Departure
Thousands of tiny
fists tamping the surface of the lake
flowing like a wide
river gone crazy, southeast, westnorth
letting the wind push
it around in its bed and the boat
hull hugging the shore.
What else can she do? Even the trees
agree, shaking
their crowns, throwing down their leaves as if
she were their only
child. Caught cold-footed in Magnuson
grass, trying to cut
free of the creosote-soaked pilings sunk
deep in the shallow
mud holding the water, holding her
wake for a moment,
furrow folding back over into
confusion. Cascade
gray crosscurrents! Sharp switching eddies!
Unreliable
shoals! Let the cloth argue with itself,
gasping like a child
with the air knocked out and the wind
socking the center.
Let the sail, shot-silk green and white, now
snapping, billowing
slowly draw her away from this beach
marked with broken glass, rocks
as smooth as plovers’ eggs, and small
stones splashed iron red
and orange like the sky breaking open.
Let the windows ignite
flickering copper on the other side.
Let the water be
disked with silver from here to there
churning as if roiled
by the flanks of a great, gentle fish.
poem by Christianne Balk
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Related quotes
If We All Were Like Children
Once there came a child approaching a gentle brook,
Dipping his hands into the water, a small fish he took.
It wiggled, and squirmed, freedom it did seek,
It made the child laugh, and squeak.
Then playing opossum it lay still, and pretended was no more,
the child lay the fish upon the rocky shore.
The fish knowing it was almost free,
flipped up in the air with child like glee.
The child tried to grab it back up,
but the fish very quickly kept flipping up.
It hit the water, and off it did swim,
the child shrugged his shoulders, and gave up on him.
Attention being short, the child saw a bug,
ran off to catch it, and give it a hug.
If everyone were in their hearts like children we see,
then the Earth would be Heaven, and life would be free.
poem by Velmar Pewee Hale Johnson
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Butterfly in The Sky
While i sit on the smooth rocks
Looking over the soft blue sea
Putting my foot in the water
Slowly moving through the water
Take a deep dive in the water
Feels so cold and relaxing
Coming up to the surface
Moving my arms into a freestyle stroke
Taking deep breaths
Moving faster and faster
Until i feel the wind in my wings
Turning into a butterfly
Up and up i go
Not in the water anymore
I am free in the wind
The sun shines on me
Warms my wings from the water
poem by Christina Weinke
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Just Follow The Flow
just follow the flow
of words like the water flowing on the river
like the paper boat on the water flowing to the river
like the river flowing through the edges of banks
above the stones and pebbles of
everything swerving from mountain to mountain
of least resistances
the rocks that block your path you
just kiss them and then you go
following the flow again with the wind above you
just folow the flow of your thoughts in your heart
you do not even like to see
everything is smooth, freely flowing, taking shape
and form and having scent and perfume and so exuding
and then
an explosion inside well kept and taken care of
it is great, it is really great that feeling
so short and quick and yet so appealing
no one hears it except you because you
love it and so it has become so real
to your touch
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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The Calling Of The Trees
The wind.
The calling of the trees,
Whose leaves flow
Endlessly through the wind,
Calling the sound,
Of water,
Like waves
Of the beach.
Beyond.
The row of trees
Standing in line
Along the shore,
Through them
Pass to where
Green grey water
Meets the sand,
In constant push
Through the shorebirds legs.
Crows call, geese horn
And the wind
Flows steady, strong and sure.
The wind smelling of salt and green.
(7.18.7 The View)
poem by Heather Z. Hanna
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Once In A Lifetime (Same As It Ever Was) (Liquid People Mix)
And you may find yourself living in a shotgun shack
And you may find yourself in another part of the world
And you may find yourself behind the wheel of a large automobile
And you may find yourself in a beautiful house, with a beautiful
wife
And you may ask yourself-Well...How did I get here?
Letting the days go by/let the water hold me down
Letting the days go by/water flowing underground
Into the blue again/after the money's gone
Once in a lifetime/water flowing underground.
And you may ask yourself
How do I work this?
And you may ask yourself
Where is that large automobile?
And you may tell yourself
This is not my beautiful house!
And you may tell yourself
This is not my beautiful wife!
Letting the days go by/let the water hold me down
Letting the days go by/water flowing underground
Into the blue again/after the money's gone
Once in a lifetime/water flowing underground.
Same as it ever was...Same as it ever was...Same as it ever was...
