The Mist
The mist on the water that forms over night
gives an eerie sight to my eyes.
It lingers sometimes for an hour or two
and as it lifts to the skies
I see the lake that's been hidden from view
and all seems right to my sight.
Its rippling movement on breezy days
mirror like imagery at night.
It's home to frogs and ducks at play
and the fish that jump catching flies.
And sometimes when I am lucky enough
much to my surprise
herons and egrets of snowy white
come and land on the banks.
They stalk their prey in stately manner
hoping to pull off their pranks.
So when the mist returns to my lake
I do not get forlorn.
For underneath the mist that's there
is my lake in later morn.
poem by Edwina Reizer
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Related quotes
Mist Hidden Fantasy
The mad piper played the hornpipe
in the evening mist near the fairy glade
and water sprites dances across the lochs waters.
The monster roared from the depth below
in keeping with the tune
and a wolf howled at a hidden moon
on a hill draped with heather.
Owlets awoke with watchful eyes
as their mother swooped from the skies.
The mist rolled down the glen,
then up the hill at the other end.
The castle stood faintly still
as shadows watched from the brow of the hill.
You could not call this the dead of night
with all the watchful eyes hidden from sight.
Still, the mad piper played
his tunes of joyful reverie
while the moon remained
in the mist hidden from sight.
poem by David Harris
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Demystified for M' lady Cate
The mist persists, it will insist
it has the right to block the light
with trailing wisps of dirty white.
The mist is wrong and it will learn
to leave when it has served its turn
Because the sun will rise and burn
the remnants of the mist away
There is no way that it can stay
once the bright sun comes out to play.
The mist defeated has to go.
It leaves reluctantly and slow
but where it goes I do not know.
It will return with fall of night
lurk in the darkness hid from sight.
Unless outlined by the moonlight.
The silver light makes it appear
to be the ghosts which cause men fear.
But they will quickly disappear
When banks of cloud obscure the light.
Be re-absorbed into the night.
to their dismay but men’s delight.
The mists persist they wont desist
as long as day and night exist
and if they did they would be missed.
The moisture which the mist supply
the plants trees drink thirstily.
Without the mists some plants would die.
1-Jun-08
http: // blog.myspace.com/poeticpiers
poem by Ivor Or Ivor.e Hogg
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A Soul Dies
Sky overcast, moon was sad.
Ashes were sent to the lake.
Who killed the bird in morning rain?
Ashes were sent to the lake.
A hidden slaughterman did not die.
Ashes were sent to the lake.
The good old name now spells the doom.
Ashes were sent to the lake.
I will call you in pitch-dark night.
Ashes were sent to the lake.
Ascending gods have ruined my life.
Ashes were sent to the lake.
A child was stolen from a mother’s bed.
Ashes were sent to the lake.
poem by Satish Verma
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Butterfly
(clarke / hicks / nash)
We met on the shore of a lemonade lake.
Weeping willows looked down where we lay.
Orange blossoms I smell in your hair.
Butterfly, flutter by, butterfly by.
Waterfalls send your ripples to us
Here on the shore of the lemonade lake.
Pond lilies play hide and seek with the fish.
Rabbit run, run rabbit, rabbit run by.
Roaring mountain is standing close by,
Covered with snowdrops and glistening with dew.
I hear the sound of a small hummingbird.
I took your hand and I waltzed off with you.
Come to the top of the mountain with me.
Jump on a cloud and well float to and fro.
Seeing the countryside covered with grass
And the top of the mountain with candy-floss and snow.
Butterfly lazily drinking the sun,
Lavishly sprinkled and painted with gold.
Here in the land of the mist and the lake,
Me and my true love will never grow old.
song performed by by Hollies
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Paper, Pen and Ink
With paper, pen and ink I began to think
of a story that I could write.
Or maybe a verse or two about something new,
something original, fresh and bright.
I sat and thought but thought of nought
a stretched circle full of nothing.
A mist came down and I could hear a sound
that sounded like water lapping.
It was a castle's moat and a waiting boat,
and a figure with a hooded habit.
He took no breath and looked like death
this man so old and decrepit.
A woman in white stepped into sight
carrying her head under her arm.
On the boat she sat beside a brown rat
which disturbed the water's calm.
The boat drifted from sight into the night
like a thought from a weary mind.
