"waders" poems - Hello Poetry

My fingertips will never let me forget the scent of stale cigarettes. I was a fool in London. All the friends I made had better accents than me. I dreamed of Bulgaria and Brazil. I walked through mud. I waited for French tides. I trudged in heavy water waders. My hands built a house with stones older than the country on my passport. The etching of cement on my boots still reminds me what we carried there. We drove along tired volcanoes and craggy cliffs in the dark. I never learned how to drive manual. We flew further south. I dried out in the sun. The glands of Spanish streets pulsated citrus mist into the air, my lungs. I never did remember the difference between limon and lime. We stayed in a haunted castel but missed Halloween. The upper peninsula, where Napoleon dreamed of a better dinner. We moved to Shangri-La. Even in Eden, people still snore. But there were cakes laced with flowers. And I was over the moon. Then, a dreamscape. The closest to the Arctic I’ve ever been. We ate deer for dinner. I baked Danish pies. I slept supine in a smoke-filled yurt. It was all peace. It was all over.

0

Jan 26, 2015

Jan 26, 2015 at 3:49 PM UTC

tigremilk

I Happened Here (Europe 2014)

My fingertips will never let me forget the scent of stale cigarettes. I was a fool in London. All the friends I made had better accents than me. I dreamed of Bulgaria and Brazil. I walked through mud. I waited for French tides. I trudged in heavy water waders. My hands built a house with stones older than the country on my passport. The etching of cement on my boots still reminds me what we carried there. We drove along tired volcanoes and craggy cliffs in the dark. I never learned how to drive manual. We flew further south. I dried out in the sun. The glands of Spanish streets pulsated citrus mist into the air, my lungs. I never did remember the difference between limon and lime. We stayed in a haunted castel but missed Halloween. The upper peninsula, where Napoleon dreamed of a better dinner. We moved to Shangri-La. Even in Eden, people still snore. But there were cakes laced with flowers. And I was over the moon. Then, a dreamscape. The closest to the Arctic I’ve ever been. We ate deer for dinner. I baked Danish pies. I slept supine in a smoke-filled yurt. It was all peace. It was all over.

19

On the river's bank - discarded waders dropped there, cast aside the day before. A little yellow orchid drooping, damsel- head in danger, wanting fellow flowers, wanting pollination, hoping summer's kindly fingers touch upon the shadows.

0

Apr 27, 2013

Apr 27, 2013 at 11:52 AM UTC

c-b-heath

*********

On the river's bank - discarded waders dropped there, cast aside the day before. A little yellow orchid drooping, damsel- head in danger, wanting fellow flowers, wanting pollination, hoping summer's kindly fingers touch upon the shadows.

6

poets often write about running carefree through prairies as if it is romantic. they don’t know the itch the ***** of thick grass the **** of goldenrod the sting of thistle. they haven’t hoisted one moist rubber-clad leg waist-high over the other again and again and again waterproof yet sweating just to move ten feet. they haven’t picked seeds from sticky skin as the fields give way to marsh grass to cattails reeds to rushes. they haven’t bobbed and balanced up and down and up on floating mats of dead, sewn stalks walking on water a minefield of bog slime. i haven’t stopped watching my steps since i got that job and i think i’m due for a misstep. i’m looking to stop scratching to stop picking to stop bobbing. i’m looking for a darling weak spot strong enough to swallow me in this swamp. i would bushwhack to her through the pricking the prodding and the stinging put the wrong foot forward plunge through the mat and let her pour over the tops of my waders and sink me deeper and deeper and too deep. i would drown in her.

0

Mar 7, 2013

Mar 7, 2013 at 12:53 AM UTC

frank-sterncrest

running and not

poets often write about running carefree through prairies as if it is romantic. they don’t know the itch the ***** of thick grass the **** of goldenrod the sting of thistle. they haven’t hoisted one moist rubber-clad leg waist-high over the other again and again and again waterproof yet sweating just to move ten feet. they haven’t picked seeds from sticky skin as the fields give way to marsh grass to cattails reeds to rushes. they haven’t bobbed and balanced up and down and up on floating mats of dead, sewn stalks walking on water a minefield of bog slime. i haven’t stopped watching my steps since i got that job and i think i’m due for a misstep. i’m looking to stop scratching to stop picking to stop bobbing. i’m looking for a darling weak spot strong enough to swallow me in this swamp. i would bushwhack to her through the pricking the prodding and the stinging put the wrong foot forward plunge through the mat and let her pour over the tops of my waders and sink me deeper and deeper and too deep. i would drown in her.

