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CK Baker Oct 2017
dust cloud heavy
in an apricot sky
cottonwood mucker
under ambrose pale
whippet and shepherd
mill at the earth patch
yellow birch hangs
over red bench park

combine shavings
in ***** rust brown
scissors chips
fall to the back stop
whiskey jack looters
sing patented chords
siblings (and 2 wheel enthusiasts)
give thanks

joyous retrievers
master the criss cross
bare maples stand
at settlers way
barred owl and blue jay
whistle the fore-wind
ghosts
and goblins
pull at the seeds

wind gusts belt
over the west gulch
blood rush churns
in a chilling fall morn
hallowed grounds still
at the midday
quiet reflections
of the afghan
and hound

jumpers unite
at the oxbow
route runners bend
(on a sultry foray!)
meadows exposed
in the framework
ball park empty
with pennants past

barrel dirt favors
the brew house
crimson and copper
find bracken ridge gate
harvest hands savor
the honey and hops
blankets of color
for a winter's hatch

brush fire kept
under steady peruse
bark bites fly
and embers glow
pine cones drop
from timber tops
3 wick candles
set the dinner place

shiver and ******
at the piper's call
cob web dew
on shadowy gates
a chilled mist mellows
the season's return;
poets and artists
and dreamers awake
Ashley Chapman Aug 2018
These days have ebbed
as Love's swell was checked:
the waters in some places
- all but dammed!

But now at last
I sense the rising tide
and thank Temese
for the current's turn;
now following that great writhing snake
to where its pulsing head will rake;
over the mucky soiled watery beds
of Woolwich
Greenwich
Limehouse
- and under -
Tower Bridge

     To that great gloating sight
                A crown of a billion lights
     Blazing day and night:
                And somewhere within
     In the slick oily warmth
                Our flood tides mesh,
     As over each other we wash.

Hard thrusts
wicked deep cuts
given and received
are recorded in that great mirror smoked!
where with a tug and a shove
on the banks
in the streets
through the loopy twists
everything prospers in the glow
as the decades decaying flow;
each ***** bud
red with new blood
one after t'other
flowers
before their purple petals scatter.

Let's on the luck o' the dice
(you 'n' me!)
ride out
on the flotsam and jetsom
that has carried us this far
and as pleases
merge.
London, a city with a rhythm, the Thames, which I sailed upon one Saturday morning - not a soul at this end of this magestic river, this city, in which I have lived for forty years...And love - a wonderful woman - and how I desire us to pull at each other as tides do, tugging at each other, two flows running over reeds and muddy shelves searching for each other in the cool green depth.
CK Baker Feb 2017
late night by the holland sill
white framed and frilled
alongside the meadow
down by the grand
where cat fish
and cow pies
and silly yellow bees
make their stay

there are swings now
and an empty barn
(with quiet corners
and broken walls)
echoing chambers
that speak to the past
...and little dogs
not big ones

the plaster cracks
and wheat sways
from a warm west wind
it’s about time
for that late afternoon pour
you know how it cleans the soul
old percy would say

and flanders
the holder of those pigs
who fed us good
with sow and milk
as we plowed the
dusty fields
into the
hot summer sun

i can still hear the screams
of river dreams
the grand slams
and flints run dry
the barks
and breaks
and bends
a world past
with forbes
and dolls
and crab apple trees

think i’ll take a trip
up the back lane
they’ve cut the brush
and opened the line
Shofi Ahmed Aug 2018
The sun is with the paintbrush
ambling down the river blue.
See, your eyes are the mirror
in between the earth and sky duo.

Bask in the open air theatre
eye on spread out with colour.
Indulge in, with a slice of summer
you got the brightest star, the light
on your canvas, you got the clue.
Now draw your way through
art yours in between the two!
A poem from my upcoming book Qun: Love is Above Reason
Shofi Ahmed Jul 2018
Dancing the billow in the sea
the cool one will show up
deep down from the deep
with the flute on the lips.

Listening to the flute on play
chorus clouds bang out
floating by the river blue
down the sky they sing.

Ambling with the wonder light
the sun draws in
from the secret valley
as if the punter in the sky
knew it, knows the flutist
rose from down the sea!

There is no stop in the solar disc.
Twirling around the inner music
every orb, every planet is a bee.

