"tributary" poems
For once, I'm at a loss for words
I can't write eloquence into our anniversary yesterday
Because it was magical in and of itself
You planned me a quiet picnic in the woods, just you and me
Cooking hot dogs on a charcoal grill we didn't know how to use
And eating chicken salad
Going kayaking was a dream, paddling along
On a quiet tributary to a bigger lake, we went back into the woods
We sat in our little floating craft and talked about first kisses and magic
We wondered at how simple acts could have led us apart and how happy we are together
I noticed the calmness of the water and the intricacies of the ripples when I indulged my paddle into the stream
We were out for an hour, just paddling along
Talking, living, laughing, loving together.
Just being together
We eventually made our way back in, an hour car ride away from home
Talking some more, laughing together, enjoying the company
We went back to my place and ate dinner with my family
Shrimp Scampi with salad and bread
Then roasted marshmallows and laughed when they became torches
Nothing is better than marshmallows with the people you love
After that we set up my hammock and just swung there and watched the sun slip below the horizon
Taking in the scenery, we didn't need to talk, because there was nothing more that could have been said
It was magical until my little brother came over to us and asked why we weren't talking and called us boring
But he doesn't understand, not quite yet
Not until he is sitting on a hammock with a girl, and knows there isn't anything to say
It was a beautiful day, wonderful by itself
May 19, 2014
May 19, 2014 at 8:55 AM UTC
"Still water runs deep." - Yiddish Proverb
To sail within a boat
never rocked or tucked within a sea.
Long grass kissing the bow.
Mosquito hum, siren stand-in.
Brother big, brother strong.
I, the groove of big brother's elbow.
Clothes on the line.
Canary yellow, A-line dress.
The spring girls swelling, rippling
from the bashful shore.
Big brother hold me over edge.
My arms, my oars.
Splashing pasture, blades receding.
Adults at birthday parties.
Brother big, brother mast.
Climb.
Not only sail, but zephyr, I.
Snake through Rusty Bike River,
the tributary.
Spill.
Into the wide, into the Harding Family Ocean.
Where dolls, hair frayed and faces smooshed,
lounge half-submerged and mostly forgotten.
Where sea dogs test chain, test spike.
Eye the confident chickens strolling dock.
And then Mother turns on porch lamp,
soft words, ebbing to lighthouse.
Brother big, big brother.
My arms, my arms.
Mar 17, 2013
Mar 17, 2013 at 4:56 AM UTC
~
*I cast my net
into the tributary
and release into you, a seasonal swim,
I give to you a mother's color,
as you recite
infant hymns,
you're a bleeder
on the days sunfire meters out its origin,
you're my river
free and clear from the grip
of anchorage,
my river,
drifted on to wherever
moon wishes glister*
~
Aug 19, 2021
Aug 19, 2021 at 3:09 PM UTC
It's so wonderful to feel mountains of emotions so moving in oneself
It creates valleys and volcanic eruptions
That warm the body so thoroughly you believe you may melt
Into a puddle of overwhelming love and joy
How beautiful it is
Like golden sunshine, warming the spots in between the tree branches Full of leaves in late spring
It eradicates the ashen hue in your veins with lavish reds
How warming to the soul to feel a tributary of trust
So deeply embedded in the wholeness of a love
Shared between two people
A strong sense of wanting to better yourself blossoms inside
True love bears vines and trees of fruit in the soul, mind, and body
It paints the dulling colors of the world so glaringly gasping to the eye
Filling one with colors
And out of all the feeling kinds
Color feeling is the loveliest one
Dec 28, 2014
Dec 28, 2014 at 11:01 AM UTC
Peace? and to all the world? sure, One
And He the Prince of Peace, hath none.
He travels to be born, and then
Is born to travel more again.
Poor Galilee! thou canst not be
The place for His nativity.
His restless mother’s called away,
And not delivered till she pay.
A tax? ’tis so still! we can see
The church thrive in her misery;
And like her Head at Bethlem, rise
When she, oppressed with troubles, lies.
Rise? should all fall, we cannot be
In more extremities than He.
Great Type of passions! come what will,
Thy grief exceeds all copies still.
Thou cam’st from heaven to earth, that we
Might go from earth to heaven with Thee.
And though Thou foundest no welcome here,
Thou didst provide us mansions there.