The thinning grey mist was instantly mist,
leaving my paper, pen, and ink behind.
poem by Orlando Belo
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Lakewood, In August
i see fog
jewel
upon a green
neckline
of twin mountains
mirror
upon a lake
silver
one morning
i see
mist creeping
upon the mirror
a fish jumps
and creates the ripples
i feel cold air
coming inside
my window
that does not blink
on tranquil
infinity.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Night Journey
Now as the train bears west,
Its rhythm rocks the earth,
And from my Pullman berth
I stare into the night
While others take their rest.
Bridges of iron lace,
A suddenness of trees,
A lap of mountain mist
All cross my line of sight,
Then a bleak wasted place,
And a lake below my knees.
Full on my neck I feel
The straining at a curve;
My muscles move with steel,
I wake in every nerve.
I watch a beacon swing
From dark to blazing bright;
We thunder through ravines
And gullies washed with light.
Beyond the mountain pass
Mist deepens on the pane;
We rush into a rain
That rattles double glass.
Wheels shake the roadbed stone,
The pistons jerk and shove,
I stay up half the night
To see the land I love.
poem by Theodore Roethke
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The rain and the lake
And the lake asked the rain,
Why do you overwhelm with your love over and over again?
The rain broke for a while for a thought,
and came back with more showers as the eternal play of love.
Rain said I came from distant land and oceans to meet you,
Lake said I have been waiting forever for you.
Rain said I am the true lover, I dissipate and merge in you,
Lake said Thank you rain, I am the reservoir of love,
I keep your love and share it with others who want it.
Rain said I am glorious, come with thundering dark to fluffy soothing clouds,
I provide the world with the nectar of life,
Lake said I am still and adore the beautiful mountain and blue skies,
I provide heaven to all forms of aquatic lives.
Rain said even when I am breaking away, I bring the beautiful rainbow,
I provide a bridge from land to heavens for thoughts to ponder,
Lake said I have overcome the emotions of joyful sunny days and dark gloomy nights,
I only feel happy when I am desired by somebody.
poem by Jay P Narain
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Who Can Explain Why We Love It
What person explain enjoy west lake good
Good scene without time
Fly canopy each chase
Greedy towards flower in drunk jade cup
Who know idle lean railing place
Fragrant grass slant ray
Water far mist small
One point Blue Isle white egret fly
Who can explain why we love it- West Lake is good.
The beautiful scene is without time,
Flying canopies chase each other,
Greedy to be among the flowers, drunk, with a jade cup.
Who can know I'm idle here, leaning on the rail.
Fragrant grass in slanting rays,
Fine mist on distant water,
One white egret flying from the Immortal Isle.
poem by Ouyang Xiu
Submitted by Dan Costinaş
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Like the lake a Chinese poet sits beside in a painting
Who cares about
the weight of a lake?
Who would care to weigh it?
Who cares about
the colour of a lake
without the light of the sky
to reflect in it?
Who notices its modesty,
reflecting all, but silent of itself?
Who observes that the lake
remains unaffected,
not pained by loss,
not pleased by gain?
Who notices its wisdom,
obeying every law?
Who names its generosity,
among the fish, the birds,
the animals who drink?
Who knows whether the tree
leaning over it, sees its own reflection?
Who notices its love?
It bonds with earth,
It flows when needed,
as love does.
Who asks where the lake came from,
seeing it there?
Who wonders how old that lake is?
It is without age today.
Who wonders whether the lake
knows itself water,
or if water knows itself lake?
Who does not go to seek it,
for its stillness, for its silence,
as if it understands the mind’s needs,
the heart’s nourishment?
He is like that.
poem by Michael Shepherd
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My House
The image of the poets in the breeze
Canadian geese are flying above the trees
A mist is hanging gently on the lake
My house is very beautiful at night
My friend and teacher occupies a spare room
Hes dead, at peace at last the wandering jew
Other friends had put stones on his grave
He was the first great man that I had ever met
Sylvia and I got out our ouija board
To dial a spirit, across the room it soared
We were happy and amazed at what we saw
Blazing stood the proud and regal name delmore
Delmore, I missed all your funny ways
I missed your jokes and the brilliant things you said
My dedalus to your bloom, was such a perfect wit
And to find you in my house makes things perfect
I really got a lucky life
My writing, my motorcycle and my wife
And to top it all off a spirit of pure poetry
Is living in this stone and wood house with me
The image of the poets in the breeze
Canadian geese are flying above the trees
A mist is hanging gently on the lake
Our house is very beautiful at night
Our house is very beautiful at night
Our house is very beautiful at night
Our house is very beautiful at night
song performed by by Lou Reed
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The Fairies
Up the airy mountain,
Down the rushy glen,
We daren't go a-hunting
For fear of little men;
Wee folk, good folk,
Trooping all together;
Green jacket, red cap,
And white owl's feather!
