lakeshore" poems
The third moon brought forth from the shadow dark.
Gentle breeze freewheeled across the lakeshore.
Windswept was the air, in peace night was marked-
Unyielding stillness, blooming fairness more.
Silky pastel cloth, gushing curtain soft.
The window let in hushed waft soothing cool.
Fixed firmly on shore with poles planted stiff,
A pavilion meek light heartened the pool.
By the portico was a tree bent down
Whose white flowers bloomed lovely as a nymph.
Its jagged branches, lumped of golden-brown,
Delicately grown each emerald leaf.
Underneath its shades were cheery plantlets;
Pebbles hard and cold; red earth spongy ground;
Flying whirly bugs, glittering bead lets.
Fair maiden deferred, there then can be found.
Pleasing to the eye, that dignified dress
In white noble silk with fine needlecraft.
Regal as she stood, just for a mistress.
Mystic was her eyes, a soul was grafted.
Filled with potent life in her burning stare.
Profound as the deep, tranquil as it surge.
One may glimpse straight to, utmost one can't bare.
To its mysteries, one gave in and urged.
Verdant her hair was, hearty as it shone.
Longer than she was, white as the moonlight.
In her neck are chains, beads and shells she owned.
Varies in sizes, things that make her bright.
Oct 11, 2012
Oct 11, 2012 at 5:30 AM UTC
This morning as I walked along the lakeshore,
I fell in love with a wren
and later in the day with a mouse
the cat had dropped under the dining room table.
In the shadows of an autumn evening,
I fell for a seamstress
still at her machine in the tailor’s window,
and later for a bowl of broth,
steam rising like smoke from a naval battle.
This is the best kind of love, I thought,
without recompense, without gifts,
or unkind words, without suspicion,
or silence on the telephone.
The love of the chestnut,
the jazz cap and one hand on the wheel.
No lust, no slam of the door –
the love of the miniature orange tree,
the clean white shirt, the hot evening shower,
the highway that cuts across Florida.
No waiting, no huffiness, or rancor –
just a twinge every now and then
for the wren who had built her nest
on a low branch overhanging the water
and for the dead mouse,
still dressed in its light brown suit.
But my heart is always propped up
in a field on its tripod,
ready for the next arrow.
After I carried the mouse by the tail
to a pile of leaves in the woods,
I found myself standing at the bathroom sink
gazing down affectionately at the soap,
so patient and soluble,
so at home in its pale green soap dish.
I could feel myself falling again
as I felt its turning in my wet hands
and caught the scent of lavender and stone.
Mar 1, 2014
Mar 1, 2014 at 11:04 AM UTC
corundum puppies and you begin to wonder if
they’ll ever move again not
much escapes your midas touch
you used to organgrind your teeth and
nails at the dusty mayhem floors
(it’s suppertime baby let’s
**** some airtime by eating the fish right off the
CAUTIONwet
hardwood as they gasp for air so we
gasp for blood)
seashell lakeshore pumpkinpatch painting of
bugjuice spattered on the back windshield;
you’re not afraid of
a little fog.
not enough
sodium in the air (not enough
salt in your wounds) and
you begin to choke on the potassium of our
bananasplit ages ago;
if you’re eating
your own molasses words
please make sure you spit them back
out again where the children can have them
they wouldn’t say no to
something sweet
Oct 24, 2012
Oct 24, 2012 at 1:05 PM UTC
The first time we met
was on the playground
at Lakeshore Park.
You were six
and I was seven.
You shared your ice-cream cone with me -
Vanilla-Chocolate Swirl.
We met again a decade later
in high school,
neither of us remembered the incident at the park
until our parents showed us pictures
of us covered in the stuff
holding hands.
We stayed best friends for a three years
because I was too chicken-shit to ask you out
but somewhere along the way
our unbreakable bond came undone
you drifted off to some Ivy League school
and I stayed here
convinced I could find another way out.
