"waterway" poems
let me structure you first:
there, now, ready, fly my owl
granting vision logic,
guiding thoughtform fair.
what softness in the earth gives way
to waterway, what forceful gust of air
to final quench of earthy thirst...
such unseen pyschomancy dusts
the wing-stroke of your flight,
and weathers well my musing trust;
you see with ancient zero eye,
and die to my dull interpret edge;
like a certain volcano jumper's
ox of oats and honey you
coat the stone of time to
symbolize my rhyme. hold,
softer, still, i do not need to cut
or pluck or forge with harshness --
your shrill screeching from the cage
of lines here summons more
than Athene's gavel ever forced.
otherwise than writing, you wait...
cradled darkly, unknown priorlife
of avadhuta colors mixing in,
of whalesong faintly felt
like stegosaurus moans,
like city-ships to overreach and then to rot,
forgotten tattva vidya shastra
forgotten sukha,
Megbe, Tirawa, Awen, Asha, Ichor...
Jun 21, 2012
Jun 21, 2012 at 5:17 PM UTC
#
"They've outlawed it, you know.."
"Outlawed what, Sweetie"
***"The Unknowable--
that which cannot be defined
or easily explained away..
That which cannot reduced, down
in to something more palatable;
Or maybe diluted-down
in to that which one could drink
..without it bringing some form
of dis- comfort"***
She is looking down;
Woven into her hair.. all things
edelweiss, suddenly begin
their wilt
..and all along the waterway
are those coming towards her
to smother
.
You will hold on, my Beautiful
*(or maybe even turn to face
for the first time, with loaded gun)*
--But Beautiful girl was never meant
to go loaded
*(..And her beloved Rooster Cogburn said
that she's no bigger than a corn nubbin)*
My beautiful girl
locks and loads, anyways--
Because the Mason-jars
she was forced to pour it all in to,
were never made big enough
to contain it.
There's a small stall at the swap-meet..
on Thursday and Saturday mornings,
she rents a space there
Her wares, true liquid Gold..
*(when a jar becomes sold
no hidden-thing will be needed
to sustain it)*
. . . . .
Quiet hearts are never meant
to reveal themselves
Some words (in this world)
were never meant to be spoken
You'll see now, beautiful Angel--
that this Rare-Jeweled heart of yours
is not the only-one,
perpetually Broken
Some gifts, the world
may never be ready for.
Lip-Kissed,
may I be the one
to help get that
un-ready World, ready--
*(so very well fed
yet still;
so very slowly, burning)*
Some beautiful Heartbeats
are so very much worth dying for
***... And I, myself ;
I am turning..***
#
Sep 27, 2023
Sep 27, 2023 at 2:17 PM UTC
Cincinnati is a family
town where cookie cutter
houses are bunched up like
sardines painted in pastels and
white. Where East and West
only meet in the
middle of downtown.
Orange barrels dot
the potted streets and
neon clad men work
in 90-degree humidity
just to earn a lower class
income.
The Queen City’s throne
is the revolting Ohio River,
a murky green waterway
filled with monsters and
dead bodies.
Polluted streets are
flooded with homeless caravans
mimicking
sewer rats and everyone
wants a smoke.
People worship a Bengal tiger here,
Oh, and pigs can fly.
Sep 4, 2013
Sep 4, 2013 at 11:45 PM UTC
By a dank , stinky waterway
Blowing off all my care
Swarms of tiny black insects
Biting me everywhere
Around the bend so listless
Hovers a barge's spotlight
Now I was feeling cold as a stone
So I knew that it was time for me to go
I roared down the highway
To that trucks diesel smell
Seeking shelter in the middle of the night
Somewhere , where they treat you well
A red light dangles from a window
Lady Nightly is leaning against the door
She says, "Won't you come on in and I'll
be your ***** ."
Oh , welcome to the Hotel , Alabama
Such a secluded place , "such a secluded place"
Such a must see place
Book a room at the Hotel , Alabama
Put away your fears , "put away your fears"
She'll be waiting there
She'll twist your time so swiftly
Make you taste all of her amends
She knows all the right moves
If not she'll call in her friends
The moon ago was arising
She covers all of your bets
Pure pale skin in the moonlight
A taste I can't forget
I call up the dispatcher
"I won't be in on time"
Lamenting he said ,"Where are you this time?"