A stable was Thy court, and when
Men turned to beasts, beasts would be men.
They were Thy courtiers, others none;
And their poor manger was Thy throne.
No swaddling silks Thy limbs did fold,
Though Thou couldst turn Thy rays to gold.
No rockers waited on Thy birth,
No cradles stirred, nor songs of mirth;
But her chaste lap and sacred breast
Which lodged Thee first did give Thee rest.
But stay: what light is that doth stream,
And drop here in a gilded beam?
It is Thy star runs page, and brings
Thy tributary Eastern kings.
Lord! grant some light to us, that we
May with them find the way to Thee.
Behold what mists eclipse the day:
How dark it is! shed down one ray
To guide us out of this sad night,
And say once more, “Let there be light.”
2.2k
*///
After a long time from its origin,
the river has bend into two ways
it has intersected by a *******
on a meandering belt,
created an angel between two lives
One has moved toward the right,
a narrow uneven sway,
that tributary stream has flown on fight
as if it one will be die within a short way
Another, that I have traveled
the straight stream,
a simplest form of life with a distinct velocity
may be at the sea where it will be settled
but that little one has made my curiosity
Yet, I see that one
how it has gone
i think about its trend
and feel how it will be end
A boat is waiting along with the *******
i don’t know,
why do it wait and whom for!
and where, it will go!
all sorts of thing I feel when I have stood on my toe
///
@ Musfiq us shaleheen*
Sep 20, 2014
Sep 20, 2014 at 7:00 PM UTC
muse,
*she/her has no master, only a mastery;
she, comes compulsing, a physical pounding,
a throbbing impervious resistant to logic or medicine,
which is the so very ever, the peculiar throbbing
of a principled particular “present participle,”*
*write of compulsing is her mocking suggestion.*
*a presence, punishing urging, pas de choix, obey,
submission; write freely but not free, compose or
decompose; is there a difference, no, not, and so ordered,
demand surrendered, how? how? this taking and giving,
can a single act dichotomy be so fulfilling and so emptying?*
<>
wake daily to water canvas, the waves, dabs of paint
protruding, irritating. provoking yet presented silenced,
repetitiously calming, motioned framed within the
white edged sand, the bound-surround of the living painting.
eyes alight, eyes delight, this daily emergence unto
a tapestry devoid of human interference suggests
a differentiating reality; now I understand the how of a
world’s imperfections constituting, tooting its own perfectionism.
this is not lake water; no single flat stone skipping nor
a concentric rippling to a slow death; this is seaward-
bound, an oceans subservient tributary, contributory,
a river, bay, sound - precursors to a vast atlantic infinity.
this is metaphor; this a still life of the perpetuation metamorphosis.
<>
*the muse exhales; as do I subsequently; what difference?
none, she replies to herself, tween painting artist and
verbalizing poet, the un-still life creation, always, always,
different, the essence of diversity in a singularity sameness*
7:13 AM Thu Jul 29
2021
S. I. Sound
Jul 29, 2021
Jul 29, 2021 at 7:59 AM UTC
Pure winds
Beautiful prairie
Tall grass
Kissing the dew
Mighty fork
Winding tributary
Escorted by grass, fescue
Aged trees
Standing in groves
Greet the fowl of dawn
Talking bison
Muffled tone
Still awaken the merry prairie dog
Lone rider
Haulin' mail across the plains
Headin' west, for Sacramento
Indian fighter
On plains self-same
Will insure this mailman sees no tomorrow
May 8, 2017
May 8, 2017 at 11:44 AM UTC
Saintly cassock,
Glittering altar
Ornamental pulpit.
Driving the congregants
in a paroxysm of fib,
Gullibility enshrines adherents
hearts.
Do you know the Messiah more
than the apostles ?
Thou traders in the temple.
Parrotic tongues set out
commands
Loquacious sweet-coated mouths
misdirects faithfuls.
But the uncreated Creator who
creates creatures watches
Dreadful silence astonishingly
permeates the entireness
of the universe.
Do you preach love?
Do you follow peace with all?
Ye robbers in the temple.
Command darkness to produce
light.
But you turned moonlight into
tale.
Can you display Davidic dance
steps on the road?
Profanity of sanctuary with
false homiletics.
Merchants of dross in tabernacle
Speak.
Let us hear you.
