In the shallow parts of many Swiss lakes, where there is a depth of no more than from 5 to 15 feet of water, ancient wooden piles are observed at the bottom sometimes worn down to the surface of the mud, sometimes projecting slightly above it.
quote by Charles Lyell
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Boots
When I got out of bed this morning
a pair of boots stood on the stairs.
I don’t know to whom they belonged
or how they happened to be there.
The black boots looked large and heavy,
slightly worn, so not new or old.
The laces were long and tucked inside
and the tongue had a forward fold.
They looked really soft and comfortable,
and I couldn’t resist trying them on.
They slipped onto my feet oh so easily,
and in an instant I was up and gone.
I couldn’t do anything to stop them,
they had taken control of me.
I ran all through the day and night,
with no breakfast, dinner or tea.
I was totally exhausted and tired,
and was running in my sleep.
I awoke running along a forest path
and then up a hill so steep.
I could hear the sound of water
and ran down the riverbank.
The water wasn’t going to give way,
so I very quickly sank.
As I continued along the pebbly bottom
I very quickly ran out of breath.
My feet came out of the sodden boots
and I swam from the water’s depth.
I suppose those boots are still running
and they’re probably now out at sea.
I know that I’ll never again try on boots
that don’t belong to me.
poem by Orlando Belo
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The Frozen Lakes
The lakes are frozen again.
They look like silver glass.
The cold winds from the north do blow
and another winter must pass.
The life that's under this wintry scene
conserves its energy.
It awaits the warmer approach of spring
to lift this canopy.
And when it feels the crackling ice
and the warmth of the sun
it will rise to the surface in its annual search
for food to overcome
the stillness it's known in the deepest water
that now seems to be done.
Life returns to the lakes again
as the ice does disappear.
The water comes alive again
and once again we hear
its life.
poem by Edwina Reizer
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This Is Precious
This is precious.
And, the freshest yet.
The surface is golden,
With more of it...
In it's depth!
Yeah.
This is precious.
And, the freshest yet.
The surface is golden,
With more of it...
In it's depth!
Yeah.
People should be more expressive,
With more of that shown...
From a depth.
Yeah.
People should stop their feeding,
On more nonsense that will upset.
Yeah!
People should spend time finding,
More happiness for them to get.
And forget about a past to sack and pack,
Yeah!
People should be more expressive.
With more of that and from a depth,
Yeah.
People should expand their minds...
But they want to find that which upsets.
Confessing unhappiness and their regrets,
Yeah.
This is precious.
And, the freshest yet.
The surface is golden,
With more of it...
In it's depth!
Yeah.
People should be more expressive.
With more of that and from a depth,
Yeah.
People should expand their minds...
But they want to find that which upsets.
Confessing unhappiness and their regrets,
Yeah.
People should be more expressive.
With more of that and from a depth,
Yeah.
People should expand their minds...
But they want to find that which upsets.
Confessing unhappiness and their regrets,
Yeah.
This is precious.
And, the freshest yet.
The surface is golden,
With more of it...
In it's depth!
Yeah.
This is precious.
And, the freshest yet.
The surface is golden,
With more of it...
In it's depth!
Yeah.
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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First Level Of An Ordinary Conversation
on the shallow waters of laughter
we let go the words, we go with the flow of the first layer of our waters.
wooden boats, hands as rudders and a little emptiness covered
by the lace of sweet nothings, hi, hello, how are you, miss you,
as the feet stamp on something rocky, as the eyes bitter blue,
as our souls should know where to go, sham, spam,
violets are violets, and blue is blue, and red as red,
no implications, no deeper swimming, just a slight touch
here and there, some finishing statements, oh your nice,
you look thinner, losing weight is good, like your hair your nose
shallow, so shallow, there is no force here, no light, glimmer sans,
i look forward to seeing you again.
maybe next year, maybe never. you have become so ordinary.
and you sure, do not understand what i really mean. It is you.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Foolishness That's Lived
A shallow mind,
Will always find...
Depth,
An exception.
With not a thought to have as a weapon.
And not a comprehension to come too soon.
Shallow minds!
Will always find...
Depth an exception.
And running on emptiness,
Of meaning.
To leave foolishness more room!
A shallow mind,
Will always find...
Depth,
An exception.
With not a thought to have as a weapon.
And not a comprehension to come too soon.
While running on an emptiness of meaning.
To feel enlightened,
That a foolishness that's lived...
Will welcome more room!