The waning and waxing Moon
in silhouette and at half-light
swings over the sea.

It’s all start from the ground
it was from our sea waterfront
Him the sweetheart in the midst
floated the leading light the bumblebee.
All the stars bubble in the galaxy
they know this ancient story!

Since then the brightest bulb
the sun in the solar ring  
leads the bunch’s mindful
butterfly dance on the way home.
Following the never-ending music
of the pre-design command ‘qun’ be!
A poem from my upcoming book Qun: Love is Above Reason
Eric Pon Jun 2018
The river winds in from distance lands
With mercyless power it turns stone to sand
Through its mysterious life, the very earth it commands
And Yet the fearful river still runs through our hands.
In torrents of furry where the deepest currents flow
The rivers wild waters surge with woe. For
Onward, forever, its destined to go
A permenant home it won't ever know.

The river runs from each of us
As a refugee of fear,
It knows in a blink it will be somewhere else
Its waves are really its tears.
It runs from the audacity  
Of the selfish human mind
As Its massive life capacity,
Of flora and fauna combined,
Are threatened by our antics and helpless to our crime
So the river runs on their behalf, from everyone, in time-


even within its whitecap foam
Water's yearning for a home
So roam does the water- endlessly,
till its long gone out of sight
The essential droplets of the river-
Nomads day and night.
Flavia Apr 2013
With eager eyes and tempting smile, he beckoned 'cross the wharf
And I returned: a sad reply, stating he must morph
into a man -a broken man- who puts things back together
Whilst I sit here, and wait and wait, and keep on till forever.

Kingdom comes, piggies fly, time churns soft and slow
Every hour, like the other, shuffling to and fro
Mind is racing, heart is beating, must be with him soon...
He is the sun, he is the stars, he is the solstice moon.

But he is full of hatred, and angry, scary things
That I cannot behold because my covered ears will ring.
I will not hear the wretchedness that billows from his mouth
I will not see the ending of intentions headed south.

He is an angel, under God, and all the better creatures
that prize the gentlest, passionate, souls who mirror all their features.
He never asked, only assumed, that I would be alright
But Oh! the sadness over one who turned away from light.

So here I wait, on endless shores, until he comes for me
Or maybe not, really, who knows, what lies beyond the sea
The water holds the untold words of thousands who've passed on
And here I am, scribbling the script, of stories before dawn.
Bison Jun 2016
On the bank of an endless river
There is no money to be saved
All the waste of life is washed and clean
Presented to the future still dripping
And you are waiting there for me
And I am waiting here for you
On the bank of an endless river
There is no change to be sought
All the days meld to nights sewn seamless and neat
Stretched taught over the space between birth and death
Where you are waiting for me
And I am waiting for you
On the bank of an endless river
Butch Decatoria Sep 2018
The impetus
                     Of being
Always on the run
               Through pinwheel eyes
                              Those standing by
                                          The mystic roadway :    River
Blues yet to be brushed
                      or in blush
                           Of evening chill's breathing
a canvas like windows dreaming felt
All mindful
And chockfull O'
                              Wonder
Then ponder
                Yonder "window breaks"
                         Past the wilderness' sleep
Bone heavy wood
                             Umber earth

                             Past whoosh and rush of liquid
Folding on itself / a soundtrack

      Listen now
      Pedestrian be

Mindful of the cautionary whales
                                               Old Ahab’s yell
                                  Obsessions
                           Fears
                                   Or loathing.

If one is drowning in one's sleep
Look wildly
                  widely
                              Blithely
                                    Down river  
Or up there beyond finger's point
                      Sidewinder snake journeys
Until sky and below it
All meet

The distance
        Now only a line
                 Coalescing what is beyond
                      Our ability to see
Far and away
    Evanescent
         Effervescent
                     Ever after      
                             River.     Life.
Here we are
And proud
     The free spirit is fluent
           With the rapid rivers loud
                            Always on the run
Currents like a child's curiosity ...
How then,
When or why
                        does it end ?
Where do we go?
                    
Like most things existing,
           Will lead to the high art /
love's deep oceans...
          