Same as it ever was...Same as it ever was...Same as it ever was...
Same as it ever was...Same as it ever was...
Water dissolving...and water removing
There is water at the bottom of the ocean
Remove the water carry the water
Remove the water at the bottom of the ocean!
Letting the days go by/let the water hold me down
Letting the days go by/water flowing underground
Into the blue again/after the money's gone
Once in a life time water flowing underground.
Into the blue again/into the silent water.
under the rocks and stones/there is water underground
Letting the days go by/into the silent water
Once in a lifetime/water flowing underground
And you may ask yourself
What is that beautiful house?
And you may ask yourself
Where does that highway go?
And you may ask yourself
Am I right?...Am I wrong?
And you may say to yourself
MY GOD!...WHAT HAVE I DONE?
Letting the days go by/let the water hold me down
Letting the days go by/water flowing underground
Into the blue again/after the money's gone
once in a lifetime/water flowing undeground
into the blue again/into the silent water
once in a lifetime/water flowing underground
Same as it ever was...Same as it ever was...Same as it ever was...
Same as it ever was...Same as it ever was...Same as it ever was...
Same as it ever was...Same as it ever was...
time isn't holding us, time isn't after us
time isn't holding us, time doesn't hold you back
time isn't holding us, time isn't after us
time isn't holding us,
letting the days go by(x3)
once in a lifetime
letting the days go by(x3)
once in a lifetime
song performed by by Talking Heads
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The Iron Bridge
I am standing on a disused iron bridge
that was erected in 1902,
according to the iron plaque bolted into a beam,
the year my mother turned one.
Imagine--a mother in her infancy,
and she was a Canadian infant at that,
one of the great infants of the province of Ontario.
But here I am leaning on the rusted railing
looking at the water below,
which is flat and reflective this morning,
sky-blue and streaked with high clouds,
and the more I look at the water,
which is like a talking picture,
the more I think of 1902
when workmen in shirts and caps
riveted this iron bridge together
across a thin channel joining two lakes
where wildflowers blow along the shore now
and pairs of swans float in the leafy coves.
1902--my mother was so tiny
she could have fit into one of those oval
baskets for holding apples,
which her mother could have lined with a soft cloth
and placed on the kitchen table
so she could keep an eye on infant Katherine
while she scrubbed potatoes or shelled a bag of peas,
the way I am keeping an eye on that cormorant
who just broke the glassy surface
and is moving away from me and the iron bridge,
swiveling his curious head,
slipping out to where the sun rakes the water
and filters through the trees that crowd the shore.
And now he dives,
disappears below the surface,
and while I wait for him to pop up,
I picture him flying underwater with his strange wings,
as I picture you, my tiny mother,
who disappeared last year,
flying somewhere with your strange wings,
your wide eyes, and your heavy wet dress,
kicking deeper down into a lake
with no end or name, some boundless province of water.
poem by Billy Collins
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Moments At The Beach
flowing water, cool breeze
waves washing a shore
birds drifting in the wind
boats sailing on the water
people strolling along the beach
children playing in the sand
sun bathers laying a shore
swimmers playing in the water
volleyball in the sand
family picnics under the trees
The lake so beautiful
The beach so free
people being friendly
the life so simple for a day at the beach
Strangers, friends and family enjoying the lake
the simple things in life is enjoy nature and ourselves
poem by Michael Peterson
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Skimmers
As a boy he used to toss
flat rocks on the water
of the farm dam or nearby lake
watching them skim
over the surface
only touching here and there
and there was some magic
in the leaping
almost right across the water surface.
The wind whirls up tiny whirlwinds
running out before him on the beach,
a lonely boy is tossing shells into the air
which are blown back in a curling flight,
sand hits legs, arms and the body
stinging like sandpaper,
in the distance skimmers are eating from shells
near to green-blue hued pools,
with some flying low over the sea
and he flings his thoughts back to many years,
thinking again and again
about a world that has changed with time
how he changed from an innocent believing child
to the mature successful man
but his life is empty and he is here to find something.
