Waterwheel poems on Hello Poetry

Venusoul7 Jun 2016

Oh great Mystery ~
My Love, a tangled moss.

What gentleness preserves in playfulness,
like silly string~strung thin
along the limitless landscape
that forms the truth of your existence.

For in your mind is the treasure seen,
in your vision is bliss obtained.
Through the nature of your deeds,
decides the nature of your salvation.

Till thoroughly the soil of your soul,
for the seeds of your thought bear the sustenance for life.

If the flower be fragrant,
the honey is sweet and the trees be fruitful.
It's branches will extend
into the realm of peaceful spirit,
vast and luminous beyond compare.

Such clarity of light will draw down
the plow of eternal renewal and the
soil will be as rich as the seat of your soul.

Go forth ~
Labor in silence and rejoice
in righteous song and dance.

The fields are rich in vajra potency!!!

Kagami Nov 2013

Routine

Same cycle, turning wheels and whirring motors
Running my life, mechanic.
Sleep and time are my loves, and I am Poe:
They were taken from me, my sleep is dead.

Sleep is eternally sleeping.

The dead spider under the refrigerator,
The crushed centipede on the bathroom wall,
Crawly things: crawlersout the dead skin you refuse to
Scrape off.
Skin sleeps and melts: drip on the floor, paint stains from the living room walls.
It has been the same color for years, the exact color I despise.
It reminds me of Mondays and Sundays.
The steriotypicality.
It goes in circles, everybody hates them
But they are me favorite shape. Not then arrows guide
In the forever, never ending march forward.
An army of automatons, gears screeching and crying, but most of us are so emotionless, faceless.
Drinking not the water or bubblies at party's, but the crude oil emitted from the ground.
And it turns their skin orange, no one likes the fake ness, caked on
Tar that you think make your eyes shine.
And the gossip, squeaky voices that talk endlessly about everything but reality.
I want to **** them all, the lies.
And I want to sleep forever, escape from everything I have ever despised,
And I want him to join me. Wrap me in a hot quilt that he formed with his own physique.
Somehow make me forget about everything but that.

But no, it doesn't fit in this never ending waterwheel. Not enough grooves to
Scoop up the sand of my life and give me a mission.
But we can defy the sand, the horrid hourglass that ticks away, the sound of pebbles
Plunking into a river.
Throw them off of a bridge and jump with them, as some people do.
Ignore them, or help them. Most are too blinded by themselves.
They can't stand change, but it shapes them. A unique shape other than the rounded
The rest are.
But I am lost. No clue where to go, what I am saying, I should be put away,
Blank white room or a steel table in a morgue.

Hallowed ground means nothing to me. Coffins are cramped, horrid boxes of sadness,
I will not die that way. No crying, tears will soil your handsome clothes.
I was reborn. You still have me close; my form changed. A circle
Does not define me anymore. I put another notch in my medicine wheel, another
Cure to my disease. Another way to say as much as I do.

But the walls are still the same dreary color. Skin just cooling, but splattered on the floor;
Cover it with a rug. Distract from the blank walls, no expression. Never changing.
Or write on them with colored pen. Carve things into them.
Change yourself. Put yourself away because inside that thick skull
Is an asylum of your own.

JW Harvey Mar 2015

My mind is its own body

My mind is its own body
of water, fluid emotion
at mercy to the moon
Sometimes rapid as
the churning ocean,
unharnessable, dams
each waterwheel I build
as if equilibrium was Hell,
& then
Sometimes vapid as
a stillwater lake, where
peace is dawn's ripple,
days' first surface breach
of a fish upon fly bait.

#art #water #lake #ocean #writer #artist

Samuel Apr 2013

Wisconsin (revisited as progression)

dreams as validation for smooth
     rhythmic notions cascading like
              fingers, waterfalls slipped from
          tongues laced with crisp sheets

