"waterhole" poems
Time isn't wasted at the end of the day
When you're in bed thinking about all the things
You could've done,
You could've said,
All the empty boxes left on your to do list
Time is wasted
When you're standing on a rock at the edge of a waterhole
And decide to not jump
When you're sitting in your car trying to justify reasons
For not going in
When you anxiously hit backspace
Instead of expressing how you truly feel
When you ignore your heart that's screaming
"You deserve better."
It's lost in I could have and I should have,
In missed opportunities,
In letting fears override judgement
Time is not necessarily wasted
In passing minutes, months, years
We waste time by
Counting seconds,
And by letting seconds pass
When we could've made
Those seconds count
Aug 22, 2013
Aug 22, 2013 at 10:12 PM UTC
Oh there once was a swagman camped in the billabong,
Under the shade of a Coolabah tree;
And he sang as he looked at his old billy boiling
"Who'll come a-waltzing Matilda with me."
Who'll come a-waltzing Matilda, my darling.
Who'll come a-waltzing Matilda with me.
Waltzing Matilda and leading a water-bag —
Who'll come a-waltzing Matilda with me.
Down came a jumbuck to drink at the waterhole,
Up jumped the swagman and grabbed him in glee;
And he sang as he stowed him away in his tucker-bag,
"You'll come a-waltzing Matilda with me."
Who'll come a-waltzing Matilda, my darling.
Who'll come a-waltzing Matilda with me.
Waltzing Matilda and leading a water-bag —
Who'll come a-waltzing Matilda with me.
Down came the squatter a-riding his thoroughbred;
Down came policemen — one, two, and three.
"Whose is the jumbuck you've got in the tucker-bag?
You'll come a-waltzing Matilda with we."
Who'll come a-waltzing Matilda, my darling.
Who'll come a-waltzing Matilda with me.
Waltzing Matilda and leading a water-bag —
Who'll come a-waltzing Matilda with me.
But the swagman, he up and he jumped in the waterhole,
Drowning himself by the Coolabah tree;
And his ghost may be heard as it sings in the billabong
"Who'll come a-waltzing Matilda with me?"
Who'll come a-waltzing Matilda, my darling.
Who'll come a-waltzing Matilda with me.
Waltzing Matilda and leading a water-bag.
Who'll come a-waltzing Matilda with me
5.2k
Get out. Get out of here.
If anybody poisoned the waterhole
it was certainly you.
Put the squish of your smile away
Why sheaf the knife in a lipsticked rictus
if it's going to end up in my back all the same?
Oh, spare me the theatrics.
If you only mean me harm
I'd rather know.
So that I can curtsey
and take the high road.
Mentor, if you taught me anything
during that winter
it was not to be weak.
And so you have my best regards.
And now you may get out.
Apr 8, 2013
Apr 8, 2013 at 7:49 PM UTC
Leaches and bloodsuckers all!
Parasites to our hearts and minds,
diseased by location encircling a waterhole.
I’m done with this, gone to future dreams overdue for life,
shedding years of hopeless frustration
as others wallow in their ignorance.
Sickness deepen as their pool thickens.
New life drains away
running for its existence toward light and hope.
Leaches and bloodsuckers all!
They drain us of lifeblood and energy.
One more waterhole and gene pool;
a cycle without end and death to all who stay.
Aug 21, 2012
Aug 21, 2012 at 9:27 PM UTC
Young, strong, And eager. The stallion drinks of the blue green waters. Ripples of tranquility lapping over him. He drinks in this new place, so fond of feelings that coarse through him. So fond of the peace that encircles this land.
Young, beautiful, And pure. The rider slides from atop her stallion. She lands softly, her feet sticking, catching her as they have countless times before. She ties her stallion to the old post and kneels drinking of the mesmerizing waters herself. She stands and fades off, exploring the beauty of the place.
Old, tired, And lonesome. A dusty scene materializes. A dried up waterhole left battered by the prying hands of time. Buzzards sit picking apart the final remains of a frail skeleton, still shackled to the old post he once knew well. The last drop of murky grey water sits beside a pair of one way tracks, laid down years ago.
Beauty comes and beauty grows but in time the dust will always blow.