We often forget to seek
                              And mind
                                     the sublimations/
                                                            d¬¬r­ift wood.
So then,
Begin with a dot .
A speck of dusk
                     A burst of light
                                        A starry sky,
pieces to mastering
                   Raging fragility of water

Liquid undulations  
                    Folding itself in / volumes

Or falling from on high
       A droplet cry

Then the lightning
                   (crash or bloom)
From the heavens
                                 like electric rivers
So brilliantly
                   Festoons

Where do we go (so low)
       There and here / underfoot /
                   Over north / southern sleep
                                   To oceans twilight deep?

Go wrapped or map-less
Or no.
            Up
                Way
       Up yonder
There up there
                    Everywhere
                    All without fear...
My heart like the river yearns
                 To go toward the sun
                       A flow /
                                     the beating drum
Always on the run
And
     Yet
            Still
                    Here.
Repost
At the beginning
Was an open sea
Knowing nothing
But its own
Owning every
Beach it met
Not knowing enough to feel alone

After many
Long years it finds
There is much
More for to see
Inlets and outlets
On every shore
A sense of greater freedom to be free

The sea joined
To many rivers
Seeing land
On either side
Freedom then became
Just a memory
The river's end was not in sight

But along the way
An Ocean Watershed
Joining rivers to the sea
It had to sleep
In many river beds
To see what it was meant to be

Down in the river
Flowing headlong
To the sea
Joining the
River's rage
That is where
I long to go
That is where I am meant to be

  
--Daniel Irwin Tucker
An Ocean Watershed is a large basin, such as the Mississippi Basin & the St. Lawrence Great Lakes Basin, where rivers and streams end up in the ocean.
Data Apr 2018
I.
Dawn…
               I am standing at the riverside

.
I watch the snowmelt cascade through the valley,


No fishing in that torrent today; but we will hunt in the woods,
smell the musky dark and green of the place
where forest-dwellers stir from deepest slumber;
their rumbling bellies

 with an ache for lime-green-bud.


Across the water, churned vapours billow,


the roar of tumbling water drowns a blackbirds’ chorus,


On the far side, a lingering brume hangs above the shore;


A chill bristles hair as sun clears mountain-heights:


Paint sky cerulean, there on Eden’s thighs—
Wakened, alive!

                            The river flows …
                                     By-and-by, I dream of ancient friends and foes.


                                           I wonder at her grace; On her hip, a child—

                                                 
In a world of scarcity few-words suffice:


                                                      ­        I call her ‘wife’ and he is ‘son-of’

                                               
And darkness (or terror) are named ‘god’

Noon…
              I am sitting at the water’s edge.


A lazy sparkle lolls across the widest course,


There are boats on the water now, and men casting nets—


See the dazzling flicker of their catch caught amidst the weave;
Mulatto arms are strong and women smile from shore—
Fleet fingers
, fastening tiny knots, string intricate patterns
into sturdy kits;


                            Ready the fish to carry to fire!


On the breeze, smell them cooking; Be hungry, hungry-Man!



Across the fluid languid flow, beside bent willow


                                     (While falcon soar above)
                                                          ­                    a steady plume,
rises from
 
hut into heaven
                           (Where the wispy spirits bless us all!)
There, on the far-side, on the earth below,
a misty haze hangs in the littoral obscuring vision,


I pass as a single cloud casting briefest shadow
 on bristling hair,
There, across the water—

 What’s that amidst the shimmered air?
A figure standing lone?
                                         The river knows…
                                  
                       ­      (When)
                                                          ­                  I came down to the river


                                                         ­         (How did you know I would?)


                                                       ­               I sit with my legs tucked up


                                                            ­      watching the boats to-and-fro,
                                                     ­                         I came back to the river


                                                         ­              (You knew I would return!)


                                                      ­                I will fish all day, regardless,

                                                    ­ dreaming of something to eat, though


                                                        ­                  my basket remains empty,
                                                          ­           I will snooze in the sunshine


                                                      ­   as my line flinches imperceptibly—


                                                ­                   unaware of interest: This slow


                                                          ­               erosion of slimy flesh until


                                                         ­   the hook is emptied; While spittle
                                                         ­  

gathers at the corner of my mouth
                              I am Sleeping…
       Dreaming…
                                      ­    
Come evening…
Crouched by the brazier’s glow at hearthside,


A whip-poor-will’s sweetest finale before darkness falls,


The sapid scent of roasting meat by barter’s hard-won haggle:
Fishes for lamb,
                            Our table laden, replete;
              the great feast before snows… 
envelope.
New-wine flows—a cheerful repast as gathering storms grumble
across a lowering sky,
                                       We sing and tell tales:


How the Ancients, who brought us to the river,


knew well the passing of all things, And we are thankful!


