"waded" poems
#*Your hair stills heart's rhythmic meter
For this I wish forever
Strands spun with goddess gossamer;
softer than touch of mother
Your eyes dazzle with no glitter
For this I stare o're yonder
Locking jewels with coins of others;
Leaves throbbing chests emptier
Your form flows as gentle rivers
For this I grudge past swimmers
Glory bequeathed to the winner;
drown will the losing suitors
Your voice humbles angel choirs
For this I listen eager
Songs molding seraphs from satyrs;
in harmony with nature
Your being stirs wildfire
For this I bear the pleasure
Ethereal flames dance together;
fueled by spiritual tethers
You are my love light of summer
For this I waded winter
Glowing 'bove, spring was made greener;
blooming nascent desire*#
Jul 27, 2018
Jul 27, 2018 at 5:29 PM UTC
She left Reno
in a satin slip
the color of hot coins
pouring from slots,
wearing chewed-up tennis shoes,
mirrors multiplying her,
the marquee burning out
letter by letter,
a hush pressed between her teeth
as if saving the last note.
I followed,
a gangly shadow,
mother’s voice in my ear:
"life is not a freeway exit."
But she was the exit.
She drove west
through a glittering throat.
In Tonopah she was a waitress,
red stains on her wrists,
sleeves tugged low,
coffee pouring thin as blood.
In Barstow she was a sun-bleached Madonna,
halo blistered, mouth lit in stained glass.
At a gas station in Needles
shimmering into a coyote’s shadow
and slipped behind the pumps.
Then movement along the fence,
low, quick—
gone again.
Casinos blinked like electric relics.
Truckers called her sugar,
greedy hands counting her ribs
as if she was the paycheck
sweating in their fist,
but she slipped away each time,
her silhouette already moulting-
a serpent skin, a smoke-trail,
a saint’s shadow burning off the wall.
By Malibu, the night
had softened to velvet.
The pier at Zuma
leaned into the Pacific
like a broken bridge.
She sang to me—
low, cracked—
then let the slip fall.
Her body cut into the dark tide,
no disguise.
I waded in after her,
ankles bruised by rock.
Water lit with jellyfish,
each pulse a warning.
I stopped where it deepened,
felt the pull take hold.
No exit left,
just the Pacific’s mouth
closing around her.
Sep 1, 2025
Sep 1, 2025 at 8:08 PM UTC
I fished a movie
hoping to cast a reel
that catches a keeper
hook, line, and sinker
I waded in line
smiling
the tackle box optimism in my sights
butterfly's in my net
visions of a hotrod
I look up at the marque
with a good cast and reel
my boats singing
a song that's hooked on love
I enter the theatre
among the trees
branching towards my spot
such forestry
I race past the mainstream
hotrod in tow
I take to my seat
setting anchor to a fun outing
as the lights abate
skip to my Lou
at bay
watching the cast make a splash
Logan Robertson
8/2/2018
Aug 2, 2018
Aug 2, 2018 at 3:21 PM UTC
494
Going to Him! Happy letter!
Tell Him—
Tell Him the page I didn’t write—
Tell Him—I only said the Syntax—
And left the Verb and the pronoun out—
Tell Him just how the fingers hurried—
Then—how they waded—slow—slow—
And then you wished you had eyes in your pages—
So you could see what moved them so—
Tell Him—it wasn’t a Practised Writer—
You guessed—from the way the sentence toiled—
You could hear the Bodice tug, behind you—
As if it held but the might of a child—
You almost pitied it—you—it worked so—
Tell Him—no—you may quibble there—
For it would split His Heart, to know it—
And then you and I, were silenter.
Tell Him—Night finished—before we finished—
And the Old Clock kept neighing “Day”!
And you—got sleepy—and begged to be ended—
What could it hinder so—to say?
Tell Him—just how she sealed you—Cautious!
But—if He ask where you are hid
Until tomorrow—Happy letter!
Gesture Coquette—and shake your Head!
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Mozart,
deaf,
died, eventually.
Picasso, pervert, died; Whitney, Winehouse, drugs, dead; Elvis, Methamphetamine, died
(on the toilet).