50

The road followed the base of the steep hillside, trapped there by the river and a park of city pride, the footsteps walked along roadway and sidewalk, as both young and old, converse and talked, there are less people now, but every one walks the walk that overlooks the Columbia River, both life giver and a taker, people fish the river, above the plant, some even float, at a park named Binghy in hip-waders with a tube dinghy casting their lines with flies tied, methods successful true and tried. I have walked that same place on many, many school days, I have since walked more steps more miles...much much more, but every time I walk there, I am once again on my way to school, some bullies took me for a fool, yet I am here, I did not fear them then, nor do I fear those when I meet them these days, bullies do not change but technology does, for I recognize that, as the cowards way, and all I have ever done is walk away. Until it comes time to stand my ground. ©DWE072013

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Jul 29, 2013

Jul 29, 2013 at 10:36 PM UTC

darrell-wade-elverum

Time to stand my ground

The road followed the base of the steep hillside, trapped there by the river and a park of city pride, the footsteps walked along roadway and sidewalk, as both young and old, converse and talked, there are less people now, but every one walks the walk that overlooks the Columbia River, both life giver and a taker, people fish the river, above the plant, some even float, at a park named Binghy in hip-waders with a tube dinghy casting their lines with flies tied, methods successful true and tried. I have walked that same place on many, many school days, I have since walked more steps more miles...much much more, but every time I walk there, I am once again on my way to school, some bullies took me for a fool, yet I am here, I did not fear them then, nor do I fear those when I meet them these days, bullies do not change but technology does, for I recognize that, as the cowards way, and all I have ever done is walk away. Until it comes time to stand my ground. ©DWE072013

34

The water lay placid yet beneath the surface surreptitious dangers went unseen The waders ignored the well known dangers threatening their feet As they went deeper the creatures observed The splashing only inviting the lurking predators They had been told to take caution avoiding the exposure Instead they leaped into the jaws of the ingenious monster Leaving their families without relief nor closure Creating a scene so treacherous it haunted the dreams of children Their parents cried out in insurmountable pain As the onlookers perceived them with unrelenting shame

0

Mar 19, 2014

Mar 19, 2014 at 11:33 PM UTC

danielle-rose

Avoidable Tragedies

The water lay placid yet beneath the surface surreptitious dangers went unseen The waders ignored the well known dangers threatening their feet As they went deeper the creatures observed The splashing only inviting the lurking predators They had been told to take caution avoiding the exposure Instead they leaped into the jaws of the ingenious monster Leaving their families without relief nor closure Creating a scene so treacherous it haunted the dreams of children Their parents cried out in insurmountable pain As the onlookers perceived them with unrelenting shame

11

I found you here in this moment Fulfilling flames with your fingers To combine sensory alchemy Juxtapose the dichotomy Until meaning meets fear And we dream of collapsing targets Sardonic architects compete With compulsive negotiators Former lovers and a single savior We are all traders and traitors Alibis neglected We are eclectic These violent voices Are like violins waltzing In forensic suspenders Men without raincoats Dream of removing their waders And perhaps even Opening some windows

0

Aug 22, 2019

Aug 22, 2019 at 2:35 PM UTC

ganesha-michael-shapiro

forensic suspenders

I found you here in this moment Fulfilling flames with your fingers To combine sensory alchemy Juxtapose the dichotomy Until meaning meets fear And we dream of collapsing targets Sardonic architects compete With compulsive negotiators Former lovers and a single savior We are all traders and traitors Alibis neglected We are eclectic These violent voices Are like violins waltzing In forensic suspenders Men without raincoats Dream of removing their waders And perhaps even Opening some windows

19

Does any of it really matter, Ultimately? Sunyata (sanscrit for duality) Everything Matters and None of it Matters, All at the Same Time. We're getting deep now - pull out those hip waders! As Popeye would say, "I am's what i am's" - haha! I like to believe it all equals out in the end. Just Sayin'