[Reference: Skimmers by Ted Walker.]
poem by Gert Strydom
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Friend-Ship
My friendship is sinking,
I'm bailing out water as fast as I can,
Move too quickly the boat will tip over,
Move too slowly the faster it will sink,
Seconds away from abandoning ship,
But there's land in sight,
So close to shore,
Tying a rope to the boat,
Jumping into the water,
The water is so cold,
Pulling the boat to shore,
Moving too slowly,
Waves threatening to take the boat away,
Waves threatening to take me away,
Suddenly the shore seems so far away,
Waves fill the boat with water,
The burden of the weight of the water,
Becomes unbearable,
The rope is pulled out of my hands,
And the boat sinks,
Pulling me under,
I swim to the surface,
Swim to shore,
Once on shore I look back,
There is nothing left of the Friend-ship
poem by Mandy Author
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Friend-Ship
My friendship is sinking,
I'm bailing out water as fast as I can,
Move too quickly the boat will tip over,
Move too slowly the faster it will sink,
Seconds away from abandoning ship,
But there's land in sight,
So close to shore,
Tying a rope to the boat,
Jumping into the water,
The water is so cold,
Pulling the boat to shore,
Moving too slowly,
Waves threatening to take the boat away,
Waves threatening to take me away,
Suddenly the shore seems so far away,
Waves fill the boat with water,
The burden of the weight of the water,
Becomes unbearable,
The rope is pulled out of my hands,
And the boat sinks,
Pulling me under,
I swim to the surface,
Swim to shore,
Once on shore I look back,
There is nothing left of the Friend-ship
poem by Mandy Author2
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A Glass Of Water Please
and so the story wants to end itself with a
glass of water.
those who cry after always need
a glass of water.
those whose hearts are broken
those who sob
those who close the window of the niche
those who have nightmares
those who wake up at 3 o'clock in the morning
those who sit on bed and cannot sleep back
always go to the kitchen
open the refrigerator
get a glass and splash
a cold glass of water
this time, i am asking for a glass of water
for i could be
all of the above or you could be one of those
i have described
but who knows we are not one of those
who knows
we are but just anyone who is normally thirsty
and with nothing to ask
simply ask
for a glass of cold water.
and cheerfully, we do not forget to say
please....
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Where Does The Wind Go
Where does the wind go on cold, cold nights
Out of the sight of the bright sunlight,
Under the gaze of the glowing moon,
When all the world is tired and sleeping;
Moaning and carrying on something fierce
Could it be that the wind is weeping?
Where does the wind hide it's broken heart,
Out on the lake, around the boat
And even when no one’s there to hear,
Does the wind ever look for an alibi
When it's so quiet, you can hear your breath,
But the wind only heaves one threadbare sigh?
Where is the place wind could stay it's breeze;
So fidgety, flighty and full of glee
Holding it's breath till the doors fell in;
The windows all cracking their window jams,
Saving it all for a winter's storm
When the trees bend as low as they can.
poem by Patti Masterman
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At the Fishhouses
Although it is a cold evening,
down by one of the fishhouses
an old man sits netting,
his net, in the gloaming almost invisible,
a dark purple-brown,
and his shuttle worn and polished.
The air smells so strong of codfish
it makes one's nose run and one's eyes water.
The five fishhouses have steeply peaked roofs
and narrow, cleated gangplanks slant up
to storerooms in the gables
for the wheelbarrows to be pushed up and down on.
All is silver: the heavy surface of the sea,
swelling slowly as if considering spilling over,
is opaque, but the silver of the benches,
the lobster pots, and masts, scattered
among the wild jagged rocks,
is of an apparent translucence
like the small old buildings with an emerald moss
growing on their shoreward walls.
The big fish tubs are completely lined
with layers of beautiful herring scales
and the wheelbarrows are similarly plastered
with creamy iridescent coats of mail,
with small iridescent flies crawling on them.
Up on the little slope behind the houses,
set in the sparse bright sprinkle of grass,
is an ancient wooden capstan,
cracked, with two long bleached handles
and some melancholy stains, like dried blood,
where the ironwork has rusted.
The old man accepts a Lucky Strike.
He was a friend of my grandfather.
We talk of the decline in the population
and of codfish and herring
while he waits for a herring boat to come in.
There are sequins on his vest and on his thumb.
He has scraped the scales, the principal beauty,
from unnumbered fish with that black old knife,
the blade of which is almost worn away.
Down at the water's edge, at the place
where they haul up the boats, up the long ramp
descending into the water, thin silver
tree trunks are laid horizontally
across the gray stones, down and down
at intervals of four or five feet.
Cold dark deep and absolutely clear,
element bearable to no mortal,
to fish and to seals . . . One seal particularly
I have seen here evening after evening.
