"riverbank" poems
The sun is setting on a hot day, he hides coyly behind tall sycamores, his reflection playing on the undersides of trees on the riverbank. His warm breath is the breeze that kisses my cheek. The river carries me on, over pebbles and rocks below the glassy surface. Dragonflies dart around, flying gems that glisten in the sun. The heron, with diligent patience, hides seamlessly in the trees awaiting his next meal. He takes off when I get near, his frame is much larger in flight. The sweetness of honeysuckle is thick in this warm air. The trees on the riverbank are laden and dripping of the sweet flowers. As I gently glide through the water, the waves lap against my boat, almost making the sound of kisses. This is my river time. All these beautiful things, I love. There is passion in Nature, it is in birdsong and in the breeze. It is in the river as it moves along and the swaying of the trees. This is where I breathe.
Jun 4, 2013
Jun 4, 2013 at 7:14 PM UTC
Yank myself out of bed
Peel the film of sleep from 'round my head
It's 4:00 AM
And all the world is dead.
It's 4:00 AM and all the world is dead.
From the streets every man has fled.
But in hours it again shall be
Brimming with potential; energy set free.
I assemble my appearance.
Staring into the mirror,
I say to myself: "One last time.
"One final tour."
The door is open, before it I stand
To face morning's faint chill
Surrounded by paling blue.
There! The first bird's trill.
The air is sweet
And free of smog.
The faintest fog
Is draped on the trees.
The empty street beckons
And freely I obey.
I have things I need to do
Before the commencement of the day.
I pass the playground on the corner,
Where I wasted time as a child.
Where many a battle was fought
And we had adventures in the wild.
Past the playground and to my left
There is the river bank
Where I went fishing with my father
And my friends and I made our mothers mad:
Where we lit our little fires
And we had our first drinks.
Where we shared our first joint
And came to talk and think.
Our school is down the way.
We all can safely say
It's the place where we first learned
Classes and books have less to say than the real world.
We became:
Artists.
Athletes.
Academics.
Our achievements
Are scrawled upon
The stone walls
That lined that same river.
A little further on,
And there's the little store
Where I kissed my first fleeting love
Just outside the door.
I keep walking, I keep walking,
Until I reach the shore.
I put my back against a rock
And rest on that sandy floor.
The life that I'll soon be leaving
Lies behind me asleep
While I watch the sun lazily rise
Over the mysterious, unexplored deep.
I built myself in this town
And it built me as well.
But I cannot stay much longer:
In a few hours I will bid it farewell.
Will I ever make it back?
Will I ever return
To trace the scrawlings by the riverbank
With bare fingers full of nostalgia?
Nothing at all is sure.
Therefore I must take this last chance
To make my final tour.
May 8, 2015
May 8, 2015 at 8:25 AM UTC
my boy with fig leaves and lightning bugs
tied up in his hair, he kneels with
crimson palms pressed to the unquiet dirt
and hums an abandoned melody.
my boy with sunbeams shining through his skin on the riverbank,
neatly coating the grass in thin white trails, woven into footprints like cotton twine, snaking their way across brown earth,
ankles slick with mud and the dead things that lay just underneath.
my boy with rosewater and stained glass ashes
feels me bless him with blackberries and the softest crush of words,
ice cubed, beneath my lips,
as he wipes the ichor from my chest with callouses
worn down gentle.
the light echoes from his skin
there are no symphonies nor sacraments,
only cicadas singing warmth to shivering willows.
Nov 16, 2018
Nov 16, 2018 at 10:41 PM UTC
Health department signs litter the grass areas,
"Do not make contact with the water;
Swimming forbidden".
Less than twenty years ago I learnt to swim here
And fish too, once i even drowned!
Sometimes my friends and I would
Catch Eels then sell them
To the local Chinese restaurant.
I treasure those memories of my childhood.
This fresh water lake surrounded
By trees taller than buildings
My beautiful haven from the city, hidden
Between main roads and highways
that only the locals know.
Sitting on sandstone rocks
I see my reflection amongst the lily pads.
Beyond the depths an entanglement of
Roots, seaweed and *******
Natural mandalas made by tadpoles
Ripple across the murky brown surface
Whilst a rather large water dragon
Sun bakes on the riverbank
And ducks glide by reminding me
Of the canoes we used to capsize
And I appreciate how simple life
Used to be.