Van Gogh,
missing an earlobe,
died.
Plath,
head in an oven,
in front of her kids,
Woolf
Patron saint of insanity, I guess
waded into a river and-
River. River Phoenix. Drugs.
Natalie Merchant wrote that song about him in 1995.
Flash forward.
Me, twenty-one, drunk.
Proprietor of a collection of lackluster poems.
Sold their small, nonbinary soul to the Devil
in exchange for a fortune,
gone.
Apr 22, 2016
Apr 22, 2016 at 6:49 PM UTC
Fishermen at Ballyshannon
Netted an infant last night
Along with the salmon.
An illegitimate spawning,
A small one thrown back
To the waters. But I'm sure
As she stood in the shallows
Ducking him tenderly
Till the frozen knobs of her wrists
Were dead as the gravel,
He was a minnow with hooks
Tearing her open.
She waded in under
The sign of the cross.
He was hauled in with the fish.
Now limbo will be
A cold glitter of souls
Through some far briny zone.
Even Christ's palms, unhealed,
Smart and cannot fish there.
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They called me Pluto from afar, and I,
Nameless and void, embraced the title
With the force of a thousand burning suns,
Each one like the star I loved ever so dearly,
An immense sphere of fire which had me
Helplessly, hopelessly bound by its gravity,
Caught in its orbit from the beginning of time.
They called me Pluto still from further still,
Speaking my name as the orbit of myself
And their water world drove us apart,
And I gladly, worshipfully rejoiced –
I had a name; I was no longer void.
I was distant still, but they called me Pluto,
And I wore my name like regalia,
A crown upon my lifeless skin.
They called me Pluto still as they
Waded further from the cosmic shore
That was their home, sending probes
That touched the regolith of Mars –
There was life, and light, spreading out from Planet Earth,
So I waited, hoping they’d come for me
Sooner rather than later, tomorrow and not two centuries from now.
They called me Pluto even as they stripped me of my name –
I was ‘planet’ no longer,
And I grew colder and bitterer as I spun,
Because I knew things they did not,
Things about the rise and fall of civilizations.
They did not see what I had seen,
They had not been watching
Since the dawn-time.
They called me Pluto,
And they cried my name
As I watched them burn,
The light of the flickering candle in the dark
That had once been humankind
Flaring, more luminous than the sun for one bright, shining moment,
Then fading.
They called me Pluto in the aftermath,
As if I were the God of the underworld,
Guarding their lost souls from my far-off perch,
Shepherding that which could not be led,
But I was not their God, even if I’d once fathomed them as mine.
So here I wait, patient, eternal, void and barren,
For them to leave me lonely when they no longer
Dare to speak my name from the realm
I am the supposed guardian of;
They called me Pluto.
Jun 26, 2016
Jun 26, 2016 at 7:46 AM UTC
Shoulder to shoulder you bands of brothers landed.
Code name Operation Neptune was underway.
You noble breed, not knowing what lay ahead
Just knowing that your duty was called upon.
The bugle sounded, you all answered the call
nobly you waded those waters for all.
06/06/1944 was the day.
The largest seaborne invasion in history.
Yet, you brothers in arms were not caring of history making
Just making it to the beach, alive.
I can but humbly thank you for what you all did that day,
you that lived and those that died.
What thoughts must have played in your mind.
A lone piper played throughout, what courage you all displayed.
No wonder we that came after you, leave you feeling dismayed.
Many wars have been fought since, their courage is also undenied,
but, you, you thousands on those beaches showed the world the meaning
of pride, respect and warrior.
On the beaches of Utah, Omaha, Gold, Juno and Sword,
you carved a way in. To end the war.