Down along the rocky shore
Some make their home,
They live on crispy pancakes
Of yellow tide-foam;
Some in the reeds
Of the black mountain lake,
With frogs for their watch-dogs,
All night awake.
High on the hill-top
The old King sits;
He is now so old and gray
He's nigh lost his wits.
With a bridge of white mist
Columbkill he crosses,
On his stately journeys
From Slieveleague to Rosses;
Or going up with music
On cold starry nights
To sup with the Queen
Of the gay Northern Lights.
They stole little Bridget
For seven years long;
When she came down again
Her friends were all gone.
They took her lightly back,
Between the night and morrow,
They thought that she was fast asleep,
But she was dead with sorrow.
They have kept her ever since
Deep within the lake,
On a bed of flag-leaves,
Watching till she wake.
By the craggy hill-side,
Through the mosses bare,
They have planted thorn-trees
For pleasure here and there.
If any man so daring
As dig them up in spite,
He shall find their sharpest thorns
In his bed at night.
Up the airy mountain,
Down the rushy glen,
We daren't go a-hunting
For fear of little men;
Wee folk, good folk,
Trooping all together;
Green jacket, red cap,
And white owl's feather!
poem by William Allingham
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Stone, Mirror and Mist
Stone, mirror and mist;
All enrapture me.
I can’t resist
Time’s trinity.
As I try in the mirror
To change the stone,
Mist draws nearer
Till I can’t see on my own.
Then I turn my attention
To the mirror at hand;
Stone in mind, but not mention;
Mist shifting like sand.
I battle the mirror.
There can be only one.
When image is clearer
I’ll know I have won.
Only then will mist clear.
Stone will have no say.
A bygone will be fear
And I’ll be on my way.
poem by Gregory Huyette
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A November Night
There! See the line of lights,
A chain of stars down either side the street --
Why can't you lift the chain and give it to me,
A necklace for my throat? I'd twist it round
And you could play with it. You smile at me
As though I were a little dreamy child
Behind whose eyes the fairies live. . . . And see,
The people on the street look up at us
All envious. We are a king and queen,
Our royal carriage is a motor bus,
We watch our subjects with a haughty joy. . . .
How still you are! Have you been hard at work
And are you tired to-night? It is so long
Since I have seen you -- four whole days, I think.
My heart is crowded full of foolish thoughts
Like early flowers in an April meadow,
And I must give them to you, all of them,
Before they fade. The people I have met,
The play I saw, the trivial, shifting things
That loom too big or shrink too little, shadows
That hurry, gesturing along a wall,
Haunting or gay -- and yet they all grow real
And take their proper size here in my heart
When you have seen them. . . . There's the Plaza now,
A lake of light! To-night it almost seems
That all the lights are gathered in your eyes,
Drawn somehow toward you. See the open park
Lying below us with a million lamps
Scattered in wise disorder like the stars.
We look down on them as God must look down
On constellations floating under Him
Tangled in clouds. . . . Come, then, and let us walk
Since we have reached the park. It is our garden,
All black and blossomless this winter night,
But we bring April with us, you and I;
We set the whole world on the trail of spring.
I think that every path we ever took
Has marked our footprints in mysterious fire,
Delicate gold that only fairies see.
When they wake up at dawn in hollow tree-trunks
And come out on the drowsy park, they look
Along the empty paths and say, "Oh, here
They went, and here, and here, and here! Come, see,
Here is their bench, take hands and let us dance
About it in a windy ring and make
A circle round it only they can cross
When they come back again!" . . . Look at the lake --
Do you remember how we watched the swans
That night in late October while they slept?
Swans must have stately dreams, I think. But now
The lake bears only thin reflected lights
That shake a little. How I long to take
One from the cold black water -- new-made gold
To give you in your hand! And see, and see,
There is a star, deep in the lake, a star!
Oh, dimmer than a pearl -- if you stoop down
Your hand could almost reach it up to me. . . .
There was a new frail yellow moon to-night --
I wish you could have had it for a cup
With stars like dew to fill it to the brim. . . .