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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Diana, Princess of Wales Memorial Fountain
The Memorial Fountain is really rather fascinating in its design,
As the water doesn’t always follow its course in one straight line.
The Fountain in itself is an extremely interesting feature,
As it moves in all different ways, just like a living creature.
It’s a focal point to which many people make their way;
Where adults can sit and relax and young children can play.
Parents sit on the lush green grass next to the flowing water,
Whilst keeping a watchful eye on their sons and daughters.
On the side of the Fountain, visitors can choose to take a seat,
And sit chatting away together, whilst paddling their tired feet.
The Fountain aims to represent the different aspects of Diana’s life:
The times of joy and happiness, and the times of trouble and strife.
The flowing water runs down an incline, not too steep.
At some points, it’s very shallow and at others, it’s deep.
Around the channel there are various depths and widths:
At some points it rises up, while at other points, it dips.
At some points, the water tumbles and slightly churns,
Whilst at other points, it meanders in twists and turns.
At some points along the way, the water flow is pretty fast,
Whilst over other points, the water is quite slowly passed.
At some points the water runs down surfaces so very smooth,
Whilst at other points, its flow is disturbed by little grooves.
At three points, the course can be crossed by little bridges,
Near to where the water jumps down over little ridges.
At some points, the foaming water cascades over a waterfall,
Whilst at others, the water slows down into a leisurely crawl.
The water is pumped from the top, down in two directions.
At the bottom, the waters meet in a pool of calm reflection.
To spark some kind of emotion, the fountain never fails.
Some simply come to remember Diana, Princess of Wales.
A real air of majesty this special Fountain does possess.
It is a fitting tribute to a much-loved and missed Princess.
poem by Angela Wybrow
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May I say, if you were suddenly put into a woman's body, wouldn't you be slightly interested in your breasts, and why people look at certain parts of you, and why certain parts move like they do?
quote by Kristen Johnston
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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At a koi pond in a nursery
When her fingers
lightly ripple the water,
a row of fishes
dart to come to investigate.
Fins cut through the water
and big eyes,
come to look
near to the surface.
Big and small bright coloured koi’s
dash past through the water,
while dark fresh water crayfish
crawl on the bottom of the pond.
The ripple on the water
rings out wider and wider,
till where it disappears in to eternity.
.
In my hart the sound
of the beautiful day resounds,
while I stand fascinated
at the fish pond.
poem by Gert Strydom
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Reflections
When I looked into your eyes,
I saw a garden
With peonies, and tinkling pagodas,
And round-arched bridges
Over still lakes.
A woman sat beside the water
In a rain-blue, silken garment.
She reached through the water
To pluck the crimson peonies
Beneath the surface,
But as she grasped the stems,
They jarred and broke into white-green ripples,
And as she drew out her hand,
The water-drops dripping from it
Stained her rain-blue dress like tears.
poem by Amy Lowell
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If The Surface For Them Did Not Exist
If the surface didn't exist,
Many wouldn't have a thought to cling to.
Many wouldn't know,
Which gossip heard was true.
If the surface for them did not exist.
If the surface didn't exist,
The many dependent on having lives not their own...
Would be lost without being told what to do.
Many absolutely would not have a clue...
How to find their way around,
Without following in someone's footsteps.
If the surface they sniffed did not exist.
And if the surface for them did not exist...
They would not be able to sit alone,
Doing something completely on their own...
And appreciating life,
With the minding of their own business.
If...
The surface for many did not exist,
It would be taumatic for them to seek a thought process.
Many would not know where or how to begin.
So many are accustomed to living lives that are shallow.
With an ability only to identify with that...
Which is supplied and arrives to them surfacely.
Even a dog sniffing tries to find a place to bury a bone.
And doing that alone.
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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At the bottom of the sack you will find the bill.
Between Us Is This Mystery
when our two bodies fuse
giving off
so much energy that we
can ever imagine
in the spark of my mind
when i close my eyes
lies this chasm
i fall in there
and till date
even as i open my eyes
and leave you with my fingers
i still feel no bottom
i am a leaf with nowhere
to land
there is no surface of the water
there is no sand
at the bottom
the bubbles keep mesmerizing
the mind lost in
ecstasy unimagined before
the first touch
of your nipple to my
upper lip.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Rain at Night
North of Solitary Mountain Temple
and west of Chia Pavilion
the water's surface is flattened
by the wet feet of clouds.
Early warblers dart and flutter,
squabbling amid warm trees;
around someone's house new swallows
peck mud for their nests.