But his voice just got more distant
As I turned away
Forgot all about him as I dove back in bed
(Then she turned over to say)
"Welcome back to the Hotel , Alabama
Such a lovey place, "such a lovely place"
Always has a place
"Welcome to the Hotel , Alabama"
What a pleasant rise , "what a pleasant rise"
No need for disguise
My senses now reeling
Gin and tonic would have to suffice
She said , "Once , twice , now let's make it thrice"
There in the muggy bedroom
We were joined like a beast
We slapped our steely bodies
But couldn't satisfy it in the least
The rising sun glared at me in the face
She was standing by the door
"Y'all have to stop by on your way back
And I'll give you more"
"Oooh , aah ouch !" said I to the lady of my night , "It's more than I perceived .
You got a facebook page , one that I could like ?"
(And all she said was),"It's time for you to leave"
So welcome back to the Hotel , Alabama
Such a distant place , "such a distant place"
Such a must see place
Welcome back to the Hotel , Alabama
What a pleasant rise , "no need for disguise"
You can always book a room at the Hotel , Alabama
Such a lovely place , "such a lonely place"
Such a distant place . . . . . .
Oct 29, 2014
Oct 29, 2014 at 10:27 AM UTC
A wild cow defecates in the waters of the fledgling Liffey,
as it eeks oozes and seeps from the sheep **** of a Wicklow Vale,
running to the loo through the coronation plantation.
The descendant of the brown bull of Cuailnge moves on to the next waterway of Ireland. What fun.
Apr 18, 2015
Apr 18, 2015 at 10:40 AM UTC
Returning son, his daughter at his side,
imagines now the men who once amassed
the limestone locks to straddle the canal,
an obsolete image from an eldritch past.
On a ritual hour of summer dusk,
if you should know precisely where to stand
that ghost of Syracuse can still be seen,
a rotting timber craft trapped deep in sand.
Mosquitos drone their hungry mother song.
The two upon the towpath, side by side,
survey this stagnant waterway where once
their ancestors lived and worked and died.
The silt entombs the boat’s untimely end –
how many years before the blasts of steam
sent veins of iron shooting ‘cross the land
did this canal boat capsize like a dream?
May 18, 2013
May 18, 2013 at 3:36 AM UTC
Most of all. it's the truculent desire hardly shielded,
creating whirlwind, shaking the woods of my mind,
then insistent fingers in an ****** day dream,touch
intimately to arouse my hood, those robust waves
inch forward to my shores, I shudder,again and again,
like a sea swell, in an intense want, we are engorged,
a mania for the moon, slouching behind the clouds,
your eyes had always spoken gently, yet brewed storms.
I sense a wish that yearns culmination in my invasion,
full luscious red lips, smeared with the spices of amour,
their own symbolism eloquent, as wet they are, whispering yes, yes
coal black eyes can't hide the eagerness, they peer,
your body, now so tender has a tremor,anticipating my touch,
you are ready for a journey together, to the far deeper ends
an impatient waterway, aren't you,awaiting my row boat,
for a fervorous exploration together, through the watery canals
Apr 9, 2015
Apr 9, 2015 at 7:03 AM UTC
Our house was a 12 year old Lancer car
Sitting in its congested patio,
Beheld the sky
That sky spilled over the sky
Stars squirmed and threatened to jump down immediately
We were like the children beneath the mango tree who do not rush to school
Even after the last bell
The wind may blow any moment
Our house was a 12 year old Lancer car
Descried the sea
Sitting inside its smoke-filled, odorous kitchen
That sea overflowed the sea
The fish swimming along in the deep asked, “coming?”
We were
Like the fisherman waiting for the snakehead murrel
Though it is noon and he is hungry
The sea fish do not know
The grooves of tears and the little waterway
Rainclouds can arrive anytime
Our house was a 12 year old Lancer car
Saw the woods sitting near its un-curtained window
Those woods got darker than woods
Trees pretending to cavil for my being late
Moonlight clear and fuzzy amongst boughs
Us, like fireflies watching ripened paddy stalks
There are wounds that are hidden
A lightning can strike any moment
Our house was a 12 year old Lancer car
Sitting in its spaces coarse otherwise
We quenched each other’s thirst and hunger
Argued
Prayed
Perused the holy book
Often, while no one watched,
We fed the dolls
Sung them lullabies
On these occasions,
I went out pretending that I wanted a smoke
Thereupon, between us
Sky sea woods.