After that, I pretty much forgot all about you.
That is until today,
I was at the park with my niece,
and I thought about you
I sent you a message on Facebook -
asking if you were back in town.
Then, in anticipation of our reunion,
I read what people were posting on your wall:
“Rest in Peace. You will be missed.”
****
Jun 16, 2010
Jun 16, 2010 at 11:35 AM UTC
Like the waters of a tide
Life swells and ebbs in moments
Of clarity
Lost in tangles of confusion
And frustration
As clear as the foggy lakeshore
On a stormy night
Aug 4, 2016
Aug 4, 2016 at 2:06 PM UTC
We met at a park by your place,
A hill overlooking a lakeshore vista.
The sunset hung over the horizon
As did our words, awaiting conversation.
The nerves got to me and so I flung my phone,
Your laughter a cacophony which my heart still adores.
We had pizza on a bench that night,
Or at least we tried;
Nights at the park have more bugs than we'd like.
But after all the talking and laughing and grinning,
It's our departing hug that sent me spinning.
I'd give everything to have that time again with you.
But alas, I needn't give anything,
For our nights are still this rich and full of youth.
May 23, 2019
May 23, 2019 at 6:33 PM UTC
*" It ought to be solemnized with Pomp and Parade, with Shews,
Games, Sports, Guns, Bells, Bonfires and
Illuminations from one End of this Continent
to the other from this Time forward forever more.”
John Adams – July 3, 1776.*
Webster Groves - 2016
The Townhall fountain dances
cheerily in the morning sun.
The red-white-blue shirted crowd
rises as one for the colors.
Laughing children scramble for
tootsie rolls and sweet tarts
tossed by a strolling clown.
Philadelphia, July 3, 1776
Carriages sped toward Philadelphia
where resolute patriots
would turn the pages of history
and tell an unsuspecting world
that a new nation had given birth to itself.*
Sousa strains peal from the marching Statesmen,
Girl Scouts guide their well-groomed mounts -
hooves echoing through concrete caverns.
Vintage firetrucks and autos
sound their horns and sirens
as candidates work the crowd, pressing the flesh.
*Each crass insult from the British crown
had tightened the noose on the colonial neck.
The middle ground was soaked with patriot blood
and revolution was the only course left.*
Barbecue clouds drift over Pat and Lee’s farm
Horseshoes spin and clang and frisbees fly.
A pot-luck feast with beans and franks
interrupts the pop and glare of bottle rockets.
*One by one, each patriot quilled the parchment
resolved to endure the costs of liberty -
knowing to the marrow that defeat
would spell certain ******* and death.*
We reach the lakeshore at dusk -
unfolding chairs - spreading out blankets -
strains of Americana drift over the lake.
then a pyro-technic extravaganza
blazes across the summer sky.
*Washingon’s tattered and bloodied men
cornered Cornwallis at Yorktown.
Then surrender - all British claims
to American soil banished to the tomes of history.*
The grand finale pummels the darkened sky
raising cheers and whistles from the crowd
Toddlers collapse in parental arms,
car doors slam, engines ignite
and head-lighted caravans, turn for home,
spiraling off in every compass degree.
“Happy birthday,” America and endless happy returns
"from this time forward forever more!”
Robert Charles Howard
Jul 4, 2016
Jul 4, 2016 at 2:07 PM UTC
The fish comes steaming, and
English is not the only language making sense.
Politics comes with dark green vegetables spewing flavor,
Kenyans having lunch on the Boulevard,
Lakeshore,
– commitment is the idea that momentum cannot disrupt motion, that
Committed, one moves forward,
Becoming better,
Choosing beyond the sound
Of Americans,
Providing proof of the pudding, cavorting
Wildly,
With language, the idea that language is not owned, it is spoken –
Shoot beyond the target,
Make it count.
Marriage will not be left with men and women.
It has always cavorted with love.