0

Jun 12, 2014

Jun 12, 2014 at 7:40 AM UTC

spiritheart67

Sunyata

Does any of it really matter, Ultimately? Sunyata (sanscrit for duality) Everything Matters and None of it Matters, All at the Same Time. We're getting deep now - pull out those hip waders! As Popeye would say, "I am's what i am's" - haha! I like to believe it all equals out in the end. Just Sayin'

5

just visiting every once in the while this exotic place where dreams take shape again along treelines very near the coastal plains a time once where ships had sails and lives were placed by visionaires painting psalms as true stories and dreams as real life morals with plans to make more in the future as sticks and sands and and waders in the blue surf lapping at ankles call the shore home as the sailor seeks his love when the sails have folded the salt washed in fresh waters again a sip of barley seek amore'

0

Nov 9, 2017

Nov 9, 2017 at 10:02 PM UTC

wordvango

seek sea salty amore'

just visiting every once in the while this exotic place where dreams take shape again along treelines very near the coastal plains a time once where ships had sails and lives were placed by visionaires painting psalms as true stories and dreams as real life morals with plans to make more in the future as sticks and sands and and waders in the blue surf lapping at ankles call the shore home as the sailor seeks his love when the sails have folded the salt washed in fresh waters again a sip of barley seek amore'

26

we put our faith in men who lie to tell the truth...would **** them inside we are believers...in those who rule it's automatic we're just the mules do as i say....not as i do who are you kidding it's business as usual to think a politician lies would be a sin... here them now...believe them later to sift through there s..... you need some waders hopes and promises never come like a lover torn...it's sad reform better day's are yet to come if it isn't soon you'd better run

0

Apr 15, 2013

Apr 15, 2013 at 2:23 AM UTC

michael-gagain

state of the union

we put our faith in men who lie to tell the truth...would **** them inside we are believers...in those who rule it's automatic we're just the mules do as i say....not as i do who are you kidding it's business as usual to think a politician lies would be a sin... here them now...believe them later to sift through there s..... you need some waders hopes and promises never come like a lover torn...it's sad reform better day's are yet to come if it isn't soon you'd better run

17

Golden tail showing Eyespot above the water line Cast bait, hopefully Twitch the line, lure moves Attention gained, tail twitches Propels forward fast Explosion, water splash Lure swallowed, fight has begun **** on line, hook sets Drag is whining loud Reel engaged, brace for impact Hang on tight, hard pull The rod is half bent Creaks in pain from the straining Stiffens now, fights back Retrieve the slack, reel Wind in the line against wrath Fish begins to tire Waist deep in waders Gold color under water Glides close, trophy caught. Camera out, smile Trophy lifted, photo done Freedom, fish released

0

Sep 16, 2016

Sep 16, 2016 at 9:25 AM UTC

jed-johnson

Red fishing

Golden tail showing Eyespot above the water line Cast bait, hopefully Twitch the line, lure moves Attention gained, tail twitches Propels forward fast Explosion, water splash Lure swallowed, fight has begun **** on line, hook sets Drag is whining loud Reel engaged, brace for impact Hang on tight, hard pull The rod is half bent Creaks in pain from the straining Stiffens now, fights back Retrieve the slack, reel Wind in the line against wrath Fish begins to tire Waist deep in waders Gold color under water Glides close, trophy caught. Camera out, smile Trophy lifted, photo done Freedom, fish released

24

********** gutted Age! This is how we live under playable chess games; the witnesses of the fallen flies as diligent camps from today! Information Cyber-cascading brains brainwashed our minds every day but empathy falls to the ashes if Man prefers to be sold to stepmother! A long line of those who want to prosper, exchanging new homelands, want to get out of here: Who has not learned how to prosper, but rather leaves the stage of Calvary! When crossing border lines for a living, they always give up something valuable on their own and leave it behind! Leaning towards each other, friendly hands clasped into themselves often continue like this! How much can diplomatic gestures decide at Europe's table ?! - When can this supersonic electronic age enter a self-evolving stream of purification? Everything s Everyone alone finds pathetic, bribed benefits; while he takes the learnable prosperity from others; he looks overwhelmingly at this time other than a huntable prey! You know: whoever has put his soul as a commodity in the market of compromise can rarely expect Human patronage! Savior Hope can seldom illuminate the superficial face of a man who waders others out of interest every day, but let his selfish greed be maintained! As the bouncing of monotonous nuggets, the End echoes in the bongo earcups; in all finite human respects giving to the True Pearl: rainfires, infinite concentric circles shine and circulate…