He was curious about me. He was interested in music;
like me a believer in total immersion,
so I used to sing him Baptist hymns.
I also sang "A Mighty Fortress Is Our God."
He stood up in the water and regarded me
steadily, moving his head a little.
Then he would disappear, then suddenly emerge
almost in the same spot, with a sort of shrug
as if it were against his better judgment.
Cold dark deep and absolutely clear,
the clear gray icy water . . . Back, behind us,
the dignified tall firs begin.
Bluish, associating with their shadows,
a million Christmas trees stand
waiting for Christmas. The water seems suspended
above the rounded gray and blue-gray stones.
I have seen it over and over, the same sea, the same,
slightly, indifferently swinging above the stones,
icily free above the stones,
above the stones and then the world.
If you should dip your hand in,
your wrist would ache immediately,
your bones would begin to ache and your hand would burn
as if the water were a transmutation of fire
that feeds on stones and burns with a dark gray flame.
If you tasted it, it would first taste bitter,
then briny, then surely burn your tongue.
It is like what we imagine knowledge to be:
dark, salt, clear, moving, utterly free,
drawn from the cold hard mouth
of the world, derived from the rocky breasts
forever, flowing and drawn, and since
our knowledge is historical, flowing, and flown.
poem by Elizabeth Bishop
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My Walk IV: Autumn
Reds, browns, yellows and green
Amber, orange and gold
Halloween in Autumn seen
For us all, to behold
Crisp Autumn days
Leaves under foot crackle
Not long to stay
Hear some Ravens hackle.
Breath forming a small cloud
In the chill of the morn
A child's sharp intake loud
Happy faces never forlorn.
Sharp blue skies
So clear and clean
Birds on wing, to hibernation fly
Nature holding itself up to be seen
Winter soon to be calling
Holding within its bitter cold
As leaves continue falling
Another year gone, another year old.
poem by Robert Green
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A Tramp On The Street
The snowflakes fell
like white feathers from heaven
leaving a white blanket on the ground.
He trudged through the lonely streets
with nowhere to go.
A tramp on the street
with only rags to cover his feet,
trying to find a place to sleep
and rest his weary bones.
He passed a frozen river,
it made his cold body shiver
for he could see a pair of hand raise up held
and hear a small voice as it yelled.
Without a moment hesitation,
though barely nothing on his feet
he started to walk
across the sharp iced water
even though the wind fiercely blew.
He had to reach the child
that had fallen through.
He moved as fast as he could
although he was almost crippled.
Reaching down he plucked the child
from the dark waters cold
as the wind blew fierce and wild.
He moved slowly to the shore
as a silent rain began to pour.
Finding shelter beneath some trees
covered the child in what
dry clothes he had.
He forgot about his feet that hurt
as he covers the child
with his ragged coat and shirt.
He made sure the child was warm
before he laid himself to rest.
The child later awoke to find
the tramp stiff and blue
within his snowy bed.
There is no moral to this story
of why one ill treated by society
would willingly forfit his life
so that an unknown child would live.
We can only ponder on the thoughts
that went through his head
as he laid himself down to sleep
on that snowy bed.
12 January 2008
poem by David Harris
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Memories of Eighty-Five
I. ‘A macramé plant hangs close to her bed
A macramé plant hangs close to her bed
on the eiderdown she lays stretched out,
at times as in deep thought or prayer
when the swimming pool draws you through the window
with dull blue water covering it,
inside lays burned brown a sun goddess
and her eyes swallow me alive
when she understands, knows me for whom I am,
loving me with passion from the start,
loving me through light and darkness.
II. The summer sun hangs white and hot over the sea
The summer sun hangs white and hot over the sea,
the sand is white and soft where the sea washes out
her smile and conversations carries me off
when I am caught in her beauty
and later the water is lovely cool
before a big wave knocks off her bikini top,
I have got to hurry to the beach
to get her a big towel,
later it’s a big joke for us both,
far too quickly summer sweeps past.
III. At sunrise we drive past Chapman’s peak
At sunrise we drive past Chapman’s peak,
along the sea on a twisting road
and she’s very much in love with me,
far away a ship is only a small dot
and her smile and her face sparkles
when we stop to look at nature,
with her light blue blouse clinging tight fitting on to her
and I kiss her above the emerald sea,
holding her for moments tightly against me,
and she enchants my heart, are doing things to me.