Jun 19, 2014
Jun 19, 2014 at 10:02 AM UTC
Hot box a cigarette , sawmill gravy and country ham ,
Entrenched in the morning paper , dishes scrubbed , drumming of pots and pans ! Blue collar people with somewhere to be , buoy's chained to the bottom of the sea ! Sweet black ribbon covered in fire ants , May honeybees , wildebeest crossing the wild African plains..
White smokestack dens of endless toil , black tar factories , dead fish waterway , boiling star infrastructures !
Biscuit , tobacco , hot coffee welder , plumber and electrician
Caviar , flounder , after dinner mint doctor and lawyer ..
Goody powders , soda pop cures , work induced migraines for
societies 'riff raff' , high atop steel skeletons , life hanging in balance .
Xanax , blue cheese , marriage counselor soccer moms , yoga , wine party ..Young people lie in their own blood , candle light vigils are like all others . Repetitive anguish falling on deaf ears , billion dollar football stadiums , homeless freeze to death , Good Morning America focused on the Grammy Awards or someones *** , Miley's tongue , Scientology or Donny and Marie !
Bath salt possession , teenagers are shot full of bullets , Kelley and Michael promote Hollywood garbage , their so ******* cute !
Nov 9, 2015
Nov 9, 2015 at 10:35 AM UTC
The bold waters of Indian Creek polish skipping stones , cool waters
harbor Yellow Perch and Smallmouths , all manner of aquatic fauna ..
Sand bars glisten in the afternoon light ..
A chorus of nature's musicians sing to the coming of night ...
The life current of Georgia flows along this vital artery ..
Creek Indians fished , hunted and bore testament to their precious waterway ....
Full Moons still recall the laughter of young native American children along her banks ...
The shouts of intrepid spear fishermen haunt the calm Summer air ,
twilight becoming harbinger for many a ghostly tale on beechnut silhouetted darkness , mosquito ravaged nights ....
Creek hunters running from Oak to Pine , whistling messages along the banks ... Bobcats howl on foggy Dawns while Herons hold still , forever maintain their silent watch ..
Feb 19, 2016
Feb 19, 2016 at 7:28 PM UTC
There is a cave
Within a cliff
Beside a great waterway
And I don't know
That it exists
How the ocean moves and carves it's way
Without me watching it every day
How the caves of mind turn ever in
In their unexplored and unannounced way
Jan 30, 2019
Jan 30, 2019 at 2:57 PM UTC
isn't it time
for penitence?
I just forget everything
and don't talk to anyone
except for you, dear Lord, you are my ball and chain
having died and come back again I get to look back
watching old movies of myself,
sleeping last night off, leg twitching
dreaming of moving along a motorcade of immanent death
one by one getting flat tires, running out of gas, suddenly the battery
dies
I get out of the car, look around, and see, to my surprise
a loved one's love looking back at me, twisting in the wind, empty, alone, drunk,
its my father or mother lifting my brother or sister from the back seat to the front, carelessly driving, ceaselessly swerving
towards the waterway
if it wasn't for the guardrail, we'd all be dead
time is a ritual now, and it hurts to come back to life, to feed the living,
to get dressed in day-old church clothes, to hit back, as one sneers at being sneered at, I pick up the Daily and skim the headlines, Lost and All Alone, A Stranger Takes a Dive, toss the rag and head to work, fixing to lie to my boss about being sick, about tasting olives, about who I am.