Nobler people I doubt exist, and soon this 70th anniversary
will fade in time, but not that date of June the sixth (1944)
Jun 6, 2014
Jun 6, 2014 at 1:37 PM UTC
Lay rest your flashing glaze of wishes
Down received for a moment
Breathy bow lifts to hold
and waver across few measures
Sienna and topaz
Sienna and topaz
Singe and simmer
Shine and glimmer against
All the thoughts born and dead
What makes you eager to rise
If it is not sensing gone away stories
or nursing the aches that lunge through anywhere else but here
While you replay and delay all creation
the blossoming goes unseen
She, the maiden is reigning
Une palais à remplir
Une palais à remplir
where she is her own queen
Her oceans made of no time channel open mouths
flooding its spill
She waded into The archer
Downed in his own vessel he mistook himself the pilot of
He, marooned in the surrender of damp and fertile places
where in Death he is still recovering
Soldiering and sullen
Soldiering and sullen
He is choking, and can not stop to see or savor the blossoms rising from his own till
Jan 5, 2022
Jan 5, 2022 at 9:03 PM UTC
Sara L Russell 11/11/2015, 01:45am
I wanted to end writer's block.
So I got on my magic carpet and said "Take me to India."
It took off at fantastic speed.
Clouds flew past like frantic ghosts.
I thought I saw Lord Ganesh
smoking a hookah by the Taj Mahal.
The sparkling waters of the Ganges soon came into view.
I dismounted the magic carpet and waded out
in my long chiffon dress, into the cool water.
Candles shaped like lotus flowers drifted idly by.
Suddenly I caught my toes on a reed and was falling,
falling, falling...
the magic carpet flew away.
Woke up in ****** Carpet Right.
Nov 11, 2015
Nov 11, 2015 at 7:41 AM UTC
I dreamed of my father
crossing the fields
on his one-eyed tractor
mowing acres of sadness
heading east of a moon
that'll be gone tomorrow
and I waded the creek
beneath a ridge
where my mother is shearing
dead roses and the smell
of those flowers floating
to the foot of the mountains
reminds me of her hair
and my father's laughter
disappearing across the hill.
May 21, 2016
May 21, 2016 at 8:06 AM UTC
Bittersweet,
lick the rim,
feel the chill,
on your skin.
Piercing liquid,
climbs down your throat
Yet lifting up,
in the room you float.
Your vision struggles,
to keep up.
As you tip the glass,
and begin to ****
And a grin streaks your face
But it lacks it’s natural grace.
Artificial happiness,
Results in bitter loneliness.
Regret always follows,
When the day strays to tomorrow.
Addiction keeps you faded
Far into the moonshine
You have waded.
The bad taste
Turns times to waste.
Your twisted into a wicked trick.
Whisky dreams come and go too quick.
But life keeps going
The pain,
still growing.
Without you even knowing.
Feb 4, 2013
Feb 4, 2013 at 1:58 AM UTC
Today
Its bright and sunny
Not same
The last 3 days .
A relative , passing away
Never whom I met
A pall of gloom, yet .
Today
Husband would be back from tour
A day before
Stuck he was in the heavy downpour
And flooded Mumbai roads .
My heart sank,
Reminded of the deluge
Year 2005, July 26th
And
Stuck he was in a similar situation
Residents of Mumbai, then we were.
A Day before
He had a long day ahead
Asked the driver to leave
Only to return by evening .
The driver with no return route
And
The hotel a few Kms away
Not a single Ola Uber
Around the corner
Added to the bother.
A good 40 minutes walk
In waist high water
Followed by a bus ride
Hotel ,he managed to reach .
And hopefully ,
The Mumbaikars to their homes
Who waded along
Helping each other in the murky waters.
Yes 'The SPIRIT Of MUMBAI'
Not to be missed
Come Rains or Terrorists
Mumbaikars with help , do outreach.
Aug 31, 2017
Aug 31, 2017 at 8:05 AM UTC
Mother Nature broke her water
But the baby never came
Our inundated world
Will never be the same
We watched slowly
With a growing sense of impotence
As an elemental army
Took our innocence
Some left their homes and died
In another place
They never did return
To their own space
Politicians waded 'round
In their wellingtons
What nerve they had to even show
Their sorry skeletons
Pontificated platitudes
Filled the element of air
And those who had been flooded
Didn't really care
To hear the sly sermon
Those words were barely heard
Though so well-written
Practised and rehearsed
Mother Nature has retreated now
To her slumber state
One day soon she'll wake again
We do not know the date
Windermere 2016 February 14th
Feb 14, 2016
Feb 14, 2016 at 4:36 PM UTC
I rejoice in feeling ungraceful,
for grace is such a silly thing to bear.