We break bread, we cut rounds of cheese that aged in chilled air,
                                              We wait…



Go down to the river as last-light quickly fades,
See across the water how tenebrous shadows gather…


Is that a single light amidst the creeping gloom?


A singularity, which bristles hair—
The river’s dark-snake ripples

                                                       about to strike;
Return to our company,
                                           (Saṃsāra)
For­get that light.
                              
                           ­   The river flows …
                                                              
­                                                                 ­   And I sleep with them.
                                                          W­e, gathered close, our bellies full,
                                      
 who dream of shorter days and empty snares,

                                           A bow raised; An aimless arrow takes flight


                                                        ­    but snags a passing god who falls


                                                         ­     striking earth with angered light
                                                           ­ a single crash that splits the night!
                              
Fire embers crumble and diminish into grey, lightless dust,


A cold wind ***** the last warmth

 into a sky so clear—
Moonlit sparkles on crystal carpets of deepest white,


On frozen earth and water, All sleeping...
                                                     ­                   All waiting...
                                                      ­                                         All praises
                                                  sung,

­Hope

 cradles newborns... Sleeping… Dreaming;
Your time will come, Little 

One;
In the village,
                        by the icy river,
                                                    the world is yours:

                         
       (Though no light shines in frosted panes)


Tomorrow, ay, tomorrow!

O Father, who rules the sky, hallowed


be thy name, Thy dominion shored by surety


may be but castles in vacant air and leave no rack behind.

Someone has peeked into my dreams, I rise,


Compelled: The river ever calls,


Wrapped in fine Gabardine

,
I stand at its edge


watching the far-side,


I hear a distant muffled bawl,
What did it say?
                             “What keeps you?”
                                                
          ­                                      (Saṃsāra)
Am I in its thrall?
                              The river knows …
                                                               ­             The river, ever generous.

                                                      ­                        
We honour those spirits


                                                       ­                    and cherish lucid waters,


                                                       ­                      We call you ‘aqua vitae.’
                                                         ­               

We, joined by ancient cord,


                     (When rope was jute: 

Connecting all things)


                                                
                                                 raise this pantheism from dirt and stone


                                                         ­                            astride the isthmus
,

                                                      ­                        The River flows, below.


II.
And then, I dreamed of Madame Seurat


shaded beneath her parasol,


Such a beautiful day, and her monkey—


He really is quite adorable, Comment chic!
                                                           ­     But don’t lie too close, lazy boy

,
                                          The vista pixilates and understanding


                         disintegrates into charm-less pastel points…
Not that I was ever sure why you were here,


Madame et Monsieur, and that playful dog


I suspect is a coprophagist, mon dieu!


So much for good taste and high society!

                                                       ­     There’s a well-structured equality


                                                  in dream analysis, Symbolic hierarchies
                                                 

are towers reaching into Enlightenment:

                                                 ­          Tell me more of what you’ve seen.

She’s watching as he indolently rolls…


(Unnoticed, the rod slips from his grasp)


She’s admiring the ***** torso and that 

nose,
a Roman profile, skin as soft as

 wet chamois,
She’s waiting for the instance


when he reveals the nature of his dreaming,


that moment will force a blush
and cause her to turn away…


She holds her breath…
His sangfroid is intoxicating!

                               (There was a catch on the line,
                   but the moment passes and the fish is free)
                                                           ­             
                                                   ­                     You’re off track, sleepy boy


                                                           ­             Please, try to stay on topic.
                                                     

“Seriously?”  he says.  “I’m dreaming.