  (the ivory ladders fallen sideways and
    forgotten in the wake of racing hearts)

            slow down, reconvene behind mirrored
          aspiration, compose stars that pulse with each
             ache for your company, flicker to the pace of
                   water running, an escapee from the space of
                 world around you conformed, blanketed
                        sleep like a waterwheel

nivek Oct 2014

Stinking Chewing Tobacco

pulse and pump and waterwheel cascade of sparks from a hot iron rivet
bound round with copper sliding down river and parachuting into the blackest of holes dug out for the ounce of gold rumoured to still be somewhere at the bottom while fish jump willingly into the net Jesus encouraged fishermen to cast and a woman gives birth in the taxi ride to the counting house of names and addresses knowing there is no room at the homeless hostel because there is a card game going on in town and every hotel is booked up to the hilt with cowboys thinking my lucky day has come spitting out a ship made of spittle and stinking chewing tobacco that sails around the world full of tourists

Scott F Hemingway Sep 2016

River Street

As a waterwheel shall rise bounds
in a river where power will flow higher above stream
so mist does braze her skin which heightens stance with a kiss
where rain sought close by the rim yet wise
an owl on a branch that will sing
notes that nocturne has played here but still kept it away
from any current and rapidly churning sequence
how, cleverly those parts may bode in harmony awhile in a
canoe afloat in tranquility that programs a hydra just ashore.

A cafe along Susquehanna

#romance #water #river #canoe #cafe

Leroy J Harris Mar 2014

Silence of song part 38

Janet snarled at me,
As I redressed her with bloodless clothes,
Those eyes could ****, but for unknown reasons,
They denied me release.
Not looking upon her with a single eye,
It was a hideous sight,
Washed her clean of nightmares,
Worn outside her skull,
Beside a waterwheel followed by no one,
Except my guilt.
I tainted once heavenly waves,
Of prosperity that flowed between hands,
Sticking not an inch up my arms,
I was denied awareness of that difference between,
Surface temperature and groundwater.
Because I had to do what she needed,
Not what she wanted,
Janet pressed that silence,
That stole her voice, replaced by primal utterings,
To my unafraid throat.

Pagan Paul Jun 2020

Sentimental Walk

.
'Put your dreams into a bottle
and cast them away to the sea.
Let the tides carry them afar
then turn your back and forget me'.

The old lane meandered through the city
lined with stone walls, hedges and metal gates.
Out of the city it wended its way
to the site of many a fayre and fete.

On the edge of the field was an old mill
its waterwheel gone and timbers rotted.
But the stones of centuries stood up tall
around which vines of ivy were knotted.

It was here that I first saw her soft face
gliding from tree to tree shaking the leaves.
The mystery Lady from who knows where
dancing in the morning and misty eves.

A well worn path leads off down to a beach
a haven of beauty next to the sea.
As I felt the sand beneath my bare feet
I turned to see that she had followed me.

The mystery Lady from who knows where
smiled at me from behind her long dark hair.
Closing the gap across the warming sand
her slender fingers slip in to my hand.

Rock formations jut up to the blue sky
the scattered remnants of huge cliffs of stone.
Random sea shells pepper the shore line edge,
some flat and shallow, some shaped like cones.

Driftwood and kelp lay basking in the sun
in rhythmic notes the sea sings out her song.
I bend to pick up a blue glass bottle
finding that the girl had vanished and gone.

For this lack of attention I chided,
unlike the salt water I was angry.
Oh my manners appalled my very core
and I launched the bottle out to the sea.

The beach looked more deserted than forever
with its bleached driftwood and its flaccid kelp.
I saw the bottle arc through the still air,
as I turned I heard a whisper for help.

A glint from the blue glass in the bright sun
as it was swallowed by the ocean wide.
The mystery Lady from who knows where
sank below the white cap waves as she cried.

Heartbroken and sad I saw my dreams sink,
tears rose in my eyes and I turned my back.
Of a sudden the Lady fades from thought
and I re-traced our steps back to the track.

Thirty years to the day and to the time
I walk to the field down the old mill lane,
the many seasons have borne little change,
I dare to think of the Lady again.

But I truly knew I would not see her
shaking the leaves nor hiding in the green.
Still the melancholy hangs like a blind
of little glimpses of what might have been.

Stones on the old mill have crumbled away
and the feeding stream long since running dry.
I wander to the path down to the sea
and on to the spot where my Lady died.

Sat on a log toes buried in the sand
I think of what may well have come to pass,
and note with a deep sense of irony
my toe cut by shards of bottle blue glass.

This sentimental walk has reached its end,
retreating I turn my back to the sea.
The mystery Lady from who knows where
ever remains a mystery to me.