I do not still the waded waters of my stay:
I lay unevenly and sing loud.
And try to leave reminders everywhere.
I step closer to the edge out where I play
and peer longingly into the raging seas.
When I die, listen to the voice of morning.
And you will hear me blowing ungracefully
as wind through the trees.
Nov 17, 2013
Nov 17, 2013 at 8:53 PM UTC
Mother Teresa - love immortal
In frail human frame;
Angel of peace and compassion,
Knew no bounds of caste or creed:
With arms outstretched,
Waded through slums forsaken
To help the poor in their humble homes:
Orphans discarded, dying destitutes,
Deserted cripples and lepers deformed,
Found in her a ministering angel
Whose gentle touch revived hope;
Brought solace and joy.
Unmindful of praise or blame,
To serve the poor was her only aim,
And never did she crave for wealth or fame.
Like St.Francis of Assisi, she prayed -
" Lord, make me an instrument of Thy peace,
" Where there is hatred, let me sow love,
" Where there is injury, pardon,
" Where there is doubt, faith,
" Where there is despair, hope......."
Life inspiring, a splendid saga
Of selfless service and sacrifice.
For ever she lives in the loving hearts
Of those who strive to rid the world
Of sorrow, misery and distress.
****** M.G.Narasimha Murthy
Hyderabad, India. mgnmurthy4@gmail
Oct 30, 2015
Oct 30, 2015 at 11:56 AM UTC
Yes I jumped in those leaves
crunchy, fluffy, autumn leaves
Waded in the decorative fountain
Climbed on the public art
Yes I danced swing in the BART station
Hid in the grocery store among rolls of
toilet paper
Had to *** a ride after the Dicken's faire
Played in the rain
Hugged my mother
Made my dad take me to see Tangled in 3D
Yes I measured the baking soda for those
dinosaur chocolate chip cookies
Loved Steve Irwin will all my childhood admiration
Was afraid of the Deep End
Memorized Shel Silverstein
Remember my sister reading me Harry Potter
Gripping my best friend on Tower of Terror, Indiana Jones, Space Mountain
Sang Christmas Carols in October
And I'm not even sorry
I was a pirate paleontologist pop-star
pokemon master steampunk rocker renaissance girl who
time-traveled, hunting T-rex
adventuring with Christopher Robin, Calvin and Hobbes
Made two corsages for my junior prom, fed ducks,
ate at Mels, posed in the dollar store, watched
the Avengers in our glittering dresses for the second
Laughed so hard I cried about the stupidest things
I doubted, got lost in Costco, found my faith
Had my prayers answered
For the bestest, most faithful friends
I have the "simple human relief of knowing you’ve done wrong, and living through it"
And don't take this the wrong way
It's not like I'm going to jump off a bridge
Well, maybe with a bungee cord?
But if I died right now
**** Gone.
I wouldn't say I envied anybody
Not really
We've had a pretty **** great time
haven't we?
Oh sure I'd protest
Places to go, people to see, things to eat, but...
As long as You forgive me
my faults
Whose to say,
There is anything else I HAVE to do
Before I have lived a GREAT life
I have nothing to prove
besides that I am grateful
for this breath of life
which may pass at any moment
Nov 10, 2013
Nov 10, 2013 at 2:49 PM UTC
here is something that
mother told me
about god complexes:
“everyone believes themselves
to be gods among men:
even that hideous monster from your
half-remembered Hellenistic dreams
will retreat back to
his craggy hideaway and continue
with his hedonistic ways.
the poor creature:
he will don a halo,
iconize himself in caricatures
pretending that if for a moment
his veins flow ichorous that
Icarus may have envied when his wings
beat in tandem with the footfalls of
the sun chariots’ horses.