Jul 22, 2013
Jul 22, 2013 at 6:14 PM UTC
The parched earth echoed the wails for the dead
as flames devoured the crowd of corpses
mouth agape with unquenched thirst.
The sky had mercilessly looked away
having spit fire on them down below
sparing not one waterhole on its way
and the mother if only she could
use her tears for the baby to drink
but her eyes had turned dry as the earth.
Yet dark as the depth of love
the King's pond mirrored the princess' face
and would still beam the moon in her eyes
strangely hiding from the wrath of the drought.
One night sleeping on her ivory bed
her silken skin cooled with rosewater
the princess heard a voice:
*When the fury of God
blinds him to the pains of men
an angel rises to break his heart
stakes her life to rend heaven apart
so his tears on earth fall as rain.*
The windless night was deadly quiet
watched by moon in awe wide eyed
the trees sparkled in firefly's light
when the princess stood by the pond's side.
For awhile her eyes roamed around
resting on the marble's gleam
the sleeping grass her sweet playground
a home smelling all earthly dream.
She felt like swimming through the air
love glowing warm in her peaceful eyes
till she reached the end of stairs
that bore her frame with deep sighs.
The heaven broke down with thunderous rain
the seeds sprouted filled field with green
upon that land wasn't a drought again
never before had such harvest been seen.
In the depth of night if you hear a cry
from the clouds pearly by dawn's embrace
know God's tears will fall from the sky
as dewdrops mourning the rain princess.
Jul 15, 2017
Jul 15, 2017 at 12:22 PM UTC
They must be
A couple
Of right *******
To ill threat
The young man so;
One blonde,
One brunette,
Thinking themselves,
No doubt,
God’s gift,
Gift of the gab
More like,
Strutting their
Henhouse tracks
With feathers
Prim and proper
They like to think.
Smell the perfume stink,
The eyelids painted,
Nails clipped
And primed,
Tongues wagging,
Like tails of *******
On full heat.
Karma has its way
Of making things
Right in the end.
Sufficient lies
To hang themselves
Given time, enough
Tall tales to drown in
Like plump frogs
Caught out
In the last fast
Downpour.
Like snakes
They spit their
Joined venom;
Like snakes
They prefer
The long grass;
How each of them
Moves like a hippo
To the waterhole,
Each with their
Swaying fat ***
May 5, 2013
May 5, 2013 at 9:50 AM UTC
I must feed today
Feed, this lust, for pray
In my lair, I can not stay
Give me flesh with which to play
Soft throat with veins so frai
Fountain so thick, while life I drai
Give it to me, on a tray
The lazy, weak, naïve, ignorant, and grey
For one of you, I am the demon today
But I need this, before I can lay
A last look at my young, so small
Out from my lair I crawl
Into jungle so dense and tall
Near waterhole, my pray will sprawl
Oooh yes, that’s their call
Silently unsuspicious the closer I crawl
Wait caution now, for one stare and stall
I trust, my camouflage will stifle warning call
Closer and closer to herd I crawl
Now, herd in waterhole’s enthrall
I select my pray for the night
Rather at the back, just out of sight
Yes, this one will not fight
I must wait, there’s chance for flight
Take another sip, that’s right
Your senses will dim, more then slight
Now, the time is right
I pounce on him with all my might
“Hallo I’m Angel, how are you doing tonight?”
“It’s only $ 100 for the night”
Oct 5, 2010
Oct 5, 2010 at 3:46 AM UTC
When I was a child… I was fascinated by the sensation of sitting at the bottom of the swimming pool …the drains tug on the liquid landscape that surrounded me…the world dancing around me in slow motion…an eerie glow cast upon everything that was habitually familiar…the clouds distortion barely visible through the swaying waters above…it was …somehow…comfort …in the sweetest sense…perhaps it was some primal, original dance as if in the womb…as if housed once more within the shelter of maternal delight …such a soothing salve of pacification has seemed elusive as life has stirred me from my waterhole of non-want, non-need…non-fear…into the astounding, deafening, calamity that existence can become…I have found myself searching frantically for the drain…for the hush…for the waters edge and quickly the murky bottoms comforting escape…cradled, calmed, wooed by the silent caress of peace upon my skin… silence, stillness …immobile tranquility…for all of it's loveliness, allure, charm…it has indeed unfolded in my more developed endeavors as …escapism…diversion…dodging…so very simplistic when compared to the mishaps and misfortunes that must be faced at times…I find myself rising from the depths of security and ascending… gasping for breath at the surface of my life…
able to…
ready to….
scared to death to…..
move forward……
the difference?...Willing to…
Jan 11, 2013
Jan 11, 2013 at 2:42 PM UTC
Fall on your own sword;
If you must die
Do it on a hill
On which you shall be revived.