Preach
To the congregants.
Righteousness afar from the
apron of faith.
Charity locked up in the
tunic of hope.
Sanctity of holiness sprinkled
into the tributary of sin.
Commanding the stars to turn
to sun,
Captains of night in light.
Ye robbers in the sanctuary.
Pastoral advertisers of chattels
in the tabernacle,
Merchandising gold dross in
sermonic hymns.
Sugar-coated doctrine wept in
the tomb of Lazarus.
Prompting Him to weep again?
Ye merchants in synagogue.
Disentangle faithfuls from the
webs of worriment.
Dislodge congregants out of the
shackles of sin.
Deliver ignoramus from the
isle of incendiary.
Let the sifter of strength
separate out afflictions from
feebleminded faithfuls.
Ye robbers in the temple
You love prayers more than God
But who answers prayers?
Dec 16, 2018
Dec 16, 2018 at 3:45 AM UTC
Cascading , omnipotent life water of Cherokee and Creek ,forged in granite , red clay, confident tributary and commensal partner of damselfly , alligator turtle and heron ..
Mature , altruistic bounty brought unto industrious native people , turbulent tributary of the Piedmont .. Mother of the fertile southern crescent !.......
Sep 16, 2015
Sep 16, 2015 at 1:21 PM UTC
it is a warm November
night on a delta in India
and at restaurant there
with hand-carved
wood balconies
a person leans over
the railing as their
hand wraps around the
etching of an elephant
they stare into the dark,
reflective water of
a small tributary of
some unnamed river
while behind them
there’s a fan turning
circles on the ceiling
in metronome to
a chorus of insects
Sep 6, 2013
Sep 6, 2013 at 6:03 PM UTC
Snow pack dissolves, shrinking icecaps
Trickles, connects with succinct spring
Runs down frigid, joins brook
Babbling, descends to stream
Meanders past meadow land
With butterfly **** rippling grasses
Flows through tributary into river
Enters the rocky canyon
Cliffs high as cotton clouds
Jagged, angular, shadowed sunlight
Chilly air rising off splashing rocks
Echoes of rushing, rumbling
Fresh scent of Blue Spruce, sappy pine cones
Churning white water, mile long
Cutting rocky gorge
Raging river travels with purpose reverberates around bend
Water falls towards paradise
Pummels hard to form pool
Surrounded by grassy fronds of Deerhair bulrush, Hydrangea, Lady Rue and Button Bush trees
My secret sanctuary
Oct 17, 2013
Oct 17, 2013 at 10:08 AM UTC
*Give me anybody
Oh give me anybody*
Give me a forest stretching over lakes
Over hilltops unto the land’s end meet
I’ll walk for leagues until my knees buckle
Till I find a sturdy oak to be mine
It shall not be a noble tree, nor grand
But it will stand the weight of my embrace
Branches stretching into cerulean skies
My favourite sight
Sunlight through whispering slices of green
Enclose me in your tendrils
Take me within, my humble oak
I’ll carve out a home for myself
I’ll dust it with hot breath and cleanse with it tears
Live out my days in stoic peace
For wise minds know retreat triumphs
Over the tributary of great feats
Crawling up bodies of bark,
Binding bodies of blood
Tainted blue moss
Let me withdraw into you, I, an oak wife
I’ll weave your ghost-roots into my veins
If my oak should die, let me die too
These badlands are barren and unkind
My legs are made to wrap around your body
They will not bear the stony, unrelenting road
Dec 30, 2012
Dec 30, 2012 at 8:04 PM UTC
t'was way beyond the pier
that a tune she did hear
serenading her ears
luring sounds that turned gears
she came braving her fears
melodies of folklore
though more than metaphor
pace low beside field crops
hail high over treetops
and between their long legs
words of gradual grace
dance to timbre in jest
to disturb silent rest
with chords as bright as light
and words as dark as night
she walked along the shore
until she stood before
fingers forming a bridge
pulling her deep within
between the broken ridge
calls of the canary
walk the tributary
under the sky's red eye
bathed in its scarlet light
within the black twilight
observing closer now
golden pieces of art
pierced the walls of her heart
luminescent light shows
complete at midnight's close
Nov 30, 2019
Nov 30, 2019 at 12:55 PM UTC
The Spirit of Winter carefully tiptoes her way along the continuum of forgotten Gaelic intensities, whilst mischievous laughter resounds throughout the geographical conveniences of complacency.