Jan 26, 2017
Jan 26, 2017 at 1:57 AM UTC
~
from the dock he calls her name,
now beside he grasps her rails,
deftly steps aboard her frame,
to loose her lines of mooring.
leaned o’er, he shares his secret hopes,
ocean breeze her mast is callling;
then wings are spread with hoisted ropes,
the call of ocean’s blue alluring.
he guides her through the shallow drafts,
gliding faster, hull and ballast,
like seabird’s cry on wing, her craft,
his touch responding in devotion.
she heels about now, lunging forward,
together ’cross the waves;
he, the author of this poetry,
keeps rhythm with each changing motion.
they float above the salty spray,
white sails, her wings, a swan of grace;
in fading light, ’cross waterway,
her highway now a full moon bright.
his bearing set for emerald isle,
she tacks to follow compass lines;
together tame the ocean’s wild,
in flight as one to form their rhymes.
from high atop her outstretched form,
he guides her body through the night;
shifting lines to feel the storm,
like bedsheets thrown, arched and open.
then far above this watery bed,
her canvas flows with watercolor,
of sapphire, jade and ruby red;
a sunrise o’er bejeweled ocean.
sailing on,
in stunning sight;
as one they sigh,
in heavenly flight.
~
*post script.
unwinding from the first work week of the new year and a chaotic Friday night commute, these out-of-the-blue, out-from-the-blue lines strike me as i hear strains of Chrstopher Cross crooning his 1980 classic, “Sailing”, from my dear wife's Pandora station, aptly named.
“Well, it's not far
down to paradise,
at least it's not for me.
And if the wind is right
you can sail away,
and find tranquility.
Oh, the canvas can do miracles,
just you wait and see.
Believe me.”
the song takes me back to a simpler time in our marriage, but sailing... this always takes me back, all the way to childhood, and a carefree state of mind. and no wonder... for in my pre-teen years, i and my brothers helped our father build a small, eighteen foot, sailing sloop, crafted after plans he found in a Family Circle magazine. thereafter, childhood summers were spent freshwater sailing at the foot of Fuji, sometimes alone, sometimes together. it is no surprise that today i am most at peace on or beside the water.*
Jan 7, 2017
Jan 7, 2017 at 12:29 PM UTC
(Geraldine, Maya, and Pedra were in the kitchen to drink some Jasmine Yin Zhen tea.)
Between Bosphorus and Dardanelles, the waters are calm.
Geraldine Said, ''I love the life at sea on this tall ship.''
Maya said, '' Let me see the meaning of the lines in your palm! ''
''I worked a lot; I can't feel my hands when something I grip.''
Maya insisted, '' Let me rub your hands with Gilead' balm! ''
''I can't stand the hustle and bustle of big cities.
Can you predict my future after reading my palm?
''You'll be surrounded by death coming from the waves' ditties.''
''What is this balm? '' '' It's an extract from the bakha shrubs.''
''Where did you find this shrub? '' ''This extract is brought from Chios,
Where this tree grows near the sea, to make this balm and drugs.
It's good for the stomach and prevents the skin infections.
I used it to make bread tsoureki.'' ''It's sweet, '' Pedra said,
''This tree excited the cupidity of invaders-
The groves of Jericho.'' Maya touched her, ''Are you afraid? ''
''Went there to fight Titus, Joshua and the crusaders.''
Pedra took a long look at her, ''Do you have children? ''
''I have two boys who live in southern Ottoman Empire.
My husband died.'' ''Why did you come here? '' ''I'm a poor woman.
Now, it’s war; I want to work here, not to walk through the fire.’’
(Maya left the kitchen. On the deck, Marco, Rosa, and Cruz stopped for a few minutes their walk to admire the Marmara Sea in approach to Çanakkale.)
''Anybody who wants to pass through the Dardanelles
Must pay a tax. So, we must sit at anchor in waiting
For an opening at this small Port of Çanakkale, ''
Said Cruz. '' About buying fuel, the ****** are still debating, ''
Said Marco.'' This city is placed on two continents.''
'' The shape of the strait is akin to that of a river.''
'' Its history started with Troy. The tidal currents
Make this time of wait at anchorage a deceiver.''
''The Dardanelles is the most dangerous waterway, ''
Said Rosa, '' Maya and Naimah are talking fiercely.''
Cruz said, ''They've seemed not to know each other until today.''
''What happened, Maya? '' ''He can't stop speaking viciously.''
(To be continued...)
Poem by Marieta Maglas
Jun 21, 2015
Jun 21, 2015 at 2:52 PM UTC
My life is a vast
Waterway
Filled with demons
That **** their prey
Choking them slowly
Until they turn blue
Colors
Red, orange, yellow, green,
Blue
Dying
Red, orange, yellow, green,
Blue
Dead
Black
Darkness surrounds
Red
Fire
Miserable sounds
Hell on Earth
Still alive
White
Hospital
I survived.