From where at its summit & base
A well should spring
Of water which you may both wade,
Clean enough to be drank.
By both, either side,
Whether Abrahamic or Pagan
Both religious & spiritual.
By whatever side walked
Around the waterhole,
No matter the kind of animal.
Any coast situated near the ocean,
Any forest covered with trees,
Any open & vacant clearing.
Feb 12, 2025
Feb 12, 2025 at 7:44 PM UTC
How strange to pour words into the ears of total strangers
We're consoled that their hearts beat the same beat.
We write of cares and broken hearts
We write of mythological creatures and likewise, love
Indeed, at the waterhole, commonality is revealed.
Dare we tell of who we are, who we really are?
Hard to face the facts shorn, but every witty in our ditty
Shows how ephemeral is life, and wink! soon over.
Butter the prose like sparkling cheerleaders
But alone, we cry and keep counsel with the shade
We write, we write and find it turns out not so bad.
Oct 30, 2014
Oct 30, 2014 at 1:58 AM UTC
Dormant, standing on the bow peering out with telescope in hand
Quite seas
Off in the distance,
Land
Bright sunlight piercing through closed fingers
Shielding the reflection of the ocean and sky
To no avail
Telescope still in hand
Distance drawing nearer
"Land ** yells the lookout as dry ugly faces peer out from below deck
Grumbling voices wake from their slumber as the crew saunters their way into the day light and fresh air
They grab rope, and hooks, swords, and supplies
Captain steering towards the shore
They hop on three dinghies
Eight strong
Yo ** ** and a bottle of ***
Eyepatches, sly grins, and peg legs a plenty
No one greets them on the small island
They are there to pillage the resources and devour the meats as they reach soil
Sharp teeth and empty stomachs
Tattoos of women with large ******* and anchors, hearts, and daggers
***
Much *** will be swigged and landing in bellies come nightfall
Songs sung by fires warm light
At mornings break they shall hunt and scour the land for animals and resources
They haven't a map but smell treasure
They know it's there
They whiff at the air to determine their course
They argue their cut, their share of their findings until one man lay dead from sharp blades final judgement
More for the taking of the rest of the crew
Morning comes
Through the branches, over rocks they climb towards the peek
The summit
A cave, a cave is in sight
They throw rocks in order to draw out and living creature that may have made a home inside
No sound permeates
It is safe to enter
Fire sticks are lit and cave is entered with caution
Whispers and hushes
They stumble
Head meets rock
Blood
This is no easy life
They reach a cavernous waterhole
The first man is egged on to explore its contents
Explore its depth
The water is knee deep
Until, until he sinks out of sight and the water swallows him whole
Startled, the men scamper back to dry land
"Where has our fellow mate gone", they ask
Splashing, he reemerges
He reaches the surface and cries out
"Gold!!"
Feb 18, 2017
Feb 18, 2017 at 1:34 AM UTC
Keep sanity close during this
when the path from the bed to the couch
took the shape of shuffling feet
like trodden animal trail through the grass
from the lair, to the waterhole, and back
when the hand reaching towards the fridge
knows the full weight of the door
better than the arms of nurses know
the weight of the newly born
when the pots, and table, and sink
fill up, and empty out, and fill up
just as waves and tides follow
the periodic pulling of the moon
when day and night, and night and day
and night and night and day too
and not today, and is tonight and
not
and you
the backbone of existence
a hidden picture on display
you are,
there
when all the dishes stack to dry
and the refrigerator sighs
and the couch cool down
and the bed is full
and the hug is warm
and sanity
kept close
Apr 27, 2020
Apr 27, 2020 at 4:11 PM UTC
Dried up waterhole
evaporated muse
A poets despair
spitting dust.
Nov 21, 2016
Nov 21, 2016 at 12:12 PM UTC