ELEETE J MUIR
May 11, 2018
May 11, 2018 at 7:56 AM UTC
See the Rabbi. See him tormented by choice. See his people. See them wracked by hate. See the others. See their anger radiate outward in glowing spokes, exploding firebrand in a tinder city.
On a night like any other, the moon at sixth house, fulcrum of pinwheel zodiac, the Rabbi, awash in lidless starlight, rises somber and makes his choice. And when the sun is furthermost, he and three of his others gather at the murmuring riverbank where the brown clay is most pliable and begin to dig, sifting rock and root from trundled earth. Hours spent exhuming the clay, molding it, kneading its muscles, tracing its veins, baking its skin in the starlight. More hours spent in whispering prayer, the words bent and somersaulting over themselves like tumbling books.
See Truth drawn on its forehead, life etched from clay and word. As the sun rises, so it does, wavering at first, but steadier, lapping at the river, and their faces move slowly across the water. See the Rabbi speak to it, his words winding its mechanism. See it stride past the ghetto, wade through the market, and into the borough, siege unto its own.
See the others scream for mercy from the kiln of its stare, from their flaming tenements, their crumpling rooftops.
See it wade back through the market, past the ghetto, back to the riverbank to kneel in the underbrush. See it tilt its head to the lilt of a stranded daisy caught in a vagrant gust. See it caught, too, and see it see. It sees the colors of Eden in the ferns. It hears the river churning sediment, fossils, gravel, whirling over driftwood. It touches moss on a rock; gently rotates its hand to let a grub complete an oblivious circumference. See it sit in silence.
See the Rabbi meet with the others, then his others. And on a day like any other, when the sun is at its apogee, they slip down the riverbank where it still sits, still. It ignores their autonomous logic, their homunculus rationale. They are perversions of variety cloaked in righteous intention. So it remains.
See the Rabbi and his others gather at the murmuring riverbank, shadow conclave in shifting sunlight, then rise somber and decided. They pin it to the earth as the Rabbi chants, invoking the void in which forbidden knowledge spirals. It squirms under the power of the Word, mind-forged manacle as incantation. See the Rabbi draw to a close. His hand is arbiter, swooping down to smudge Truth from its forehead. What is left but Death.
See its hand crumble in its passage as it reaches for the stranded daisy. See the colors of Eden darken in its eyes, its own body the dust that denies it light. See it collapse into itself, the clay that was once animate spilling onto the riverbank. See the Rabbi and his others shimmer then fade into city grey.
The daisy stands still.
Dec 15, 2011
Dec 15, 2011 at 4:22 PM UTC
A riverbank of memories
saturates cultured minds
such succulent visuals
of precipitation
so moist, so pleasant
spines shiver in longing
howls ascend
veneration
Apr 27, 2012
Apr 27, 2012 at 6:29 AM UTC
When Coyote witnessed
the Creator making this world
he thought
I will make a world like that
for myself
And so he formed a copy
of every living thing
from the mud
from the branches
and detritus that he gathered
there on the banks
of the Columbia River
But all of his
carefully wrought figures
elk and deer
fish that sparkle in the shallows
black bear
who hides from two-leggeds
the wings of the air
who mingle with the leaves and branches of the forest
all melted back into the mud
of the riverbank
at the next rain
Undeterred
Coyote set out
on a quest
He found a new country
a pleasant land of vast expanse
with every manner of good things
When Coyote came into this country
his hunger
was greater than myth
sharp as the edge of a knife
And there he spied Crow
on a high cliff
with a mouth full
of deer fat
A plan quickly formed
in the caverns of his cunning
Coyote called out
Chief Crow
I am told that your voice
is as sweet as spring water
as pleasing as a woman
in the night
Sing for me
Great Chief
and I will reward you richly
Crow is a vain creature
and being called Chief
gave him great pleasure
He preened
opened his silver wings to the sun
and sang his rough song
but in a muted tone
in order to save
his delicious morsel
Coyote called out again
Oh Chief!
That wasn't much.
not like the stories
I have been told.
Please sing your song again
with feeling!
Crow rose to his full height
****** his sharp beak
into the air
and gave full voice
to his raucous song
for the sake of every crow
on earth
We know the end of this tale
because Coyote taught it
to our ancestors
The deer fat fell to the ground
and Coyote
trickster
scarfed it in an instant
Hunger dampened
he ambled along the well-beaten path
to find the next fool
And that is the story
of Coyote and Crow.
Keep your pride in check
or be the next one laid low.