Jul 26, 2015
Jul 26, 2015 at 10:55 AM UTC
Today I woke up to your voice
calling out my name
and it sounded like sweet music
so gentle its refrain
it was like waking up to raindrops
falling softly on my face
and for a moment memories
had fallen out of place
but then it all came creeping back
and the pain welled up inside
of the night I woke up to your voice
when in my sleep you cried
I don't know how you reached me
from so may miles away
but one minute I was sound asleep
the next I heard you say
please honey, come and get me
for I don't feel so good
somethings happening to the baby
it doesn't feel like it should
As fast as I could get there
I drove the 40 miles
to your sisters on the lakeshore
where we'd shared so many smiles
But as I turned round the corner
nearly crashing at the gate
I could see the paramedics
and I knew I was too late
They said you didn't make it
that the baby had died too
why did you hide your sickness from me
there could've been something we could do
Well that was seven years ago
and each day I feel the pain
But today I woke up to your voice
calling out my name.
And it sounded like music...
Jul 31, 2010
Jul 31, 2010 at 7:26 PM UTC
when we were young,
everything was bathed in sunlight;
we loved and we fought,
we thought we would live, strong,
forever.
summers spent on the shoreline,
waves lapping at our feet--
we'd walk the pier in the evenings,
jumping from rock to rock,
spiders being the tenants between the spaces.
and then we grew,
wild and reckless--
nights spent on drugs and ***
nights spent on choices made and regretted,
nights spent on violence and self-destruction.
our town darkened like the bags beneath our eyes.
the water doesn't shimmer in the light like it used to,
the stars don't shine like they used to.
the lights in the buildings flickered out,
windows boarded.
we don't go out at night like we used to.
we're all waiting to escape before we become
the next teenage suicide,
the next dearly-departed and gone-too-young.
we were all beaten and battered,
breaking each other's hearts,
begging for an out,
only to end up homesick
for a place we always hated.
the lakeshore was all we knew.
Aug 2, 2014
Aug 2, 2014 at 10:52 PM UTC
i.
you fought like a tiger -
to stop me from rubbing
sun screen on your delicate
skin, you hated the greasy
feel, and so ran into the ocean
then rolled in the sand and
kicked sand in my face,
at four
Great Hollow Beach, Truro
June, 1994
ii.
you never could resist -
if we turned our back
even for a minute you
were off to find the largest
boulder, you would climb to
the top and raise your arms
in victory, and always, always
land in the water, wet and cold,
at eight
City Beach, South Lake Tahoe
June, 1998
iii.
oh, how Mt. Baldy called to you -
the giant of a sand dune,
moving inland as a glacier,
a sweep of sand blowing
from the peak ridge, like
the banner of heaven, but
i carried you all the way
back to the house after
you cut your foot on a shard
of glass, carelessly abandoned,
at eleven
Indiana Dunes National Lakeshore
June, 2001
Mar 23, 2012
Mar 23, 2012 at 10:46 AM UTC
Today is the first day
Of Spring in Ontario
After an arduous winter.
We have waited with
Northern patience.
I cruised my Shadow
Along Lakeshore Rd,
The sun strobing through
Leafless, budding limbs.
The smell of Spring clean-up,
The burning of leaves and wood;
An invisible, invading aroma.
That one assault held the force
Of all my Springs,
Before I worried over CO2's.
