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There's no earthly way of knowing
There's no earthly way of knowing
Which direction they are going!
There's no knowing where they're rowing,
Or which way they river's flowing!
Not a speck of light is showing,
So the danger must be growing,
For the rowers keep on rowing,
And they're certainly not showing
Any signs that they are slowing...
poem by Roald Dahl
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Given the Oars to Row
Most who have been there will admit...
Fortunes aren't first recognized.
We are too busy looking for the gleam and glitter!
To impress before an acceptance is made.
These are confessions from those experienced.
Those who have paved,
Their own way.
And...
Have learned from many lessons.
Some await for titles to be sought.
To dropp jaws and bug eyes.
With a round of expressed applause.
Expected.
And those unafraid to claw themselves through tunnels,
Usually find daylight quicker...
Than someone seeking to protect manicured nails.
Or spend time shopping,
For the right survival outfit.
And the ones who sit wishing,
For their ship to sail in.
May lose their opportunity altogether.
Since they mistake someone rowing a boat,
As insignificant.
And the rower of the boat,
Rows away.
Knowing who has the authority,
To evict everyone from their lofty dreams!
Having been given the oars to row...
In any direction desired.
And...
A choice to be selective.
Those decisions to make,
Escapes away,
Eventually...
From the vision of most folks!
'Henry?
Is there any caviar left?
The order I placed for ham sandwiches,
Seems to be a bit late! '
~We are out of all supplies.
The owner of this island should be arriving soon.
He's rowing a boat.
He also comes to invite us to aboard his yacht,
For cocktails later.
He should be arriving soon.
With the provisions.
If you see him,
Overlook his appearance.
They can be quite deceiving,
You know? ~
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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Vanishing Islands
Vanishing Islands
Classic sea, almost antique, slow swinging oars
rowing towards a balmy island with lazy palm trees.
Everything could have been so perfect, hadn’t been
for the rising sea and the diminishing shoreline.
There is a smoking mountain in the middle of
the island, soon fishermen will sit on cliffs and be
anglers, sing songs remembering times when their
island had a sandy beach; but for now oscillating oar
blade dips into liquid happiness, disturbing briefly
the azure sky that preens itself on an ocean it regards
as a mere mirror.
poem by Oskar Hansen
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Rowing
A story, a story!
(Let it go. Let it come.)
I was stamped out like a Plymouth fender
into this world.
First came the crib
with its glacial bars.
Then dolls
and the devotion to their plactic mouths.
Then there was school,
the little straight rows of chairs,
blotting my name over and over,
but undersea all the time,
a stranger whose elbows wouldn't work.
Then there was life
with its cruel houses
and people who seldom touched-
though touch is all-
but I grew,
like a pig in a trenchcoat I grew,
and then there were many strange apparitions,
the nagging rain, the sun turning into poison
and all of that, saws working through my heart,
but I grew, I grew,
and God was there like an island I had not rowed to,
still ignorant of Him, my arms, and my legs worked,
and I grew, I grew,
I wore rubies and bought tomatoes
and now, in my middle age,
about nineteen in the head I'd say,
I am rowing, I am rowing
though the oarlocks stick and are rusty
and the sea blinks and rolls
like a worried eyebal,
but I am rowing, I am rowing,
though the wind pushes me back
and I know that that island will not be perfect,
it will have the flaws of life,
the absurdities of the dinner table,
but there will be a door
and I will open it
and I will get rid of the rat insdie me,
the gnawing pestilential rat.
God will take it with his two hands
and embrace it.
As the African says:
This is my tale which I have told,
if it be sweet, if it be not sweet,
take somewhere else and let some return to me.
This story ends with me still rowing.
poem by Anne Sexton
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Wherever Your Nose Went
Are you feeling down and low?
As if clinging onto thin rope,
And your mind wants to leave all consciousness...
Behind with no excuses to go loco.
Well,
Take those oars out of the water.
Stop rowing that boat and let it float.
That's right!
Sit in a position to let the wind be at your back.
Let go of your hold,
On those things that make you feel trapped.
And remember,
You ordered everything in your life that shows.
Have you forgotten that?
You may as well relax and accept the facts.
Wherever your nose went...
You can not say you did not with an open mind,
Followed.
Nor can you honestly portray,
One now who has been betrayed.
And even if you did decide to hide behind lies,
Only your life is the one being 'ultimately' affected.
Truth is inescapable!
No matter how many nose jobs you can afford.
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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Fishing In The River At Autumn Night
The moon shines on the river while autumn wind is blowing.
At night, I invite my friends to go fishing and boating.
Rowing our oars, we seek a shoal of fish gladly.
Mooring to pillar of the bridge, we act quietly.
My partner catches a red carp with his fishing bait.
Shaking its head, the reed wonders the old men's fate.
Is the strategist of Zhou Dynasty still fishing?
No! He migrates to the land of peach blossoms sleeping!
Chinese paintings & calligraphy about all Charles Wu's poems
http: //poem.bestfd.com/bbs/forum.php? mod=viewthread&tid=12101&extra=page%3D1
poem by Charles WOO
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Row, Row, Row The Boat
Row, row, row the boat,
gently down the stream
of consciousness, and take close note
of things of which you dream
when working gallingly in galleys,
Ben Hur, condemned to row
until the spirit market rallies,
or falls like Jericho.
Slave, slave, slave, keep writing:
wait not for liberation,
and don’t feel crucified while fighting
lack of inspiration.