Dec 1, 2014
Dec 1, 2014 at 4:11 AM UTC
I want to be the stones to your riverbed,
pipeclayed satellites
so that you move forever about my body
and I sturdy along the soft banks of your heart.
And to the softer parts,
to the dunes worn by rushing water and starfish,
sulking and easing their way under your skin,
as they do,
to those submerged shores
I want to knead,
smoothing over every inch of you
until you forget how heavy debris can settle.
Jul 2, 2012
Jul 2, 2012 at 3:43 AM UTC
To your owned basement of the air
From hearing my earth giants,
You make benign the aery introspection
For chiral black and white caves,
Blue floor boards, blue electric pans
Hear this last business, is outside
Blank walls, stagnating a corporeal
Chamber of dazzling originals,
Densely deserted.
But airrenters
Buy other peoples bean sprouts, a singularity of stripes,
Foreign war.
Such nothingness destroys
Your earfull of shadows a living being
Earfulls, which, the content, wouldn't conceal
Life for caressing boughs of every waterway;
Death, someone else's solid stays at home.
Jul 5, 2012
Jul 5, 2012 at 8:47 AM UTC
L'heure verte
The mountains. The heaps of their bountiful gravels, and earth, and soil, large oversized masses of half-frozen water teetering on the precipice of subzero masculine ******* Francophilic cleavage jetting out of this deserted white pastoral dressing. The inaugural bawl, wanton fixations of putting the imperialist foot on every spot of tree, each and every shrub, until the limbs' cast reaches each dimple that foliage braves, where that blue eagle of patriotism dredges its claws to form every river, rill, estuary, creek, channel, flume, littoral, and waterway where the iron-rich gullies once brimmed in the interamnian basins, rich crimsony waters riffling through fruitful and extravagant aquifers. Beyond that, where an inexplicably feral wind rips vines from their dendritic housings, where barely an eye can see, this place of exsanguination and abysmal phytocide.
At the end of this lamentable torture, only a desert of human interest remains. There is no reason to laugh, or smile, or cheer, or put a leg up, to call on a friend, or to have ice cream. There will be no more ice cream. There is only the loathsome incredulousness and avarice in the semblances and familiarity of those with whom we thought we once knew. Little can ever be known, for there is much to gain in the absence of knowledge, and even greater that can be acquired in the alms of wisdom through patient examination and thorough silence. Here on the buttes and cornices, the thwacking gavels of evil power deities throw down their lust for more and soon become adjoined to these grand discrepancies greed mistakenly loses to a lack of awareness and to self-aggrandizement.
Power is the weapon of inexperienced wielders. Passion is the immortal frequency that is worn by artisans and artists, poets and painters, it is the business of quietness to learnedly evolve to protect our tomorrows from personal needs, but to instead preserve the integral parts of society. The words of languages, artifacts, and cultures, rather than the skeletons of ****** and the deeds of possession. Each who sleeps knows their bedfellows to equally be at peace. For no wealth can exceed that of comfortable pillows, soft quilts, and sheets. We are all the same while we sleep.
Jan 9, 2017
Jan 9, 2017 at 6:52 AM UTC
The once snaking gurgling monster
Time-defying, ever-flowing oldster
Is licked near-clean by the quiet drought
Her diminution wrought distraught
Lain betwixt her hunger stricken arboreal hosts
Emaciated, unattractively scaring akin ghosts
Crawling slowly to die somewhere undismayed
Petitions unsaid and intercessories unprayed
The tranquil of the fresh breath of Nyamindi waterway
Is taken by the acrid gusts of aquatic decay
As her remnants lovers slowly but surely fry
In the fierce fast-falling fire from the sky.
Jun 23, 2012
Jun 23, 2012 at 5:14 AM UTC
*Weekend watercraft launch across blue bay waters ,
dolphins leading family and sailor out to awaiting nautical arms
Great Herons stand in silent royalty as sandpipers -
scurry their harbor home , enthralling the romantic -
fervor of Charleston , flickers of blessed creativity ,
the endearing gifts of maritime congeniality
Knock thrice upon the Atlantic doorway , write a song
of the placid waterway , count the Brown Pelicans that
ride criss-crossing zephyrs , pen your Carolina wonderment to
last forever* ...