May 2, 2015
May 2, 2015 at 4:04 PM UTC
*God, who can tell me the difference? as if
I even care about the difference, I know because I feel
The difference, I can feel it, life is so real
Because what difference, does it all matter…? What? What can
Be the reason for a difference, when there can’t be any difference
In me. It is there, I mean, I can see it, smell it,
The Doctors told me it is there, and now I cannot see the difference
In whether or not, I **** well take it, smoke it, drink it,
Hell at the difference! I will not be any different except happy, except
Sliding down the path of feeling good, even though for a short time,
Even though for anytime, what difference is there anyway, does it, will it all make?*
(an easy feeling of sliding, so downward, so fast, falls on me, falls
like the head of a pin, looks up and sees me, as it feels so **** good
with just a glimpse of lakeshore looking backward, over my shoulder
as I sit here. no television. the sound blaring. and it is off. and the window
is down, and I am riding. in the car that is not there. better off. the distance
looks crowded, and feels so pretty and nice. and life is mine and there are things
that make me look. this way. then that. and make it all blow the dust off
and leave. me here. crying and feeling your arms. while your gone. and feeling
her arms wrapped around me, and knowing that she will likely *****
and moan and gripe, but who cares because now it is gone,.and an extra two
on top of two. and that makes four, god it makes four. makes four. makes four…)
** Who can tell what sleep I have had, nothing no more than a minutes sleep
Is why my hair looks the way it does, and make-up is not made up and
The sleepy feeling grabbed me strong and put these jeans upon my body
And they are mine, they fit, I swear, and the sweater fits too, it is not his it is mine
Besides, I feel like hell and death have run together and have clouded me,
And taken away my judgment, and left me here alone, can you see me?
I know it, I know it, it makes sense as dogs make sense to lying in the grass
And birds make sense playing in the limbs, and as I make sense, making sense
Of the feelings that are lost to me now, and please, please, please, I do not
Need the sitter, or someone watching me, or watching me die, please
I just need something, a little thing, a little more, just a little more.**
Dec 1, 2011
Dec 1, 2011 at 11:12 PM UTC
*Autumn days along Port wood-row
In search of the morning fiery glow of frosted moors
Recalling the doors of my very soul to the crackle -
of frozen lakeshore , the infusion of frigid visible breath
in resplendent newborn sunshine , the rhyme of windswept
Pine , the rapport of Woodpecker and calling Finch , reflections
of Carolina blue sky o'er Gods placid , mirrored waters
Home of steaming evergreen bottomland and rock bass
river dancers , November leaves sailing the script of the
Alabama western wind , the regal prance of Whitetail Deer
to the Mourning Dove euphonic call and answer* ..
Oct 26, 2016
Oct 26, 2016 at 12:59 AM UTC
Baby, aren't I pretty, in that tortured kind of way?
Don't these dark circles under my eyes add something?
A little sense of mystery? A taste of poetic desperation?
Baby, don’t you love to play with this mane of dirt blonde hair?
It’s a marvel of half-wit curls, don’t you think?
And don’t I have the bluest ocean eyes?
Not quite Liz Taylor, more the polluted Toronto lakeshore
But doesn't this wide face have so much character?
Like a 1950's housewife, you sometimes said
Tell me baby, aren’t I pretty, a real sight for sore eyes?
A little bit pretty, a little bit ugly
Don’t I match with my insides?
Jun 11, 2013
Jun 11, 2013 at 2:35 AM UTC
I wander down the boardwalk
as I used to, many years ago.
Metering my steps to feel some semblance of control.
The yellow streetlights set fire to my
pupils over and over again as I pass under.
There's an old, soft breeze from the
lakeshore coming in.
Although you can't necessarily see the lake from here.
"This is the nice part of town" I tell myself, as my soul rests into the cityscape
and prepares itself.
I'm meeting her tonight.
In many ways its the same night as
many years ago. Warm,
but not enough to be without
a sweater or some layer on top. Although those who are young enough will likely wear less.
Perhaps she'll even choose
to wear that black jacket again.
Walking up the concrete, I look down and feel my feet underneath the weight of my bones. Every fiber and hair is on guard, and
I'm shaking.
"I'm going to give myself away" I think to myself.
I arrive at a dimly lit restaurant, and take my seat on the outside patio. My weight sinks into my cotton shirt, and it in turn pushes into the cloth of the seat. I order some waters and try to breathe into the end of summer.
It's been a decade since I last saw her. Our last exchange was a cup of bittersweetness.
