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Amy Leigh Mar 31
Feeling
fast, feet first
walk    in    slow
I wade water waiting
He  is  the  rocks   beneath
He  is  the   ice   cold   current
Swift,  I   am   swept  into   danger
Quickly,  I lash out  thrashing splashing
I gasp for air, respire; to keep inhaling - gulp!
it fills my lungs, gently, as if serene I begin to die.


© A. Leigh
Nathalie Nov 2018
Doves cooed at morning dawn

Encapsulated in pure light

Every spark of brightness

Magnified the blades of grass

Shining with pearls of dew


Trees swayed, keeping

Their majestic presence

As the wind ruffled

Their leaves, a medley

Of beauty and colour


Rustling brook sang

Merrily as it met

With the riverbank

In gushes of

Ebbs and flow


Nature’s bounty

Becomes it's own reward

For everyone who

Appreciates and rejoices

In celebration and song

Of our world’s harvest



~Nathalie
blaise Nov 2018
my boy with fig leaves and lightning bugs
******* 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.
2019 scholastic writing awards gold key winner
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
Hazel 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
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
Eleete j Muir May 2018
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
This poem was written back in September 2003
Travis Green Dec 2018
We sit at the park late at night
feeling on each other’s flesh,
touching the love muscles that
spark rising seas inside our veins,
inhaling the beautiful memories
of our lives together, the moments
when we first met by the riverbank,
the waves dancing in the distance
upon our hearts.

There was a bright rhythm of dreams
inside your soul that made me fall
deep in love with you, your azure
eyes meeting mine, a treasure of
delight, an excitement running
wild, as the sun shined down
on the landscape.

Your sleek starlight surface
was a scintillating square of static
shocks striking my chests, a glittering
sensation spreading paradise across
my world.  I knew in that moment
you were the flashing light glowing
bright in my presence, the one that
could take me away from all of it,
the endless days and nights struggling
in love and bitter breakups, the world
pressed against my back, trying to
destroy the flame inside of me.

Now here we are curled up beside
each other, gently kissing tender
spots, welcoming the magic in the
air as it seeps inside our mansion.
Eryri Jan 26
River water flows
Quenches imagination
On scorched riverbank
Patricia Arches Oct 2018
I always remember how as a child, I would always go out for an adventure. My true identity as a wanderer is what I believed it to be, a child’s simple curiosity is what they branded it as. I was nine when I went down to the riverbank and breathed in the fresh air for the first time as I watched my brother skip stones against the river’s seamless stream. Not much could be heard but the patter of the rocks and the very breath of my lungs in the morning dew. I remember picking up that one rock that my brother carelessly lay to the side and putting it in my pocket.

On the way home, I could hear my mom shouting our names. She always had to tell us to come on home before the sun would set, but I never minded for more adventures awaited in the house. Dungeons and dragons is what we called these games. There was never a damsel in distress, but a duel to the finish line, a prize of milk and fresh cookies. Forts were architecturally placed around walls of pillows and streamers of blankets. In the center lay a solitary flashlight to emphasize our voices when there were stories to share. I always put clips in my pocket, just in case the fort would fall. I was the repairman.

My grandpa was never the one to shy away from big puppy dog eyes and small grinning teeth. He was a sucker to the pretty pleases with extra sugar on top. Chocolate was never past his reach and always in his hand, but so were his complimentary hugs with each and reassuring pats on the back. The forehead kisses were sweeter than the candies itself and much more worth it. I was his grandchild, the one blanketed with warmth and love, compassion and dreams. I was a result of his love. I place the candy wrappers in my pocket for mother never enjoyed a litter bug.

Now, I slip my hand into my pocket. There is no candy wrapper, no smooth pebble, or handy clips. There is no anything but an empty pocket, completely and absolutely empty. It is cold and black and quiet yet readily available for the next smooth pebble or bright orange pick to strum a guitar and claim me as a musician. If I put my hands in my pocket there is nothing, yet there is everything left of the wanderer, of the repairman, of the grandchild. My pockets are empty; simply in lacking of something to make it full …for it is in the simple emptiness of my pockets where I can create my identity, for it is in the simple emptiness of my pockets where I can place my dreams. Emptiness doesn't always have to be just empty. Empty makes room available to be full.
I wrote this in my final year of high school. It was a prompt where we had to write about what was in our pockets. Mine were empty so I decided to make a lesson out of it. A lesson out of the beauty of an emptiness.
Mark Kelley Feb 18
"Stray Dog "

There's a stray dog sitting in the middle if the road
He looks lost and lonesome fending off the rain
It seems he doesn't know where he wants to go
But he's looking and he's sniffing and he's thinking just the same

There's a alley cat howlin’ in the middle if the night
He's creeping and he's crawling looking for some love
He's walking 'long the fences lookin' for a fight
But no matter how he tries he'll never get enough

There's a little child wandering, walking down the road
He's singing and he's dancing in his happy little world
He's headed for the riverbank to catch himself a toad
I hope he keeps that memory as tomorrows are unfurled

There's a teen girl dressing, going to the dance
The stars in the night are like the stars in her eyes
She's hoping and she's dreaming that this will be her chance
To find that special boy who'll never make her cry

There's an old man rockin’, sittin' on the porch
He's sipping on some whiskey as he smokes a big cigar
He's thumbin' through the memories when he held a flaming torch
The days of pretty women and a fast and shiny car

Everyday the clocks go 'round and 'round and 'round
Baby's come, old folks pass, grass grows, leaves fall
Somewhere in the shadows we here the subtle humming sound
Of tomorrow's echoes in a distant haunting call

Now,
There's a stiff wind blowing, covering the land
Dark clouds moving 'long the far horizon line
Things a lookin' crazy, people gettin' out of hand
I could be wrong but it seems to be that time

So,
I'm looking for a back road that can carry me away
I'll grab me some provisions for my journey back in time
I'll leave behind a painting for the ones who come this way
I'll wish them well with a candle burning and a rhyme

'Cause
I'm heading for the homestretch and I think I'm gonna’ score
I'm almost out of breath on my search for something true
As I go I'll make sure to lock up all the doors
I'll leave behind a coat and half worn pair of shoes

Down the road I'll turn to take a final look once more
At least I did my best and that's the best that I can do
Death was walking along a riverbank.
Wind, electric grass, cicada-epileptic trees
As though overcome by the summer's stare,
The mosaics and bells of flower, breeze
Of meditation unfurled some namelessness.
The man plucked two lovers and went back home.
Death unlocked his door, put the two in a vase.
Death watered them responsibly each day.
Death was comforted, and called them marriage and love.
Death had plucked others before and after.
The vase sagged with morality and conscience and duty;
The vase heaved heavily with justice and charity;
The shoulds and should nots became the vase's eyes.
The virtues multiplied, so the vices did too.
This poem is included in my book "I Have Been Moved", which is available on Amazon for as little as 14 dollars (paperback).
cs Apr 24
the pale blue sky shines bright upon the riverbank where we lay,
soft are the noises that the melancholy birds sing.
the hot sun embraces me,
our weeping willow parasols flowing a top.
i'm under the burdensome hex known as love,
holy and high.
abyssal butterflies, let me feel you, let me know you,
my madness destroys any chance, it is a curse.
i wish i could give you roses, kiss you below the star's luster,
rest dear my tenderness,
for i do not know when we shall meet again.

— The End —