Aug 4, 2016
Aug 4, 2016 at 4:01 PM UTC
*They say that
Van Gogh ate yellow paint
To put the happiness inside him.
But she, instead, would
Cut out the sadness from her skin
And let the hatred pour out
In gushing streams of red,
Her screams echoing
The injustice of colour.
Her wheat skin looked prettier, she thought,
With the raked furrows of half healed scars
And painful slurs
Etched into the deep ochre of her soul.
She quietly detested her terracotta skin,
Smooth like a polished stone
Picked up from the Ganges.
But here in the pale waters of the Thames
She was a blot of burnt sienna on an otherwise ivory white riverbank.
And every new cut
Would heal bloodless and waxen,
Which made her vow to herself to cut off her skin completely,
Leaving nothing but
The darkened red of her fury
And a frightened echo of a scream
In a room filled with bitter laughs and slurs,
In a room filled with the muffled cries of the oppressed and unheard.*
Jul 22, 2013
Jul 22, 2013 at 8:25 AM UTC
**The present, a pebble on the riverbank,
the water, relentless it flows by ...
the pebble ... laying at the waters edge,
the future, flows past through history.**
... ... ...
Apr 11, 2011
Apr 11, 2011 at 4:29 AM UTC
Old age think good quiet
Everything not concern heart
Self attend without great plan
Empty know return old forest
Pine wind blow undo belt
Hill moon light pluck qin
Gentleman ask end open reason
Fisherman song enter riverbank deep
Now in old age, I know the value of silence,
The world's affairs no longer stir my heart.
Turning to myself, I have no greater plan,
All I can do is return to the forest of old.
Wind from the pine trees blows my sash undone,
The moon shines through the hills; I pluck the qin.
You ask me why the world must rise and fall,
Fishermen sing on the steep banks of the river.
2.5k
*Reflections of Paris this morning , for all the inhabitants of the world , especially those inspired by beautiful works of art and architecture ! Those fortunate enough to have dined in world class eateries on cuisine prepared by Master Chefs , marveled over the downtown skyline high atop prominent monuments ! Impassioned lovers perusing her avenues , window shopping store fronts , boutiques along famous boulevards ! Senior couples recalling their yesteryears with great joy , frolicking , happy children playing in parklands , feeding songbirds with euphoria and curiosity , strolling walkways along the riverbank at Dusk with great wonderment and personal reflection
The poet and poetess , musician and thespian , ballet dancer and street performer .. To lovers young and old , the continued hope of gaiety and splendor at every turn !
She is lovely indeed , the Queen of all that is beautiful on this Earth* ..
Nov 14, 2015
Nov 14, 2015 at 11:53 AM UTC
The mist was almost ethereal
It floated above the silent waters
But silent was not always
Peaceful, for too touch the mist
Visions,
Pain,
Faded
Limbs, as if the mist had amputated flesh,
But revealed gradually upon exiting
like lacerations it cut
As the mist faded, I could feel but not see,
Bone,
Nerves,
Flesh,
Skin now where mist had evaporated,
"Then the visions"
"Hard to explain"
To count the emotions, then blank,
I was burning, drowning
The torture with in my mind
I saw each one fall, taken by the waters
All that was sunk beneath
All that could have been
Now taken to the deep,
I looked upon the waters where mist
Did not creep,
Revulsion,
Anxiety,
Sorrow
For those beneath, like a tainted mirror
"Trying to break free"
For within each impact a wave
Washed ashore,
It corroded what life it touched
Anger was washing upon the riverbank,
"So many drowning slowly"
A last breath a life time of agony
Slowly those that exhaled the last,
No peace as the mist was there final curse,
Trapped within, souls screaming outwards,
"To touch felt there pain within"
"This river of the lost ones"
Those who thought freedom from
Pain, now suffered a lifetime within,
"For the forgotten river"
"Where the mist never falters"
"Try to drown your sorrows"
"Eternity will be the price paid"
One within the waters,
Eternal torment within the screaming ethereal mists..
Nov 22, 2014
Nov 22, 2014 at 10:58 AM UTC
Taking a drive on a Summer night
getting lost on country roads
Windows down, holding hands
the smell of fresh-cut grass
the harmonious sound of cicadas and tree frogs
while the wind blows through our hair.
It was perfect.
Parking the car beside the lake
Beneath the stars
on a cheap, cotton blanket
making love on the riverbank
We were perfect.