I cycle through thoughts of fate and destiny, wondering about where it is leading me, or I am leading myself, now in my 30's.
I settle on the fact that its all too grand to decide right now.
My phone rumbles against the glass of the table.
And just as quickly
I pounce to check. She's arriving.
I look around frantically but there are no familiar faces.
I feel colder and my heart races.
Am I ready?
Her dress comes from around the corner.
A firm, confident walk, the same as she had many years ago.
I used to observe it carefully when she came my way. She carries her bag cautiously, mindful of her surroundings, but still, seemingly at ease.
Her skin glows ever so sadly amidst the evening sun, a warm caramel reflection back into the sky. We exchange glances briefly. An acknowledgement of a time long ago, and the people we once were together.
It is time.
Aug 24, 2025
Aug 24, 2025 at 6:16 PM UTC
Summer beats
down on me
owning the sweat
on my body
the kind of heat
you equate to distant memory
sweating and swearing as mother
attempted to beat the blasphemy
out of me.
How fitting that now,
I should find myself baptized in a lake by the place
where she has wrestled
a mortgage into a home.
Her hands grabbing at digits
from her master the banker.
My hands reach down
sifting through debris,
brush
and
discarded
cigarette butts
all for a stone to cast into this baptismal bath drawn by mother.
While the only memory of my father is him teaching me to skip rocks.
Smooth
oval
in the wrist.
My record is 7.
A much smaller digit than the ones that concern my mother.
I see myself in the seven.
Gliding,
bouncing,
resisting
then
sinking.
So I wonder,
from this place
where I peer out of my
tiny
human lens;
How much of my wrists
can make my heart skip.
Jun 24, 2013
Jun 24, 2013 at 11:57 PM UTC
Evening daubs of ox-blood, pipe dottle, rust.
The lakeshore and the bonfire and the trees stammer,
Pleasure mutters, in turpentined and transparent voices
Like many invisible things, intermittently believed:
The taste of my darling's knees, her summer dress,
Her strong, fresh, friendly kisses,
The smell of garden dirt and fireworks,
Magnesium flare and copper flare on the matte sky:
Like doubt and the lovely end of doubt.
Paul Anthony Hutchinson
www.paulanthonyhutchinson.com
[email protected]
Aug 4, 2016
Aug 4, 2016 at 11:55 PM UTC
What are you trying to say,
Lately I've been asking myself.
It feels like my thoughts are too piled up
With only a feather to dust these shelves
Sweep these images off of my chest
Left scraping together this disorganized mess.
I'm having trouble with my fan base,
The trouble is I don't have a fan base.
Stuck in a position of not knowing what I want to be,
I know who I am, now let's look past me.
I've been debating religion and stuck in an uncomfortable position
Of calling most the church goers hypocrites
Only following the rules when the shoe fits
Then gossip in the back of the pew
about a man with more struggles than you
Hung up on other's demons, while pretending to smile
We send them to a mental trial, tell the next person
Next you leave them exiled, pulling some godly ranks.
Ask me to come to that place, I'll say no thanks.
It's another lakeshore day, it's another late night
Taking a breath of the wild at 2 am through dim light.
Sitting in the same room, with a little time to type
I'm stuck in my thoughts but unable to know what to say
So I'll leave this on an ironic tone
Yesterday, my father wished me a happy father's day.
But his knowledge of me stands unknown.
Jun 20, 2018
Jun 20, 2018 at 2:49 AM UTC
Roam my beach
Where proof gets stranded
With every inch of water.
I will keep my secret shelter
In the dunes.
Here I dig to cover
(As the Nile's favourites once endured)
Ones like me.
I think.
I too built my sphynx to oulast
The odds, the waves,
And time.
Past the lawns of lakeshore
The family still waits
For the feast.
As for the calf, save the leather.
Rings don't look good on me.
What will come from all the rejoicing.
Oh god!
My brothers, Jake and Ben, understand:
The inheritance was never mine alone.
Let the feast begin.