                                              Why do you require clarity 

at this point?”
                                                         ­         Ok.  Just tell me what you see.
He sighs …
I’ve seen it all, Father. Every moment


as fresh as the last; And I always wonder,


How it is that, though I remember everything
from 
up the ***** and around its bends,


anything down the valley is a mystery?
A dream I cannot recall!
Beyond the end of the island, passed


the dozen effigies of Madame Seurat


or the steamboat, or the *****-less fours
I can dream it all:
Around that crook…
The chivalrous old man at his windmill tilts,


Further up the Fisherman prays
                    (If I lay back and watch Him

 through the reeds,
     from this angle,

 it looks as though he’s walking on the water!)
I dream… he’s nailed hard to wood—
                                                           ­        Blood
               attenuated with ascetic wine,
                                                           ­        runs down his sweaty thigh
and pools in shifting sand…

                                                 The river knows…

                                                         ­                        And even further,
                                             That boy who watches himself reflected…
                                          So many hours, Narcissus, (Son of the river)
                                              Watching...
­                                                                 ­ 

Dreaming…



                       (Unnoticed, the bow slips from his grasp)


                                  
                                   When hubris calls, all that you inherit dissolves:


                                                    ­    Though you are in and of the water,


                                                        ­     all connection to the ripples fade,


                                                 returning to stillness; You are such stuff,


                                         Son of  Cephissus, and pass, also, into myth.
                                               Did you recognise, gentle somnambulist,


                                                 ­          that memory, ultimately, is fallible:
                                                       ­                          As much an invention
                                                       ­             as this stereoscopic metal box


                                                           ­                         into which you peer
                                                           to ******* its umbra cast within.

But I must sleep, Father, mayhap to dream,


And in that sombre place, weave such a tapestry


that my stories and the legends of my kings


and wisest sage, live (albeit as a fabrication)


in gold and silver thread sewn in sanguinary ground


as a lustrous cover for this wondrous orb:
Hear my glorious tale 

and wonder not what lies below!

                                                 The river knows …
                                      (That)
                  ­                Divisionism is a reconstruction of an impression:


                         A deconstruction of light, an empirical demonstration


                                                 ­                         of Magic!
Therefore,


One last thing, Father,


In this final dream, I see a boat


on the water, carried from the far-side


against the flow—it travels in an unbroken line,


There is a lone man on this vessel, Father,


He has named The River: He calls it, Acheron.
How so shall I name him?
You shall name Him, 'Master',


But do not speak. Pay Him, as He is due,


And return with Him to where you may dream of life…
                                                           ­                                       Renewed.

Eyelids flutter, between states…

The sleeping boy waits,


He has listened prudently,


In the last moments of unconsciousness


he drags his canoe to the waters edge


and paddles into the lazy river


to join the other boats on the water…

          (He is the antediluvian being: His dream-state is ‘Arhat’)



Gotama rests on a pontoon of fragrant Lotus bloom


His eyes neither open nor closed, His being shimmers


as the sun-gold settles, His being vibrates with an harmonic


so sweet a flame erupts on the face of the deep,


He is chanting; Quantum rhythms resonate across the valley,


“Let there be a vault between the waters to separate water from water.”

              (A single flash, that splits the day from night, erupts)

As the evanescent flame recedes, crackling-bluish-laminar,


by the last shard of light from heaven,
a rock—dark beneath the water—worn

 and rounded, turning, illuminates;
                    And the fishermen know to return…
                                                         ­                            Home.

                (Saṃsāra: By all things known, all things repeating,
                       all things rested; all restarting, all renewed.)

And then, our brother finally wakes
To walk again the ground that shakes
Gotama to his side does call
To remind our son that all men fall
And pride and **** will come undone
Beneath the pivots of a careless sun
The ghosts of Baal who ****** the just
Are less than stone and less than dust
Remind us all, as The River flows,
The Now is all The River knows.


_________________­_____________________
­



By Data © 2018
I wrote the first draft of this poem in 2012; there are many iterations since then, each equally long. If you got to the end, well done, you!
Clueless Dec 2018
Time is but a river,
Forever flowing in one direction.
There is no way to see the delta,
And no way to go back upstream to the headwater.

So it is imperative to live in the present.
To stay afloat and think about the now,
Not what has happened,
And not what is to come.