Breaking the rules
dancing on a bridge
You falling asleep on my shoulder
at midnight
as I drive us home.
Life was perfect.
These are memories I will never lose
from a Love that didn't last
Mar 28, 2015
Mar 28, 2015 at 12:34 AM UTC
Trees line the riverbank,
I sat, still waiting for you.
Our names are written on a tree;
I remember, you were not mine,
you were never mine to keep.
Our childhood memories
stained my mind, lingering forever,
but it was a mistake
and I have never been consoled.
Now, I could not seem to find you,
you were gone as years grew old.
You helped me conquer fears
and taught me how to love that day,
when loving seems so naive.
I remember, you were not mine,
you were never mine to keep.
We cherish this place,
our vows, nobody cares.
We sailed the river together
and promised to never let go.
Sometimes river is just river.
Memories of this riverbank,
I wept, still waiting for you.
Alone, but this river must flow;
I remember, you were not mine,
you were never mine to lose.
Jan 18, 2013
Jan 18, 2013 at 4:25 PM UTC
I tip-toe down to the riverbank, taking one last look at all of the greenery
and deep breaths as I count to three. Wading through the water silently,
I dive beneath the surface and let the river carry me,
away from all my troubles and reality.
May 28, 2015
May 28, 2015 at 1:14 PM UTC
When the moon retires running her length
the river lies a fishbone on the white plate
feebly breathing like the slosh from oars,
the shadow digs a hole in the bush.
The faintest chill rattles don't escape
and the chatters dull as broken notes,
the shadow picks up from the mist
with the intent of an absorbed dreamer.
The gold diggers in that forbidden land
filter their preys keen to fill some more
from the mines lining the grey riverbank
with each reap a little closer to attainment.
The precise compass weighs the measure
tightening the muscles into a symphony
for that climb onto the ****** in one spring
before stealing the stilled, deep into silence.
Aug 8, 2018
Aug 8, 2018 at 10:04 AM UTC
i sat down by the river when the sun came out
along the riverbank i took a walk about
there were lots of flowers buttercups and more
there were lots of others i never saw before
lots of pretty colors green and red and blue
mushrooms growing wild there were quite a few
lots of woodland creatures running in the wild
it made me feel so happy i felt just like a child
there were little bird singing in a bush
a blackbird and sparrow and a speckled thrush
it made feel serene peaceful and so calm
such a lovely place filled with so much charm
Feb 27, 2014
Feb 27, 2014 at 8:17 AM UTC
sitting on a riverbank thats the place to be
fishing rod in hand feeling very free
looking at the water waiting for a bite
sun up in the sky shining nice and bright.
you can feel the freedom scattered all around
very calm and peaceful you cant hear a sound
sitting there for hours relaxed as you can be
hoping for a fish to take home for your tea.
then when the day is over as the sun begins to set
you think about your day and one you wont forget
Jan 17, 2015
Jan 17, 2015 at 7:20 AM UTC
He
Sat by the riverbank
He
Laughed like cold water
He
Brought to me, the ocean
He...
Where the current runs
behind, beneath
The undertow
Of his eyes
drowning Me
He
Left the scent of good-
Bye Before he’d
leave
As the scent of autumn
Promises winter
And barren, silent trees
My oars
set to the waves
To the phantom of
My sea
The wreck was me
Picking up every shell
Listening
for the sound
Of your feet
the waves
in your eyes
Returning for me
I wait with the moon
For your tides
Green is the color
Of the setting
Of my dreams
As they drifted away
In your
castaway-eyes
And I
Knew better
And you
Spoke plainly
And I
Heard nothing
Of the truth
That you
Gave me
But your voice-
It’s remaining
And your eyes
Are engraving
Their colors
on my canvas heart
like your initials
in my ****** bark
That leaves a wound
to die or scar
beneath its message
Nov 1, 2017
Nov 1, 2017 at 9:23 PM UTC
sitting on the riverbank passing time away
sun is shining brightly such a lovely day
watching all the wild life having lots of fun
running round and playing underneath the sun
looking at the flowers with there petals bright
filled with lots of color bringing such delight
water is so clear fish are swimming round
on the riverbank my favorite piece of ground
Mar 6, 2014
Mar 6, 2014 at 7:02 AM UTC
I'm alright with stepping stones
Water is my second best friend
Next to match boxes and lighters.