Save me a seat.
May 29, 2014
May 29, 2014 at 10:35 PM UTC
The falcon rises high above the plain.
A man skips stones slow along the lakeshore.
Where is love when needed in times of pain?
How rough to walk the corridors of shame.
Seems as though I can't bear it anymore.
The falcon rises high above the plain.
The locust is damp, there can be no flame.
A mother cries for her children at war.
Where is love when needed in times of pain?
A princess ponders in watching the drain--
Am I truly the one whom he adores?
The falcon rises high above the plain.
Lovers quarrel in fields of sugarcane.
She’s flustered. He thinks it is fields of corn.
Where is love when needed in times of pain?
A man sits distraught, waiting for a train.
All the patches of his quilt have been torn;
The falcon rises high above the plain.
Where is love when needed in times of pain?
May 14, 2017
May 14, 2017 at 1:30 AM UTC
I should not be allowed outside
driving down Lakeshore Drive.
I should be in a hospital room.
Padded.
Soft.
It feels like my personality could fly apart.
What happens when you lose your inner voice;
when there is no light or inner glow?
I think of all the different snapshots people get of me.
So different in different in spaces.
I pull the collage together and
who is this chimerical man?
Who could know him or understand?
Erase all the photos and what is left?
Who is there when there is no self?
What is a self not recognized?
Feb 21, 2016
Feb 21, 2016 at 4:17 PM UTC
on the brink of war
with a real estate mogul
more famous than before
he was a child rotten to the core
off to boarding school in Baltimore
built a business from the ground floor
made a few bucks
then a few more
built a mansion on the lakeshore
next to a golf course
shot a perfect score
what more could you ask for
had a tv show
was a mentor
was a cut throat
savage like a matador
threw some money offshore
tossed a few people out the backdoor
kept his lies hidden in a trapdoor
not to certain on American folklore
or who was involved in the Crimean War
but always kept a perfect bowling score
now the state of our country is an eyesore
ran for president
dug in deep like a troubadour
this poem could wash up on the seashore
not today or tomorrow
but in a postwar
Sep 24, 2017
Sep 24, 2017 at 2:40 PM UTC
She sings herself swan songs
But she needs a lullaby
Her hips sway beneath her tired shoulders
Her feet her foundation
But they do not sit still
Simultaneously running towards her courage and away from her fears
Despite her deep breaths
Her lungs are not full
Her belly rises and falls persistently anyway
Her resilience keeps her company by the lakeshore
Sings to her softly
Cradles her heart in its hand
"You are safe here"
Noticing her determination, the wind carries her along
Towards the horizon
Towards her courage
Spills into the corners of her insides
Warms the garden her mother never tended to
Never sang to
The leaves become her chorus
The moon her lullaby
Her resilience smiles
Takes root in her temples
Lines her walls with forgiveness
Patience
Ingredients for her garden
Waters it with celebration
After all, she has survived.
Sunflowers tickle her ears as they sprout
Stretching and yawning in the daylight
"My flowers!" She cries
"I have been waiting for you"
Her feet grow still
They had been searching for the sunflowers
Never knowing they were inside her
Deep in the soil of her garden
"We knew you would come for us,"
They beam
She breathes in
Down to her toes
Her lungs press into her ribcage
They are full
They
are full.
Aug 15, 2018
Aug 15, 2018 at 9:11 AM UTC
"You're just doing a favor for a friend.
So don't worry if it's not your best.
Just get out there and do it."
But when do the favors stop being favors?
Pedal
weighed down with worries-
Wheel
locked in place by fear
I speed into a busy intersection,
both armless
and legless.
Motion
a change in position or time...
...But I'm not going anywhere...
Everything is coming to me.
And it's coming slowly.
It's dark now.
I can't see you--
standing in that intersection,
but I know you're there.
And I will hit you.
Eventually.
Feb 15, 2015
Feb 15, 2015 at 5:48 PM UTC