For those looking back often drown.
Steve Page Oct 2018
Did you see a tarnished surface
that made you look again
Was it reflected in the lyrics
in the anthem of the Thames

Was the traffic still diverted
Had the knowledge lost good men
Were women dry from crying
at the anthem of the Thames

Did you see the children drowning
Was the tide too high from rain
Were the barges towed in silence
past the anthem of the Thames

Were the songs drowned out by shouting
Did the words turn boys insane
Did the drum beats beat past midnight
to the anthem of the Thames

Was it echoed through the arches
Did the shadows hide the stains
Did the wounded walk til morning
through the anthem of the Thames

Will you still be here at day break
Do you claim this grey domain
Will you pray for restoration
of the anthem of the Thames
The rhythm and structure of this came from some music in a movie, searching for Sugar Man. Once I got to line 4 of the first stanza the rest flowed.  Pardon the pun.
BTW The 'knowledge is a term used to described the exam black cab drivers need to pass to qualify to drive the iconic cab.  Sat nav seems to have replaced that hard won badge.
Shofi Ahmed Oct 2018
A sprinkle of blue sparkle
off the lapis lazuli sky.
A throw of stars
from the full moon night.
We will take in abundance
while rowing the waves
once in the River Nile.

Hear! The crave of oars
breaching the shore.
Reaching out and close
to the pyramid foundation.
That’s scientia is pure rigid
yet so open loose.
One dozen milky ways
can hover in rhythm
over this stony knot!

That doesn’t mean
the Mintaka stars will give
up their shares at all
They will sit on the top.
Without the pyramid moving
a step from the true north.

Between this relative sublunary
and over the moon mural
if and when one spaces up.
The silent Moon takes a pause
humming the prehistoric lullabies.
With a patch of the blue sky
and a starry sprinkle from the night.  
Maybe then we will take a break in
behind the closed doors of the great pyramid!
A poem from my upcoming book Qun: Love is Above Reason
Shofi Ahmed May 2017
Hold onto the little one.
Don’t spill the raindrop
Let it run, let it run!

The sun in a dew
dancing on the rose
let it roll out
a drop of the deep
on the ground.

Let it roll, let it dance.
Take your plunge
swim down the sea
only to sing high
fly out with the cloud!

Like in the sea
the spin is in a
drop of water.
Makes the heart sway.
Follow the river
to the west, the east
the north and the south.
It goes every way.
Nathan Wells May 2016
i feel the sun
and i'm slowly burning
but it feels good
so it's not concerning
no school
no learning
time is turning
joint burning
i wish i could live in the summer
where it's still warm when it gets dimmer
i wish i could live in the summer
where everythings tinged with a glimmer
i absolutely love summer, the sun puts me in such a good mood
Thanksgiving never will I forget

Hopping in the car for a very long ride to grandma's house

With heavy white frost on the grass, glistening in the sun

Singing songs and counting grain bins to pass the time

Now the frost is melting, we are getting close to the grandparents

Rounding that last bend and then their lane up to the house

Riding up to the house I can see smoke coming from the chimney

To the door and into the house, I see my cousins playing, and smell the Turkey

Grandma's brown and gold tablecloth, covered with her silver

trimmed grey dishes and crystal goblets ready for us to eat.

Have to sit and chat while watching the Macy's parade

Saying our blessings and giving our Thanks as we begin the feast

Copyright 2013
All Rights Reserved
Umi Apr 2018
Out of what our hearts are made,
The sea of stars above our little heads is widely spread, expanded,
The river of the milkyway, seperating two lovers, with more stars,
All come within a clear, manifest orbit, bound to gravity and bounty,
A vally of natural nuclear fusion reactors, spreading light through the dark of the night, a play of beauty and might, on the ceiling of Earth,
All shining uninterruptedly, without the intruding light of the moon,
In the world of empty dreams, waiting to be filled with memories,
Clusters, binary, trinary stars with their satelites, dance as celestial beings through the infinity of space, all with grace, individuality, bliss
Heartfelt, past the luxury of luminosity and spinning alike wage wool
Because stars are, a magic mirror to the things we are, or want to be,
Weave the fate that you want to feel free, broken loose from the lies,
It is best to dance with me on these fantastic grounds here with me,
If we gather in a dark night, my dear knight, we can grasp fantasy,
Dear trasure mine, you're, a distant eniment galactic heavenly beauty
So shine on until you someday let go of this worldly life, my dearest,
As then I would like to meet you in the realm of the dead again,
In the loitering darkness one day.