0

Dec 25, 2020

Dec 25, 2020 at 2:20 AM UTC

Tasi83

The cry of silence

********** gutted Age! This is how we live under playable chess games; the witnesses of the fallen flies as diligent camps from today! Information Cyber-cascading brains brainwashed our minds every day but empathy falls to the ashes if Man prefers to be sold to stepmother! A long line of those who want to prosper, exchanging new homelands, want to get out of here: Who has not learned how to prosper, but rather leaves the stage of Calvary! When crossing border lines for a living, they always give up something valuable on their own and leave it behind! Leaning towards each other, friendly hands clasped into themselves often continue like this! How much can diplomatic gestures decide at Europe's table ?! - When can this supersonic electronic age enter a self-evolving stream of purification? Everything s Everyone alone finds pathetic, bribed benefits; while he takes the learnable prosperity from others; he looks overwhelmingly at this time other than a huntable prey! You know: whoever has put his soul as a commodity in the market of compromise can rarely expect Human patronage! Savior Hope can seldom illuminate the superficial face of a man who waders others out of interest every day, but let his selfish greed be maintained! As the bouncing of monotonous nuggets, the End echoes in the bongo earcups; in all finite human respects giving to the True Pearl: rainfires, infinite concentric circles shine and circulate…

4

imagining myself getting to plink out the rough edges of what sarah said on a real piano (moved twice i hear) even if un-tuned that's how much i'd like to see you while you lazily sip whatever drink of choice your birthday wish grants and critique the too on-the-nose portions of writing (whomever's) and we both pretend we've got a tightly knit extended family. the miniature icicles melting aimless on your porch that have managed to escape the angling sun gone fishing for a chance to erase to frost the new yorker read back and front consumed in short time (I pay attention an extra bribe so to notice the poems herein selected whether "could have done that!", didn't, and haven't the proofs to show) while another milestone of nothingness slips its birthing waders on escapes into that big pool bearing the sun (its son) each dawn. rebirth and death being too good of metaphors to tell us what we can't see at night (light) and day (the moon hidden away) tell Rudy that you know how she feels and plead like that until buttoned-up by clink or by kiss or by spinning plate secretly wishing for it so there is a poem for you on this day that means as little or as much as you'll let it persuade hey hey my my

0

Dec 8, 2017

Dec 8, 2017 at 4:18 PM UTC

TheComforter

My My

imagining myself getting to plink out the rough edges of what sarah said on a real piano (moved twice i hear) even if un-tuned that's how much i'd like to see you while you lazily sip whatever drink of choice your birthday wish grants and critique the too on-the-nose portions of writing (whomever's) and we both pretend we've got a tightly knit extended family. the miniature icicles melting aimless on your porch that have managed to escape the angling sun gone fishing for a chance to erase to frost the new yorker read back and front consumed in short time (I pay attention an extra bribe so to notice the poems herein selected whether "could have done that!", didn't, and haven't the proofs to show) while another milestone of nothingness slips its birthing waders on escapes into that big pool bearing the sun (its son) each dawn. rebirth and death being too good of metaphors to tell us what we can't see at night (light) and day (the moon hidden away) tell Rudy that you know how she feels and plead like that until buttoned-up by clink or by kiss or by spinning plate secretly wishing for it so there is a poem for you on this day that means as little or as much as you'll let it persuade hey hey my my

38

Colorful umbrellas and waders as little ones splash in puddles. Little streams flow down sidewalks where leaves are used as boats to race down to the mighty ocean. Sprinkles fall down and laughter abounds, what a joy to see children in the rain.

0

Apr 18, 2017

Apr 18, 2017 at 4:58 PM UTC

james-m-vines89

Children in the Rain

Colorful umbrellas and waders as little ones splash in puddles. Little streams flow down sidewalks where leaves are used as boats to race down to the mighty ocean. Sprinkles fall down and laughter abounds, what a joy to see children in the rain.

1