Wildflowers will soon flourish
enough to overwhelm one's eyes,
but now the shallow grass
barely submerges a horse's hooves.
I love the east lake most--
I don't come this way often enough;
in the shade of green willows
lies White Sand Embankment.
Sometimes I Can Hear the Confusion and Sorrow
The television buzzes and pops
and the dishes loom in their piles
while the dog looks up from
her empty water dish,
the laundry is folded in sorted piles
yet to be claimed by the household,
and the internet is on
so nobody calls,
and under the three remaining bulbs
a yellow light is cast,
thrown among crusty plates,
and the papers are spread out
in categorized piles to show
if we can afford to just throw away
the spaghetti hardening in the pot,
while the cat yowls at the doorknob,
but nobody hears
over the sound of things falling apart
while the television drones on
about tornadoes.
poem by Ayn Timmerman
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At Low Tide
at low tide
try walking on the shallow water
now be surprised
for you can see the edible snails
the treasures of the sea
right at your feet
ready for your picking
it is what happens too
at the lowest ebb
of your life
keep on going then
for the same treasures
shall lay beside your feet
keep looking
just keep looking
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Moon's Kiss
It was a cold december night
the full moon was bright
deep under i was lying down
in the bottom i was starring at a clear night sky
in the bottom of the ocean
suddenly a cold chill slipped through by bones
then i saw a thin dark line pushed by the stream
it interferred with moon face reflect on water's surface
fear envade my heart like a scream
i came out from the water
to take out the line from it's face so perfect
then the moon smiled to me
then i woke up from dream
with a single long hair within my lips
i kissed the moon
poem by Kamel Kamel
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If I Were Gold
If I were Gold
I wonder my worth
Before men alike
Probably I’d be so cherished by them so much.
If I were gold
I would definitely be so precious
Compared by Men for superiority
And worn so gallantly by all around.
If I were gold
I wonder the worth of carat
I’d be by now
A twenty-four carat, or one less pure
If I were gold
I’d definitely by found all around the world
Doing my best piece
And decorating the best amongst the best.
If I were gold
I’d probably be a must for the high and mighty
And also a source of quarrel amongst them
‘Cos non-would be more content with me around.
If I were gold
I wonder how priced I’d be
And probably kept in the strongest safe
And most probably in the choicest Swiss bank.
If I were gold
I’d probably be worn by Men of class
While still adorning some choicest parts of the body
And being priced by all I come in contact with
If I were gold
No matter how rigorous it takes to make me pure
And how costly it is to acquire me around
I’d definitely put a simile on faces all over the world.
If I were gold
No matter how tarnished and tainted I may be
I’d still find a place in the hearts of all so dear
And be a pride to many anyway
poem by Okeke Emmanuel
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You Can't Hide It All
The hair can be dyed
Textured and cut
The face can be made up
The rest nipped and tucked
However worn dry slightly
Cracked heels of feet stricking
Out of the back of
Fashionable sling- back sandals
Do not lie
poem by Tom J. Mariani
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Landscape 28 Meniscus
The molecules of water are held together
By weak electrical forces
That extend in all directions.
At the water surface, the upward forces,
Having nowhere watery to go,
Lie along the surface
To form a thin skin, called a meniscus.
This is the skin that holds water drops,
Supports water striders,
Even skips stones.
I came once to an Adirondack Lake
On a still moonlit night.
The lake seemed full of fireflies,
Flashes of light in the water
As far as the eye could see.
I finally discovered the source of the light,
The sudden movements of water striders
Riding the meniscus
Bent the water surface
Into a curved mirror
That reflected glimmers of moonlight.
The Japanese make a flower arrangement
In a vessel with a perfectly level rim.
The vessel is filled with water
To a level above the rim
The water is held from overflowing
By a curved meniscus
That bends light like a lens.
In the center of the water
Floats a single perfect flower
That sends tiny ripples across the water surface
And crinkles the meniscus
When the vessel is vibrated.
poem by Stewart McKenzie
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Your mind is like water in a pond
Observe the water in a pond
Keep it still and particles will sediment to ground
Only then the surface becomes transparent and clear
Our reflections we can view without a blur
When wind blows and creates waves on the surface
Those sediments will be stirred up and make the water opaque
Then the water surface is no longer transparent and clear
And our reflections in it will become just blurs
Our mind is like water in that pond
Only when still and calm it can be clear and strong
If we let external forces disturb our still and calm mind
By those things we will be controlled and beguiled.
poem by Henry Chen
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