“the sun shines upon
hallowed ground, though Polyphemus
will avoid Helios’s scornful gaze.
he herds sheep––his only acolytes––
an unabashed king in his realm,
like a god plays war, or as a child
would play house,
humming hallelujah,
veins running gold-blooded.
when moon rises,
he will hang his weary
shadow at his door and retreat
to his fire-pit. perhaps this will be
the closest he will be to the gods,
basking in the heat of Hestia’s
humble hearth.
“in the end,” mother said,
“Nobody will end up deified.
Icarus may have rained down wax and
feathers in godlike fury
before tilting his head to Helios once more;
Polyphemus waded into the sea,
eyes clouded in godlike fury
before resigning himself to fate, head bowed.”
Oct 16, 2016
Oct 16, 2016 at 12:24 PM UTC
In South America, truck drivers are paid collossal amounts
of money, to deliver supplies between towns on
roads, no wider than the width of their trucks.
When you turned up on my doorstep that sunday in the rain,
your eyes told me before your lips did.
Sixty three hundred days is a long long time to wait for someone,
but I would do it all over again,
if it meant I could fall asleep in your arms one last time.
Next Autumn when the leaves turn rusty and fall from the trees,
I'll remember the afternoon we spent in Victoria park,
where you waded to the middle of the duckpond,
just because I said you wouldn't.
Your mother always told me when we stacked away the good china after Sunday lunch,
that your stubborness always got in the way of what was right.
You've been gone eight hours and still nobodies reminded me how difficult I can be at times.
Eight months later and everytime the phone rings I imagine your voice crackling down the line "come get me from the supermarket, I have sugar buns. "
Apr 28, 2013
Apr 28, 2013 at 12:10 AM UTC
I walked along the sandy beach with a crisp breeze gliding through my hair,
I gazed out into the crystal clear water and thought about life.
I thought about how my life was like that ocean...vast and open.
I thought about all the people that have swam in that ocean and in
turn, swam through my life.
The people who just stuck their tiny toes into my great unknown, but
found the water too warm or too chilled. The people that dove in
without understanding the full complexity of navigating the unmapped
depths of my humanity and in turn, quickly fled for shore.
Finally, the people that waded gently into that great wide open found
that, when done at a resonable pace, the water was just fine.
These were the swimmers that have been coming back to the beach for a
long time now, and these were the ones I liked having around.
Nov 1, 2012
Nov 1, 2012 at 11:59 AM UTC
Two sisters walked by the tropical shore
And gazed at the sunset the west
On an island with the silhouettes of palm trees
They sat, and watched the pretty sunset
As it faded
Like a painting being erased from canvas
After that came Night and we danced
With the Sea Fairies
We sang the prettiest Tropical songs
And hushed the world to sleep
And we played on the Enchanted ukulele
And on the prettiest harp you ever heard
We sung and danced
And played on our ukulele and harp
All Night long
The next morning the dew
Like sparkling shining jewels
Kissed the hibiscus blooms
And waked them up from sleep
And the breeze stirred
The lacy green leaves
Of the majestic palm trees
Sunrays felt lovely and warm
On our cheeks
And the ocean never
Felt cooler
When we waded through
The singing waves that morning
~Marian~
Apr 7, 2013
Apr 7, 2013 at 8:50 AM UTC
I waded my body around on the floor and watched without looking as their drinks filled with hooks and started tugging on the back of their throats forcing them to act on impulse and act on
despair.
I waded my body around in these ideas that felt inside like a 1950's cinema stabbing with the rain and the dramatic silence and screams where all you get is the negative space you never get any
impact.
I waded my body around this flood I was making for myself out of what they were spitting on the ground and on the walls and on themselves and I bubbled mimicked screams so we could
share something.
I waded my body around my dreams and one by one as if these droplets were trying to tell me something they all fell through and I found them soaking my shoes and my knees and my
meaning.
Treading perpetual.
Nov 4, 2012
Nov 4, 2012 at 10:15 AM UTC
1211
A Sparrow took a Slice of Twig
And thought it very nice
I think, because his empty Plate
Was handed Nature twice—
Invigorated, waded
In all the deepest Sky
Until his little Figure
Was forfeited away—
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