"riverboat" poems
Drift off
Slower than the tide
And these hazy buttercups
On this Sunday morning
Drift off
And let your fears
Spill into the current
That passes you gently along.
Melodies take me
And light guitar strings murmur
Giving flow to my stiff bones
As they sigh in the sunlight
Staring lovingly into the bluest sky
Bluer than the green water
That sings its own harmony.
Hear the birds chant
Sparks into the air
Hear the water hush
The wind that will never come today
And the chug chug chug
Of that faithful riverboat
Keeping me steadily onwards
On its warm wooden deck.
Mar 1, 2016
Mar 1, 2016 at 4:12 PM UTC
The iris of your eye
Is the iris of the field
Ticking to the tock of the tire swing’s
Strawberry lemonade hypnosis
The pupil of your eye
Is a pupil of the universe
Breathing in all the wisdom and the heartbreak
Like a little black hole sponge
The sclera of your eye
Is the blinking white lights of the Ryman
Illuminating Hartford’s most exquisite fiddle solo yet
Projected down from the great riverboat in the sky
The lashes of your eye
Own the sliding boards at dusk
After all the children have heeded the dinner bell
And the rains roll in from the west
The tears of your eye
Remember your dancing days
Before the war took its toll
And youthful drops of dew still rested upon the irises
Oct 14, 2014
Oct 14, 2014 at 10:42 PM UTC
The long white curtain is still hanging on. The baby still
sleeping somewhere in all of that. I don’t mind
a thing. I don’t mind at all. See how slow and good
it can be? He says and points to my gizzard. The one he
insists upon me having. The same one I have given up insisting I don’t.
I’m addicted to the pith and gaff of his arguments,
how stalwartly he rows them down the narrow
passage of our trying not to hurry banter. I curl into the slow
lilt of how he doesn’t mind strolling around inside of promises,
like Burt showing Mary Poppins another chalk Paris. Look! A
riverboat! Lights and parasols. Pretty lovers laughing on the prow.
We’re both still wearing your T-shirt
inside the stewpot dreaming we do between sex. Aprons
and porches, babies and waterfalls.
The kinds of props you bandit from other people’s dreams.
Shorthand for lovers, with an hour to prove they exist.
Jan 14, 2012
Jan 14, 2012 at 7:12 AM UTC
Paul Masson.
Hot sauce.
Colgate - old and stale
as puke.
Grease.
Newports.
Former head.
Recovery.
Country dirt.
Pecans.
Cotton.
A black fist held high.
Hope that one day
he'll be able to fit his ex-wives
into a nice,
cordial sentence.
Love.
Real love.
Man love.
Type love that kicks *** when it has to.
Sears cologne,
OG ****
Some Christianity,
but not a lot,
not nauseating
and obnoxious,
more like
quiet
and
almost not there.
More Masson.
More Newports.
Gold fillings;
the Midas Touch
on his tongue;
the ability
to blind you
in the glow of his breath.
Rotten *****
Real rotten.
Rotted to viral nostalgia
because it tastes
like ****
and makes him lick the roof
of his mouth
to get that smell
out,
just to make
room
for it
again.
Chitlins.
Obama's saliva.
Collard greens
with all the vinegar
and red pepper
in Satan's *******
Herman Cain's armpits.
Fear
for
me.
Love
for
me.
Power.
Former riverboat
porter.
The smell of rich white men
that talked about
*******
while he stood
stoically.
Strength
like
you've never
smelled before.
Human.
Dec 23, 2011
Dec 23, 2011 at 10:16 PM UTC
Powdered Sugar Daydreams
All time becomes invisible, ceasing to matter
as this place in all its magic and wonder
blooms upon the gardens of our imagination
playing like birds on a sky of opal blue, wandering streets of old
Where rising suns on aqua horizons shift,
singing of a new day which is happily part of the prior,
extending beyond any view offered along the rocky shoreline,
as we stroll on delta desires and riverboat reveries
Brick paved streets, uneven but smoothly polished greet us,
a sidewalk table, warm cuppa, green on white awning shade,
sweet treats beneath wings of powdered sugar and tender kisses
within the eyes of all passing, and we without a care
Music fills the square with harmony in our heart beats,
a three piece jazz ensemble plays melodic romance
while your hand, your fingers, tightly holding mine
and I feel your pulse tap out the rhythm of our days
Jasmine arbors bound by geranium breezes
invite us to be one, as love springs forth
in cool waters from passion’s fountain of forever
and we daydream together eternally
May 12, 2014
May 12, 2014 at 10:38 AM UTC
There were happy times while at Home, where the sun
Licked the rims of our glasses and sent wayward strands of light
Streaking across an almost-empty tabletop,
Save for a slight shifting of sand in the only hourglass
I would ever need to own.