How gorgeous is the anatomy of madness, as she perches on gorgon ledges of sophisticated depravity.
I do not even hail from the land of the Gauls.
Yet, ghastly and seductive are those flittering silhouettes of fortitude and perceived harlotry, as they penetrate damp walls of ancient entertainments with multiple partners.
Harken to my lament and do not banish my soul into eternal blackness, as we conjure the sword and kiss with fivefold and unconventional intensities beyond the circles of the forest.
You are now given permission to ring the bell sevenfold, Oh master, where scientific inscriptions are splayed with the blatancy of wanton chastity.
I was born by the river that is never the same whenever it is stepped into with more than one dribbling expectation.
Sep 17, 2014
Sep 17, 2014 at 11:50 PM UTC
There is no awakening. Outside the cave
Light shadows in the sun, a blinding
Muck veils desolation in the vein-bled,
Good men, stumps of the naked forests,
And bird song drowned by the droning dead,
Ignoble, this is no country for old men.
In the open, all lie freely, lacquered clean
Sunning social graces, shine pornographic,
Know truth is real yet, embalmed by speakers,
Pages, their flame a cross, churning in a mire,
Our glass cities run time mendaciously silent;
The euphony of the untruths, the bent sign.
In Catatonia words are watered but never
Change, sapped of meaning, seasons fall
By the handy green, the spring leaves, tipped
Off balance scaled to autumns teeming news;
The barren shores, breaks, bless the vacuum
Tubes, and pray a curse, fawn the head lamps.
In the homeless land anxious creatures divide.
The concrete utterance is picked to rubble.
The stones ground into sand and we ringing
In delight, moving mandrake, mobile cadavers,
Orbit to satellite are digging babylon down
In the false hood, ****** by the mortar.
The ruin architects mark, fork millions
Of tongues in tributary, as does a great
River from a stony source. The sterling
Feed their stock with tainted food, plants
Regenerate the mangled codex twining-tare;
Throws the babe with baptismal waters.
In the soulless land children peak abandoned,
They fall on temple steps by the golden mean.
We pattern the sky in the bold fabric of pity
And mercy but the strands fade out running;
Our cruel and only kind would rend the stars,
Would fallow Elysium, bleed gold to the vein.
How did we end mortal under the divining
Sun? Down base our provident ways watching?
We wave in fealty to the dominion of spins
And shadow, gussied Gods so proudly made,
Desolate, vain, air escaping to whisper;
We are sailing from Byzantium.
Sep 30, 2012
Sep 30, 2012 at 12:53 PM UTC
startled by the fight
in a diseased and dying body
I sit over her
looking through fogged eyes
recalling a slice of heaven
on a little tributary
of the raging Santiam –
cheek high pasture weeds
brushes a five year old face
as I nearly tunnel after long tan legs
sunshine and pit bulls
a covey of quail and
the old ****** pelt drying plywood
cut in the shape of a giant stop sign
a bedded down doe crashes through an Oak thicket
as our adventure continues –
lazy afternoons of swimming in the creek
chasing tree frogs
and picking wild flowers
fill my pre pre-school memories
as I stare
and wait for her to take another breath –
Dec 1, 2014
Dec 1, 2014 at 10:15 AM UTC
There is no awakening. Outside the cave
Light shadows in the sun, a blinding
Muck veils desolation in the vein-bled,
Good men, stumps of the naked forests,
And bird song drowned by the droning dead,
Ignoble, this is no country for old men.
In the open, all lie freely, lacquered clean
Sunning social graces, shine pornographic,
Know truth is real yet, embalmed by speakers,
Pages, their flame a cross, churning in a mire,
Our glass cities run time mendaciously silent;
The euphony of the untruths, the bent sign.
In Catatonia words are watered but never
Change, sapped of meaning, seasons fall
By the handy green, the spring leaves, tipped
Off balance scaled to autumns teeming news;
The barren shores, breaks, bless the vacuum
Tubes, and pray a curse, fawn the head lamps.
In the homeless land anxious creatures divide.
The concrete utterance is picked to rubble.
The stones ground into sand and we ringing
In delight, moving mandrake, mobile cadavers,
Orbit to satellite are digging babylon down
In the false hood, ****** by the mortar.