May 15, 2016
May 15, 2016 at 3:31 PM UTC
Ask me what I want to do, go fish
if I had a genie, it’s what I would wish
in the lake, river, creek or pond
eagerly cast next to a fern frond
Wiggle my bait and work it some more
hoping a fish cannot ignore
flipping up under docks
or the edges of piles of rocks
Working the tree stumps
waiting on a big thump
on my lure, adrenaline pumps
waiting for the end of my rod to jump
Bass, on Carolina, Alabama, or Texas rigs
crappie and pan fish I’ll catch on a jig
white bass and hybrids, on slabs and spoons
I have even caught them casting at loons
Sam Rayburn, Cedar Creek or Lake Fork
I’m getting excited just like a dork
Tawakoni, Amistad, or Nacogdoches
if I ran out of bait, man I would use roaches
Livingston, Stryker, or the Trinidad Lake
catching some fish, fry them up on a plate
bait cast, and spin cast, pushbuttons oh wow
I also can fly-fish, I taught myself how
Gar, carp and buffalo, anything that bites
looking for something to make my line tight
Matagorda, or Galveston, or Port A
I have no problems fishing the bay
Intercoastal waterway or out in the surf
no problems cooking surf and turf
Black drum, Red fish or Speckled trout
as long as they’re biting I’ll never pout
Whiting, and Croakers and even Hardheads
catching are fun, getting the slime off you dread
gaff tops are pretty, but just as slimy nasty
I’ve never had any, I hear their pretty tasty
Flounders are flat and so are sting rays
but if that’s what’s biting I’ll fish everyday
jacks, and mackerel and bonnet head sharks
so many fish in the ocean, that’s just a start.
How about invasives, silver carp and snakeheads
cast for the snakehead, jumping carp in a net
I’ve fished lots of bass, native and Florida strain
but there is one thought that sticks in my brain
Is I’d like to go catch some peacock bass
top water action would really kick ***
catch and release or serve it up in a dish
as you can see I really love to fish
Sep 16, 2016
Sep 16, 2016 at 9:36 AM UTC
Thai smoke swirled,
uncoiling snakes
reaching into Heaven,
lungs exploding,
ecstasy released.
Harmony we found,
us herbal warriors,
brilliant,
enlightened smiles,
high-fives all around.
We sped in slow motion
across the emerald sea,
only to be stopped
by a jailbreak
blaring
so loudly
on FM radio.
It was silly,
us on the bridge,
******
bewildered,
looking around
as others drove by
sober.
We laughed till
our buzz blew away
with the fading traffic.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=oMFYs3gfgis
Dec 18, 2013
Dec 18, 2013 at 10:28 AM UTC
I found a pair of shoes while walking
across a bridge like I often do
Neatly placed below the rail
as if they expected you
but you shall not return
I found them on my stroll to town
which I take on Sunday am
Neatly placed there
as though you’d come again
but you shall see them no more
I dare not disturb them
These shoes which do not know
that I gazed upon your presence
In broken disregard in waterway below
for you shall see them no more
Instead I walked onward
with errands far too many
And attempted not think of how your shoes
reminded me of me
and my desire to join you there
and be seen no more
Jan 22, 2017
Jan 22, 2017 at 10:12 PM UTC
trees frowned on both sides of the waterway
aimlessly i float with the river bends
drifting farther from the name i owned yesterday
closer i am
to the red lands
leaving behind
the comfort of grass
replacing my scent with dry sand
a place for no buildings or cars
to the red lands
vaster then forests and countrysides combine
where foot prints of exiles have been blown away
to the majestically terrible,heated winds.
i sing only
to the red lands
a place where i can put away my desires
and the constant searching for truth
for all that lies here are abstract dunes
and endless horizons
to the red lands
i come here to escape the history of man
let my loved ones find me if they can
they can not buy my respect with porcelain plates
to the red lands
i can run bare
screaming to nothing,
but leaving something in the air
i am free
i am dancing with reality
to the red lands
Mar 20, 2013
Mar 20, 2013 at 3:13 PM UTC