There were sad times too, don't forget
Like whenever the storms intruded on our mid-afternoon slumbers
And sent our dreams flying in a saturated mess of
Unfinished riverboat cruises and superhero simulations;
Underneath it all, though, it became impossible not to try it again.
We're going to return here someday, paying close attention to
A world that had preserved itself for the sake of preservation
A life that had spent its last weekends alone on the edge of the sea
Where everything within it collected and became a mosaic of
Saturated dreams and hourglasses cut in two -
Sand mixing with sand.
Apr 4, 2011
Apr 4, 2011 at 12:03 PM UTC
To depart on a voyage
to take the wheel
to know how you were crafted
to accept such craftsmanship
to perform your task
to act as you really are
to be able to look at yourself from afar
to be so ********* depressed
so bored out of your ******* aching
body of mind
that you find yourself
screaming out
how can you all be so ******* blind!?
Dead in the water, poor riverboat boy
all this fancy *** equipment
and no one to paddle...
yes a paddle!
http://www.robross.ca
Nov 23, 2009
Nov 23, 2009 at 11:55 AM UTC
Tread beneath the sphinx
There, beyond it's hardened gaze
A riverboat waits
Slip among the papyrus
And sail south to Amun-Ra
Dec 28, 2012
Dec 28, 2012 at 8:41 PM UTC
I came up the way that grew in shadow looked a tender shoot
but bent pushed through the freeze line in a killing frost
arisen first among its peers then hardened. Taught the way of walking
easy in bad men some can tell some left their teeth
on daddy’s knuckles. Knocked around until the eye is hard
moved unmoving like a gun recoils in a hand
even yet too small to sign a name.
I came up beside the tracks on stacks of plates
washing my way up riverboat stacks sleeping in the hulls
among dark men on plates of iron
in grimy weight pits torn down and built again.
Built again by Virgil in his tongue Cicero
the Caesar too of Gallic Wars blind Homer’s tongue
of Iliad and Odyssey. By Beethoven. By Bach.
By symphony of gun and pen bare knuckle brawls poverty
ghosts of the ****** murderers victims haunts of the poor
ways of the poor addicted captured by my sky my clouds
the mist and mystery of my own personal life.
In late hours dark skies clouds pass almost unseen
yet there the secret conundrum what have they wrought
where they have been? What are they coming to?
Nov 29, 2012
Nov 29, 2012 at 12:19 PM UTC
Mary had a houseboat.
She bought it with the money she
made selling lamb chops.
Jan 28, 2015
Jan 28, 2015 at 3:59 PM UTC
I should like to have a word with you
And perhaps a cup of tea and see a fair with you
And catch rabbits until I found a hare with you
And swim in the sea until your skin, so fair, turns blue.
Perhaps I could fly to Japan in a plane with you
And spot a solitary crane with you
And eat sushi with my fingers until my nails are crusted
With the smells of fish and soy with you
And I could fall into a puddle of rain with you.
I would craft a lovely riverboat and call it ‘Lou’
And sail into your heart without a crew
And harbour there and plant your favourite flowers
(Which are blue)
And let them grow until you knew
That I should like to spend a lifetime with you.
But first, I should like to have a word with you.
Sep 14, 2012
Sep 14, 2012 at 8:18 AM UTC
Jack's girl sits there playing
She's got a new idea
There's an honesty to making love
Yes, she has this down to a science
Then, she flies away, flut, flut
So hard to follow
Jack's girl hasn't time for me
She sits there, so comforting
Picture perfect; sweet petite
One cool treat in summer heat
Juxstapositioned on a riverboat
She gets my vote\lover's note
Jack's girl does
Dec 9, 2014
Dec 9, 2014 at 9:03 AM UTC
they're not nightmares
anymore
and i should think that would make a difference
but it doesn't
my dreams are a plague
infecting every part of me
every vessel, every *****
every nerve and every cell
every night
a Wonka riverboat ride down the rabbit hole into Madness
and mixed metaphors
a kaleidoscopic psychic calliope
of psychedelic psychosis
i remember when dreams used to comfort
bring relief and restitution
or delightful reminiscence
or strange beauty
but my dreams are now a plague
they exhaust me
all vivid surreal visions
of mundane interactions
with a world I do not recognize
that feels uncomfortably
intimately
Familiar
waking in those peaceful hours of pre- and post-dawn
that peace is lost on me
lying there, almost paralyzed
i do not remember my dreams
so much as i
Recover from them
Sep 4, 2014
Sep 4, 2014 at 11:24 AM UTC
A ride today in Des Moines
that appraise law and counteract
any that country may enact
where Wichita lineman forthwith
and mackinaw shall really embellish
furthermore with Granny Smith
awhile down stream on a riverboat
that foregoing is never behind
where a river is always wide
and bourgeois with a paddle wheel stride
why his atropine smile
reach the delta with such desire
and let him take the home route
in an abode of parish shanty
where river dance makes day long
a simple beast, a man
with chinchilla wrap round his neck
that sweep her off flourishing deck
these stratospheric ideals now
for sovereign witness entail campaign.