The ruin architects mark, fork millions
Of tongues in tributary, as does a great
River from a stony source. The sterling
Feed their stock with tainted food, plants
Regenerate the mangled codex twining-tare;
Throws the babe with baptismal waters.
In the soulless land children peak abandoned,
They fall on temple steps by the golden mean.
We pattern the sky in the bold fabric of pity
And mercy but the strands fade out running;
Our cruel and only kind would rend the stars,
Would fallow Elysium, bleed gold to the vein.
How did we end mortal under the divining
Sun? Down base our provident ways watching?
We wave in fealty to the dominion of spins
And shadow, gussied Gods so proudly made,
Desolate, vain, air escaping to whisper;
We are sailing from Byzantium.
Jul 30, 2013
Jul 30, 2013 at 2:41 PM UTC
Through a narrow tributary flowing down
Flanked by rustling reeds on either side
The small boat made its lonesome way
Carrying two souls from all distractions
The current was dotted here and there
With floating masses of water hyacinths
With lavender blossoms peeping through the green
That drifted to and fro as the boat made its way
Pleating gentle curls in the water’s swell
The boat moved, carrying him and her
Gliding away unhurried and unrushed
Over the heaving crest of pure delight
As it entered the river’s wider mouth
Waves began lapping on the boat
And jets of water splashing neck high
With their cool embrace, raising the spirits
Bobbing over waves, they quietly watched
The cobalt sky hugging the mountains far
Hills looming large, with clumps of trees
And their foliage swaying in summer breeze
Before them, the river gallantly stretched along
As a flood of fluid crystal, a current of liquid light
Expressing in turn, the silent meditation of a sage
And the noisy ebullience of a naughty kid
Leaving all cares behind, on the sullen shores
Hearing the lovely chanting of songbirds
Enjoying the river’s shifting loveliness
The two entered into the river’s inner heart
As the magic moments mesmerized their senses
They knew they had found a new love
A flower suddenly blooming in the wild
Drifting them to a world sans any fences !
Nov 15, 2018
Nov 15, 2018 at 7:55 AM UTC
There is no awakening. Outside the cave
Light shadows in the sun, a blinding
Muck veils desolation in the vein-bled,
Good men, stumps of the naked forests,
And bird song drowned by the droning dead,
Ignoble, this is no country for old men.
In the open, all lie freely, lacquered clean
Sunning social graces, shine pornographic,
Know truth is real yet, embalmed by speakers,
Pages, their flame a cross, churning in a mire,
Our glass cities run time mendaciously silent;
The euphony of the untruths, the bent sign.
In Catatonia words are watered but never
Change, sapped of meaning, seasons fall
By the handy green, the spring leaves, tipped
Off balance scaled to autumns teeming news;
The barren shores, breaks, bless the vacuum
Tubes, and pray a curse, fawn the head lamps.
In the homeless land anxious creatures divide.
The concrete utterance is picked to rubble.
The stones ground into sand and we ringing
In delight, moving mandrake, mobile cadavers,
Orbit to satellite are digging babylon down
In the false hood, ****** by the mortar.
The ruin architects mark, fork millions
Of tongues in tributary, as does a great
River from a stony source. The sterling
Feed their stock with tainted food, plants
Regenerate the mangled codex twining-tare;
Throws the babe with baptismal waters.
In the soulless land children peak abandoned,
They fall on temple steps by the golden mean.
We pattern the sky in the bold fabric of pity
And mercy but the strands fade out running;
Our cruel and only kind would rend the stars,
Would fallow Elysium, bleed gold to the vein.
How did we end mortal under the divining
Sun? Down base our provident ways watching?
We wave in fealty to the dominion of spins
And shadow, gussied Gods so proudly made,
Desolate, vain, air escaping to whisper;
We are sailing from Byzantium.
Jan 27, 2013
Jan 27, 2013 at 6:39 PM UTC
A drop of water fell on my hand,
drawn from the Ganges and the Nile,
from hoarfrost ascended to heaven off a seal's whiskers,
from jugs broken in the cities of Ys and Tyre.
On my index finger
the Caspian Sea isn't landlocked,
and the Pacific is the Rudawa's meek tributary,
the same stream that floated in a little cloud over Paris
in the year seven hundred and sixty-four
on the seventh of May at three a. m.