~ Umi
Özcan Sh Jul 2018
If I had 88 keys in my life
I could show you my world
Full of rain and sunshine

Let you feel my feelings
Flow with you through the river
And be together like black and white keys

But i can´t

My 55 keys wasnt enogh
To reach my song
Through your ear
To your heart

But I still love
To play with my keys.
Gina Old Oct 2015
Go see the misty place, deep in the woods,
That's where the willow tree's spreading her roots.
Long gentle branches are modestly bowing,
Above the shoot where a river is flowing.
It's been like that for centuries now,
The tree and the river, living in a vow.
The branches are caressing the hair on the surface,
The gesture, however, can't fulfill its purpouse.
Although their bond is strong, love never ending,
All alone, Willow and River are standing.
They're guarding each other, and each other only.
How come they, despite that, always feel lonely?
Every night, the willow tree woefully shivers,
Looking down upon her dark, lonesome river.
Shofi Ahmed Apr 2017
One in the know drops a line,
there was no A B C to spell,
yet it keeps spreading.
An animated lingua
wraps round the eyeline.
All those that get wind of it
arise and keep counting.
Without a beginning or an end,
For it has no 1 or 9,
not a mark nor a sign.
Speechless, breathless me,
turn to mine, the one,
superior turned-on mind.
And it appeared true,
true to that credible nature
that identifies indeed
the 'name' of the composer!

Meanwhile, a bird of time.
A giant spell takes no time,
eases off in a blink of eye.
I start to breathe,
begin to revive, again in my
native countryside:  
some clay-bumps on the river.
I can cry, smile, now I
can shed tears.
Rhyme on the river.
What's in a river?
'Lores of time immemorial,
an open heart on the move!'

Is there anyone out there
'tapped into the running cycle of water,
following the rhyme on the river'?
One in the know drops a line,
there was no A B C to spell,
yet it keeps spreading.
An animated lingua
wraps round the eyeline.
All those that get wind of it
arise and keep counting.
Without a beginning or an end,
For it has no 1 or 9,
not a mark nor a sign.
Speechless, breathless me,
turn to mine, the one,
superior turned-on mind.
And it appeared true,
true to that credible nature
that identifies indeed
the 'name' of the composer!

Meanwhile, a bird of time.
A giant spell takes no time,
eases off in a blink of eye.
I start to breathe,
begin to revive, again in my
native countryside:  
some clay-bumps on the river.
I can cry, smile, now I
can shed tears.
Rhyme on the river.
What's in a river?
'Lores of time immemorial,
an open heart on the move!'

Is there anyone out there
'tapped into the running cycle of water,
following the rhyme on the river'?

One in the know drops a line,
there was no A B C to spell,
yet it keeps spreading.
An animated lingua
wraps round the eyeline.
All those that get wind of it
arise and keep counting.
Without a beginning or an end,
For it has no 1 or 9,
not a mark nor a sign.
Speechless, breathless me,
turn to mine, the one,
superior turned-on mind.
And it appeared true,
true to that credible nature
that identifies indeed
the 'name' of the composer!

Meanwhile, a bird of time.
A giant spell takes no time,
eases off in a blink of eye.
I start to breathe,
begin to revive, again in my
native countryside:  
some clay-bumps on the river.
I can cry, smile, now I
can shed tears.
Rhyme on the river.
What's in a river?
'Lores of time immemorial,
an open heart on the move!'

Is there anyone out there
'tapped into the running cycle of water,
following the rhyme on the river'?
Salmabanu Hatim Aug 2018
Life is a river flowing,
Beautiful and challenging.
Begins with birth,
Ends with death,
Same source.
Life is a treasure,
Its contents has no measure.
Down the river of our life,
Roars raindrops of love and strife,
Laughter, dreams and sorrows.
Life,like the river splits into arms,
Moving where we want it to strum,
With  courage and right attitude,
Not to forget HIS gratitude,
Either be islanded between our negative thoughts,
Or plunge down into a long waterfall of depressive  noughts.
Let the sparkling water of life flow through us adventurously,
Vibrating, exciting and luxuriously,
Awakening every cell and fibre in us.
As the river of our life takes a turn and a bend,
We never know what it will send.
All we have to do is follow the right
path,
And not cross HIS wrath.
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