May 29, 2017
May 29, 2017 at 6:52 AM UTC
Hate hides behind motherly kisses.
It festers deep within those gargoyle hisses.
It scabs over, but never truly heals.
The right person can unearth them,
Like time capsule seals.
Daddy, you were sometimes there, but always scared.
My father was a child before, until you became his thorn.
Concrete steps were your way into his heart.
Looking back, that idea wasn't very smart.
Those scabs in the past are left feeling damp.
They never truly heal and I feel like a *****
Jul 16, 2014
Jul 16, 2014 at 3:20 AM UTC
I traveled almost everywhere, growing up. It took years. The landscapes, flora and fauna, the art, music, cuisines and curse words all seem to blend together in my mind.
Mount Fuji, the Rhine, the Himalayas, the Chattahoochee, Shenzhen, Washington DC, the Alps, and Appalachians, Moscow, Beijing, Dublin, Portland, Paris, Atlanta, London, St. Petersburg, Tokyo, Rome, Wuhan, Berlin, the Yangtze, the Mississippi, Saint-Tropez and LA - are all jumbled up in my brain, like old, wrinkled maps in a glove compartment.
My mom has total recall - she can remember every day of her life since her mama handed her a faded yellow and blue rattle when she was 6 months old - God gave me the glove compartment.
Still, some things are unforgettable, like an electrical storm breaking around Mt Everest, the lights of New York City, at night, from a helicopter, glittering on the horizon like a queen’s crown. The Danube, from a riverboat under a too-bright moon and the elegant poverty of Italy.
In some ways, I grew up like an exile because we moved every couple of years and I’d have to start my social life all over again - usually in a different language. Every place we left seemed a lost paradise, and each new place seemed cold and harsh.
Speaking of home to harsh transitions, November recess is over and we’re back in New Haven - with two weeks before final exams. Welcome to exhaustion week (weeks).
This morning I started going through my syllabuses, and after a week of holidaying - they seemed like indecipherable relics from a different world, a world of papers, tests and stingy-fun. I’ve so many things to wrap-up, my brain can’t seem to contain them all, I’m a gadget that’s out of memory.
I used to take my books on vacation, to remain in the ‘game’ mentally and stay ahead of the grind. Not this time. Hey, growing up, I’ve had my moments of ‘developmentally appropriate’ rebellion - in this case - I wanted memories to hoard, like inoculations against the coming work and loneliness cycles.
Nov 25, 2023
Nov 25, 2023 at 9:07 PM UTC
If the world was a child
I'd make it sit in the corner
And think about its wicked ways
If love was corporeal
I'd sew it to my side
And bind it forever to me
If the Mississippi ran drunk with whiskey
I'd become a steamship captain
I'd become a riverboat queen
If my father was a rock
He'd be an impossible
Immovable monument
To sweet sweat and mulish heads
If my blood was honey
I'd bake off little pieces of my body
And feed it to the men I meet
If fear was an end table
I would throw out all my coasters
Leaving stained bare wood behind
If relationships were chemicals
I would mix them into medicines
And always label them properly
If my sister was a dragon
She'd blow glass from sand
With every breath
If the mountains breathed like human beings
I'd climb inside their inhales
And never come out again
If my mother was water
She'd flow wild and abandoned
Weaving canyons in her path
If my bed was a time machine
I'd go back to my first kiss
And just keep swimming
If I was a wolf
I would howl and howl and howl
Until I drowned out everything else
Saying take and eat take and drink do this in remembrance of me
Mar 27, 2014
Mar 27, 2014 at 6:10 PM UTC
I witnessed a previously unknown apostle ministering to the self imposed deaf at Daytona Beach , shouting out the gospel to vacationers that moseyed down Capitalism Avenue , a souvenir committed to memory just like the pelicans , white sand , salt water taffy , dining at Joe's Crab Shack on fish and chips , the ships returning home far off in the distance , trinket shops lining the streets ..