There are not enough mouths to utter
all your fleeting names, O water.
I would have to name you in every tongue,
pronouncing all the vowels at once
while also keeping silent — for the sake of the lake
that still goes unnamed
and doesn't exist on this earth, just as the star
reflected in it is not in the sky.
Someone was drowning, someone dying was
calling out for you. Long ago, yesterday.
You have saved houses from fire, you have carried off
houses and trees, forests and towns alike.
You've been in christening fonts and courtesans' baths.
In coffins and kisses.
Gnawing at stone, feeding rainbows.
In the sweat and the dew of pyramids and lilacs.
How light the raindrop's contents are.
How gently the world touches me.
Whenever wherever whatever has happened
is written on waters of Babel
By Wisława Szymborska
May 22, 2022
May 22, 2022 at 4:29 AM UTC
There is no awakening. Outside the cave
Light shadows in the sun, a blinding
Muck veils desolation in the vein-bled,
Good men, stumps of the naked forests,
And bird song drowned by the droning dead,
Ignoble, this is no country for old men.
In the open, all lie freely, lacquered clean
Sunning social graces, shine pornographic,
Know truth is real yet, embalmed by speakers,
Pages, their flame a cross, churning in a mire,
Our glass cities run time mendaciously silent;
The euphony of the untruths, the bent sign.
In Catatonia words are watered but never
Change, sapped of meaning, seasons fall
By the handy green, the spring leaves, tipped
Off balance scaled to autumns teeming news;
The barren shores, breaks, bless the vacuum
Tubes, and pray a curse, fawn the head lamps.
In the homeless land anxious creatures divide.
The concrete utterance is picked to rubble.
The stones ground into sand and we ringing
In delight, moving mandrake, mobile cadavers,
Orbit to satellite are digging babylon down
In the false hood, ****** by the mortar.
The ruin architects mark, fork millions
Of tongues in tributary, as does a great
River from a stony source. The sterling
Feed their stock with tainted food, plants
Regenerate the mangled codex twining-tare;
Throws the babe with baptismal waters.
In the soulless land children peak abandoned,
They fall on temple steps by the golden mean.
We pattern the sky in the bold fabric of pity
And mercy but the strands fade out running;
Our cruel and only kind would rend the stars,
Would fallow Elysium, bleed gold to the vein.
How did we end mortal under the divining
Sun? Down base our provident ways watching?
We wave in fealty to the dominion of spins
And shadow, gussied Gods so proudly made,
Desolate, vain, air escaping to whisper;
We are sailing from Byzantium.
Feb 17, 2016
Feb 17, 2016 at 4:33 PM UTC
Derailed, and the bridge folds inwards, it came to bury the
moonlight, all sound cuts out. A hundred tons of dust
from beasts of metal tear the summer river dusk to
silence, the moment after the coals met the tributary.
When the flickering dome of heaven collapsed to marry
itself to the earth, to the river bed, to the parking lot,
the bridge, a frail arabesque, snapped like a gunshot in the
silence, the moment after the coals met the tributary.
What strange coincidence, come to pass, come to carry
away long childhood afternoons; her and her final hours.
Whose plans were these, man-made towers that break in
silence, the moment after the coals met the tributary?
Derailed, the bridge folds inwards, it came to bury itself in the
silence of its own weight, as the coals meet the tributary.
Aug 23, 2012
Aug 23, 2012 at 10:53 PM UTC
i.
A crane cometh around
Down by the superannuated rivulet;
No machinery by this place
Mud bank's, phantom silhouette's.
ii.
I canst sense
The Miami Indians prowling the copse;
Their regard for living was natural
As the new ager's that came after, destroyed the crop's.
iii.
Thou canst seeith the moccasin's
Slithereth down the way;
Their black scale's, telleth tale's
Of a time of freedom's day.
iv.
I goeth down to this old tributary
Whence the land was hunted by bow;
I'm respecting the land, as it shalt be
Not doing as the newbies know.
v.
As the babies groweth, and the ghost's do showeth
The narrative that's meant to be left;
I shalt keepeth the aboriginal modus operandi
And walketh with the spirit's, of this place they hath lent.
©Brandon nagley
©Lonesome poet's poetry
Aug 19, 2015
Aug 19, 2015 at 10:11 AM UTC