IV. At Hout Bay we sail out of the harbour
At Hout Bay we sail out of the harbour
and the wind is blowing her auburn hair around,
the sea lays stretched out from the boat,
on rocks an otter snorts like a dog,
others swarm wild around him,
when the boat rocks to and fro we get nauseas,
wish for the trip to be over,
see a big shark circling,
are happy when we are sailing away,
with the small boat dropping us at the shore.
V. In Kirstenbosh we were really lost
In Kirstenbosh we were really lost,
still I wonder about her gleaming lips,
her green-brown eyes descending into my heart,
feelings creeping deeper into me,
that is still living as a spectre,
as if forever she is part of me,
I am not really able to free me from her,
she still calls me unexpectedly,
I do not want it to end
and forever I am yearning for her.
poem by Gert Strydom
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The Man Parts the Water
The man parts the water with a simple stone,
turning when the laughter
of a child retraces the shattered waves.
The man remembers with a smile
the days when he walked the shore,
dancing with silver-eyed seagulls, and he
was always looking ahead as he
stands and tilts releasing stone,
watching it sail through the misty shore.
The child parts the water with shrieking laughter,
and dreams about the day he will knowingly smile
as his cocked man-hand reaches the stormy waves.
Watching the moon pull the scornful waves
that kick the sand onto the shore, now he’s
the ghost of a child that stands with a smile.
He parts the water with a simple stone,
listening to the moon’s blue shaken laughter
at a man awaiting his golden hour upon the murky shore.
The grains whisper into the wind. And the shore
is crowded with memories of waves,
filling a young boy’s face with laughter.
It permeates the darkness, yet he
still craves the stone
to bring the man’s euphoric smile.
Caught in a moment without laughter or smiles,
walking along the shore
he wishes upon a simple stone
for another chance to play and frolic in waves.
The child sees his reflection with an anxious smile, and he
becomes a man between the laughter.
And he will always remember the laughter,
and he will always long for an innocent smile
of waiting for the day that unknowingly he
could never return to the shore.
Churning as it breaks the waves,
the past is left in simple stone.
But for now there is laughter upon the shore,
riding along the whispering waves,
the child’s future still a simple stone.
(- for Nicolas Mathew)
poem by Matt Ullman
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Head Above Water
Lyrics: daryl hall, john oates, sara allen
Music: daryl hall
Oceans emotions yeah we all feel the same
Afraid of undertow and great tidal wave
May go under many hundred of times
Keep on kickin, baby throw me a line
C.c. sick, mai de mer
Try, try, try Im holding on, holding my
Head above water
Its so hard to keep my head above water
No never envy the big fish in da pond
Its deep and dark when all the surface is gone
My kind of humor kind of keeping me dry
On the horizon, water touches the sky
C. c. sick, mal de mer
Try, try, try Im holding on, holding my
Head above water
Its so hard to keep my head above water.
song performed by by Hall & Oates
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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What We Have Become
in the shallow part of the river
we decide to play: life is a game
we like to believe that
our arms drip like cold water
on the side of the glass
that you hold when you have felt
the first thirst
i shall not satisfy you
and so i have become the bait
of the fish
you have become more interested
on what i have to say
not to be mistaken as trivial
i have also taken more glances at you
i believe you
and so with this trust i ask you to go with me
to the deep part of the sea
i swim first then you follow
you know how to swim and you swim well in fact
like a fish
at the shallow part
i told you that nothing is hidden
nothing signifies anything
the stones are stones
and nothing else
your questions are just ordinary questions
which i have answered to well
and you believe me more until
we dive deep
deeper into the ocean floor
where the sands though silent
have more to say
than what i can tell you
the stones on the sides of the deep
now are telling you more
and you begin to understand
why for all those years
on that dry land
i have kept my silence
my distance.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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On The Shore Of Nila (bharatha Puzha)
This is river is laughing,
with the thousands of jingles;
the river and bay tied each other,
but no one seen it;
she is flowing as a princess
the wet wind of river, is
passing through the greenly rocks;
please smile once more,
Oh! My dear river Nila
my love on you, is not gone;
the wind blowing slowly;
this steps in the shore;
Is taken to my youth,
O! My dear, please smile once more
in this shiny moonlight,
cool wind touched the river
of she is searching her lover
poem by I.p. Gopikrishnan Pisharody
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