Two guitar players performed on the pier , hopelessly out of tune and a bit tone deaf in my humble opinion ... Shady characters roamed the shore selling condo's by the score , seagulls knew I had tangerines and wouldn't leave me alone ..
The waves crashing into shore caught us off guard and ruined a two hundred dollar camera , a fifty five mile drive back to Orlando took us two **** hours !
Mickey Land was turning money hand over foot with eighty degree temperatures at the end of December , the boats on her canals were the high point of my vacation , cranberry juice on the veranda overlooking a par three provided a treasure trove of entertainment , men and women penning their frustrations over that little white ball with a mind of it's own , looking right and left before cheating like anyone really cared ..
People watching on Boardwalk , a cup of tea at Old Key West , a riverboat jaunt across Lake Buena Vista , a fried seafood feast at a local restaurant ..Such is the life of the temporary Floridian .. Sun screen , ruffled road maps , cool shades and Palm tree dreams ...
Jan 10, 2016
Jan 10, 2016 at 3:01 PM UTC
The end of the road seems to melt into the sky,
now I walk,
learn to fly and the ground passes under my feet but I try to stay friends with the interests of the,
end's in sight.
Nothing escapes me,
the things that grate on,I put a stake in and make believe I'm vampire hunting, and when I'm punting down the 'Cam' in the riverboat of man
how happy I can be,
and the road's now melting into me.
No need to try anymore, to fly anymore, can't die anymore
I'm there.
Oct 28, 2014
Oct 28, 2014 at 4:46 AM UTC
Her voice was loud in a small body frame
Somebody said: Oh, Miss Billie, please sing a nice blues song
In your little girl's voice, I could listen to your sad voice all night long
Sing, Miss Billie
Until the day is long gone
You been singing about real things that have been happening
Since the day that you came here to be born
Oh, Miss Billie, she so in love that she can hardly stand
Heard the drummer hit those skins with drumsticks
Looks like a riverboat gambler, but plays like a real mad man
" What That bass man doing?''
His playing makes me sigh
And he plays with fingers on strings with feeling
Somebody go get me a drink of water
Because he's got my mouth feeling kind of dry
Dec 3, 2015
Dec 3, 2015 at 3:51 PM UTC
When I'm no longer here...
I do not want to see mournful faces
With tears streaming down all your faces.
When I'm no longer here, I dont want to see my loved ones dressed in black and white.
Instead I want to see different colors of variety.
And when you look up at the night sky,
I truly hope you smile, laugh and simply think of me.
Of all the gentleness I had in my tiny little body, of the way I loved to dance to jazz.
The wishes I held dear to my heart, the tunes I always hummed about.
My lovelies.
Know that I loved you.
Each and every one of your precious souls.
And all those small infinite moments.
Today is the day;
And my time with you has come to an end,
thank you for not playing sorrowful music,
with a tiny sad violin.
Because you know as well as I,
That's not for me, at least not today.
So thank you for bringing in a big band, with a sweet riverboat swing.
Now that I have come and gone
Know that I will always be with you, watching over you.
Dancing with you in your hearts always.
I am no longer here,
But thank you for holding your head up high for today.
Be strong my dear!
And just think of me dancing and singing.
Because you and I know that no matter how old my heart and bones,
I never stop jiving.
So I hope you continue to smile for me daily.
And maybe dream a little dream of me.
~b.v.r
Dec 27, 2015
Dec 27, 2015 at 8:48 PM UTC
I wonder what its like to look at a mirror, stare at your reflection and not want to reject it
Eject it into a vat of ether so it burns slow like tuna casserole
I know i shouldn't be writing about these things but its been haunting me since i was 16
Still young and somewhat pristine but no one went my way like cards on a riverboat, I've hid that feeling for a long time with an overcoat
Made of self deprecation and little derivation from that formula of running from things i cant see, but you cant avoid your own feelings
When they hammer into you like nails on a wall,
Its a winder I'm still standing up posted like a ghostbuster in city hall...
I wouldve been gone years ago, bur music saved me y'all.
Oct 11, 2017
Oct 11, 2017 at 11:51 PM UTC
The riverboat floats
Following the stream
To your mind; a dream
Jul 13, 2018
Jul 13, 2018 at 3:07 PM UTC
elegant
you can hear the fingers slide over the cello
strings
low
deeper than any river
appears
in the rhythm
a riverboat and the slapping
of water like skin
as a bobber rows along
the current tame and mellow
Nov 9, 2016
Nov 9, 2016 at 10:28 PM UTC