Be resurrected when unconscious,
keep jester juices flowing,
on auto-pilot, serving Pontius,
rowing, rowing, rowing.
David West, who is printing the galleys of my forthcoming book Legal Friction: Law, Narrative and Identity Politics in Biblical Israel, sent me an e-mail today which read:
And keep in mind Jack Hawkins’ famous advice to the galley slaves in Ben Hur: “You are all condemned men. We keep you alive to serve this ship. So row well, and live.”
9/23/08
poem by Gershon Hepner
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With these Oars and Within This Vessel
Do you see these oars?
I made them to row...
Against waves that may come to rock,
With a wind prepared to slow my determination.
If not attempt to stop...
My vision.
With a blocking done by indecision!
This is not that kind of 'trip'.
These oars are mine.
And this vessel too,
Has been redefined and constructed.
With my hands blistered!
From a nonstop flowing of faith.
And I could care less what the odds are.
Or what the others may say of me being bizarre...
Crazed and a bit 'touched'!
I am going to reach my destination.
With these oars.
And within this vessel.
Regardless of what the others may say...
My sights are not limited to this neighborhood.
And free they are of restricting myths.
'You remind me of Noah.
That dude that build that Ark.'
Cool.
But I am speaking figuratively.
Emblematic!
Metaphorically suggestive as to those steps I'm taking.
My journey does not entail traveling with a zoo.
'I'm sure all of nature thanks you for your thoughtfulness.
In an emblematic metaphorical way.'
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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The Rowing Song
Round the world and home again
That's the sailor's way
Faster faster, faster faster
There's no earthly way of knowing
Which direction we are going
There's no knowing where we're rowing
Or which way the river's flowing
Is it raining, is it snowing
Is a hurricane a–blowing
Not a speck of light is showing
So the danger must be growing
Are the fires of Hell a–glowing
Is the grisly reaper mowing
Yes, the danger must be growing
For the rowers keep on rowing
And they're certainly not showing
Any signs that they are slowing.
poem by Roald Dahl
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Snatches from History 1
They adored him, their Louis Quatorze
such a legend and so many lores,
on a trip up the creek
during Ramadam week
he'd forgotten to pack his two oars.
He had wanted to visit les noirs
and peruse the Oriental Bazaars,
in the end (due to oars)
he'd be covered with sores
and a red, angry pile on his arse.
Said the emperor when he returned
'well, as far as myself be concerned
they can all go to Hell
for they lie, cheat and smell
I could care if the lot would get burned.'
That's when strife grew between the two nations,
one, the King could not muster the patience,
nor would THEY dropp their veil
(boy their skins must be pale!)
all of this led to hyperinflation.
poem by Herbert Nehrlich
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The poets contrive
I have nothing to complain for, not even of one
I am thankful for all, conceived in mind, to stun
it is because my garden blooms, and soul strives
and my ancestors salute from their distant lives
Memories visit me and mostly make me care,
they turn the key of remembrances on my door,
and I accept their oddity of call. Maybe I enroll
a frivolous romantic, on this supercilious stare.
People claim their life, was a tragedy! My God
what a falsehood to live upon! A baited fishing rod
to catch me in their transient support of riddance,
I laugh, as there is no mercy in their cold glance
I 've seen poets! Yes, noble, mysterious souls
with words to kiss a remote heart, a boat's tholes
supporting our rowing oars of efforts. A caress
explaining the bliss of a Naiad or curse of an Ogress.
Their face is next to a window, a frown of thinking,
as they watch the finishing ends, as dusk is sinking,
our shadows exit to the streets, from our boats berth
I care for that verse of still, poets contrive or death?
poem by Giorgio Veneto
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I have been out again on the river, rowing. I find nothing new.
quote by Fanny Kemble
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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A Boat-ride, Surreal
there, there...down there
through a thicket of fog
beckoned a vacant boat
i fought through the fog
and reached a zone, misty
the boat pulled me as if
i were a piece of iron
i hastened through
the layers and layers...
there i was, at last
assured that it would
take me to the other bank
it wasn't to be
the gently rocking boat
began on an erratic sail
down down the stream
in its womb of deception
hid many a whirlpool
the waters jerky...
hey, what was i doing
sitting in a boat with no oars
nor knowing how to swim...!
'you're the boatman
you're the oars...
row row...
the other bank
a distant dream
row row...'
a song filled the stream...
18dec2009
0540hra
poem by Indira Babbellapati
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Poets Contrive
[Poets contrive]
I have nothing to complain for, not even one
I am thankful to all, conceived are, to stun
because my garden blooms, and soul strives
and my ancestors salute from their distant lives
Memories visit me and mostly make me care,
they turn the key of remembrances on my door,
and I accept their oddity of call. So I enroll
a frivolous romantic, in my memories flare.
People claim their life, was a tragedy! My God
what a falsehood to live upon! A baited fishing rod
to catch me in their support of riddance,
I laugh, as there is no mercy in their cold glance
I 've seen poets! Yes, noble, mysterious souls
with words to kiss a remote heart, a boat's tholes,
supporting our rowing oars of efforts. To express
the bliss of a Naiad or curse of an Ogress.
Their face is next to a window, a frown of thinking,
as they watch darkening ends, as dusk is sinking,
our shadows exit to the streets, from boats berths
I care for that verse of still, poets contrive or death?
Copyright ® G. V.04.06.2011 / 27068955
poem by Giorgio Veneto
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