The moss that grows is deathly
Afraid of my feet
I make it a habit to giggle
When they run from my soles
So they know I'm coming
When and if I reach the riverbank,
A boy in my left hand and
Pens tucked behind my ears,
Paper and ink running through
My veins.
The fish will hear my foot steps
A mile out for their lack of sound
Clay crowds in on itself as I
Approach again
The water, always flowing
Stops mid-current for fear
I will find my pale blue eyes
Similar to its outer layer.
Some best friend.
But I'll return with a boy
In my left hand, pens falling
From my hair and no paper or
Ink in my idiotic blood
Ridden veins.
I'll come back to the
Fleeing fish,
Crowding clay,
Wary water,
And those ******
Stepping stones.
I've run all out of
Match boxes and lighters.
Feb 15, 2014
Feb 15, 2014 at 8:41 PM UTC
Large boulder rocks everywhere
Water so clear mussels attached to riverbank's
Laughter racing home made boats
Jul 7, 2017
Jul 7, 2017 at 12:42 PM UTC
The water is too cold to consider moving forward.
Gazing across the water for so long, the sky prepares for dusk.
And from the river bank or the water, it seems to be enough
That it is the same sunset. The warm colors make calls.
But those were the words bouncing in my inner skull walls.
And still, because this view always beats the other horizon.
Keeping both eyes faced forward.
The west busies my eyes then.
The spaces between me and the water is where the pain lies in.
And sometimes from deep in my core.
I think I might hear a call from the opposite shore.
I just glance over, my body's too weak to explore.
But that was just a bird call, from the top of a tree.
Nothing less, nothing more.
Wondering when the sounds will be calling for me.
I watch her swim, on a side farthest from where I can see.
There's no current, but the water looks as if it's moving her this and that way.
The wind hasn't picked up, and she's floating away.
I want to stand up and yell, but what would I say?
I can only know this is as close as I can be today.
I recall the times you swam so close I could touch you.
You lost a feather this morning.
Who knew what I'd get myself into.
Holding on tight to the grassy land
Reaching out to grab your lost feather with a careful hand.
Your feathers haven't changed. The same white, edges so smooth.
Following the middle's solid groove.
From the other side you look at me.
But neither of us move.
I want nothing more than to touch you, when you swim past me I stay thinking.
Knowing my boat might have a hole, and I can't have you see me sinking.
So there I am, left to contemplate linking--
My hope with your chances, to the stars that are twinkling.
My spot on the river bank is clearly love stained.
I don't think it will ever be gone.
No matter how much it may rain.
I stay looking west, imagining a rip in the horizon's thinner part.
Then the earth and the sky would be peeling apart.
Maybe leaving nothing but the two of us left.
Oh, man, but it seems like such a mess.
I know it is simple. The water is too cold for me to be.
I wish to leave.
But can't unless I can take you with me.
I imagine us finding our way through the stars.
Forgetting all about the planes and the cars.
But I can't start thinking about all this.
I look across the water; you're still much too far.
Both changing, as we gazed, each of us half of one desire,
"Maybe tomorrow," I hope, as I find where to lay.
Just out of arm's reach you settle in,
and whisper--
"I missed you today."
Sep 10, 2012
Sep 10, 2012 at 7:10 AM UTC
sitting on riverbank thats the place to be
fishing rod in hand feeling very free
looking at the water waiting for a bite
sun up in the sky shining nice and bright
you can feel the freedom scattered all around
very calm and peaceful you cant hear a sound
sitting there for hours relaxed as you can be
hoping for a fish to take home for your tea
then when the day is over as the sun begins to set
you think about your day and one you wont forget
Mar 9, 2010
Mar 9, 2010 at 6:36 AM UTC
Flip it, hidden or showing
Head or tails remains same coin
Just like water, liquid or ice
Roll a 6-sided once or twice still same dice
Life is like a throw-able object
That can rest in multiple positions
But not a gambling device or gadget
For causing random seasons
For each step forward feel your back
For the lack of eyes invites a stab
Elevation heads towards enemy attack
When the wise bite like a crab
When you only stare at the window
You don't see outside and beyond
And the world is a mirror, smile for this sake
But your real one can invite another so fake
A buffalo by a riverbank
Only sees the water and it's own face
Quenching thirst expecting no attack
By the crocodile below the surface
Chickens are better for they stir up dust
To pull out worms and ants
Humans are clever for they hide in masks
To pull some stunts
Mar 15, 2019
Mar 15, 2019 at 5:38 AM UTC