© Pagan Paul (29/05/20)

.

#paganpaul #story #mystery

Arlene Corwin Nov 2016

For Those Who Can't Believe

For Those Who Can’t Believe

For those who can’t believe
I leave you with: God is just word
To gird up life and lessen pain;
Intended to encompass unexplainables
That science or psychology can’t clarify:
The ecstasy of insights
Helplessness of death,
Mystery philosophies
Of paths that lead to happiness;
With logic all their own to laud,
Reality reduced to primal cause
That some call God.

Problems of belief lie in
The gene or flair; the character
Or IQ that x factors cannot cover.

There, in entity invisible, in force likewise,
Books, systems aim to clarify
In symbol, parable and story;
Threads for some, nonsense for others
Who prefer to live by ethics; other codes
To take a hold of.

“God” is odd,
And hard;
A word,
A shortcut, like the Sanskrit Om -
To something real, a waterwheel
To rain down onto neuron’s brain.

That’s almost all that I can say
Leaving those who can’t believe
Until some other insight comes its way
Some Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday
Friday, Saturday or Sunday.

For Those Who Can’t Believe 11.13.2016
To The Child Mystic II; God Book II;
Arlene Corwin

The X-Rhymes Nov 2021

ANXIETY

there are times when I feel
like an old waterwheel
and my bucket fills slowly with drips
when it’s full to the top
I lurch forward and drop
and descend with my heart doing flips

or if that sounds unreal
think an old Ferris wheel
spinning round with the customers gone
or the space on a clock
that connects tick and tock
or the hand poised between twelve and one

on the brink of free fall
through a cavernous hall
to the skull’s epicentre, the brain
it’s a moment of doubt
or a temporal white out
as before, it just happened again

what goes round comes around
I'm a ship, run aground
not profound - just my mind being hacked
something wrong with my head
had a rupture and bled
or by anxiety just attacked?

It wasn't the brain tumor that I thought it was.

#anxiety

Zywa Nov 2020

Blossoms in Waterwheel

This street in wonderland
a lane of pink clouds
must be the end

of the normal world, happiness
begins here and over there
must be the gate

but I don't want to go there yet
Let me walk slowly and enjoy
trees full of pink cakes

Let me fly away
from pain and nausea
from the holy trinity

of my thoughts, my
organs and the rest, my
despair, grief, and fear

of the unbearable
Let me walk in the clouds
Let the blossoms keep raining

Watermaal (Waterwheel) is a municipality in Brussels–Capital region

For Maria Godschalk #3

Collection "On living on"

#illness

Leroy J Harris Mar 2014

Silence of song part 50

Matthew loosened his grip with a sigh,
Those smallnesses regained strength
Freedom felt cool against released fingers,
Strangely wet and salty from his oiliness.
I didn't want to get up right away,
It felt good to just lay in his arms,
Breathing in spring air, secure in his warmth,
Listening to him breathe in discretly,
Like he didn't want to make any noise.
His black tunic was somewhat rough against my skin,
But it was better than staining my cloak with green,
Dandelions had conquered the entire field around us,
An old waterwheel slopped up water and dropped it back into a stream,
Gently easing away my cares, my senses were dulled,
Spring was here,
We were alone.

Whit Howland Sep 2019

Ghost Town

Not
a splintered sawmill
or a rotting waterwheel

but the bundle
you're muling

charred
useless wood

a bridge fire
lit
by a laconic spark

you were there
but you didn't
strike the match
so cork it

no weeping
no tears
no time
for lamenting

because
off-screen
the sky barks

here

just take my knife
cut the twine
let the timbers fall
and crumble

run

and don't worry about
a mess
the wind can blow away

© Whit Howland 2019

Devilish thinking, or Godlike thinking?

Anwer Ghani Jan 2020

COLD HANDS

Here, on my earth you see no rose; there is nothing but pale and rhyming faces of pain. You see no eyes but the empty sea, and here you can feel the cold hands of the world as it knocks on our door in a frightening night. O cold world, I can't see your heart or your eyes. I remember when you told me about colored trees but when I put my head on the pillow your red hand knock in the cold nights so I see our lost children and their sad morning shed in the waterwheel.

#anwer #ghani #prose #poetry

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