How cold it is! Even the lights are cold;
They have put shawls of fog around them, see!
What if the air should grow so dimly white
That we would lose our way along the paths
Made new by walls of moving mist receding
The more we follow. . . . What a silver night!
That was our bench the time you said to me
The long new poem -- but how different now,
How eerie with the curtain of the fog
Making it strange to all the friendly trees!
There is no wind, and yet great curving scrolls
Carve themselves, ever changing, in the mist.
Walk on a little, let me stand here watching
To see you, too, grown strange to me and far. . . .
I used to wonder how the park would be
If one night we could have it all alone --
No lovers with close arm-encircled waists
To whisper and break in upon our dreams.
And now we have it! Every wish comes true!
We are alone now in a fleecy world;
Even the stars have gone. We two alone!
poem by Sara Teasdale
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The Country Wife
She makes her way through the dark trees
Down to the lake to be alone.
Following their voices on the breeze,
She makes her way. Through the dark trees
The distant stars are all she sees.
They cannot light the way she's gone.
She make her way through the dark trees
Down to the lake to be alone.
The night reflected on the lake,
The fire of stars changed into water.
She cannot see the winds that break
The night reflected on the lake
But knows they motion for her sake.
These are the choices they have brought her:
The night reflected on the lake,
The fire of stars changed into water.
poem by Dana Gioia
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The Lake
The lake so grand, boats afloat
all sizes and shapes
pontoons, yachts, sails and fishing boat
people from all over and all ages
every wave so beautiful as the they stroll ashore
from white caps to rolling wave. the flow so endless
the boats flowing so gentling across the water
the fish swimming so free under the water
teasing the fishermen, steal the bait
the lake is the place to be on this fine day
God creation for all to enjoy
take the moment and view the lake
It so grand and so free
poem by Michael Peterson
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Temporarily For M lady Tara
The morning mist is hovering
above the lake in veils of white
The beauty it is covering
will soon be revealed by sunlight
The newly risen sun climbs high
and will attain full majesty
The morning mist cannot defy
the sun’s supreme authority.
The scene takes on a clarity
the colours showing clean and bright
The quiet waters easily
reflecting back the strong sunlight.
Mists will return to hide the view
when twilight falls. They always do.
1-Apr-08
poem by Ivor Or Ivor.e Hogg
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The glow in the fog and mist
The spectral glow of a bobbing lantern
As if tossed upon a stormy sea
Appearing..then fading anon, absorbed
In foggy essence, to fade again so feebly
Once more, ere sinking in finality
Into the quicksand of mist
Mere glow of candle, so dear to see
Seen now…then not, …with capricious twist
The spectral light, drifts through the night
As a ghost through fog and mist
Through ribs of rain, the tremulous light
Chills the brain, befogs the sight
Dimly lit, by lanterns in the mist
Dark clouds upon the soul this night
Fog is the dark abode of lost souls
Who wander without rest with lantern high
The mist, the breath, of hollow death
The fog, the food, on which to persist
Tis best my friend, not to be, nor ne'r to see….
The glow in the fog and mist
poem by David Whalen
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The Collective: The Queen of Lilies
Muse alone, I dare, in shards and flakes
Trying to posses its elusive waning stunts
As mistral dark succumbs the lake
Mystifying its nocturne inhabitants
So the eyes that had seen feared to take
The regal lily a queen would want
This lily, queen of all lilies
Wore the lake like her shielding mail,
Like her plume for flight, her realms of liminalities,
Preserving her sovereign of dainty tales
So it blossomed with all subtleties
Rippling with confused verdicts, hence, stale
Under the moon, I owned the lily queen
As much as it owns my forlorn nights,
The mire, and the enchanted sheen
In her pallid petals of immaculate white
Oh! What a pity had it been
To lure and fool myself with such delight!
Monarch of the lake and night, lily queen,
Trample not in my faults, you are too pristine
poem by Norman Santos
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The Price Of Water
The little lake, not far from the houses, has been
dry for years and is full of thistles and rubbish.
By, what was its shore, the sad rest of a rowboat
I remember it was blue, and someone had nicked
its oars; for firewood I take it. I used to row in
this lake in the evening catching trout.
When the moon made the lake into shimmering
silver my heart got quite wobbly by the beauty.
Last week I crossed the lake on my scooter, it was
not easy I lost my balance and was badly stung,
gasped for air, felt as drowning in a dry lagoon.
In the future the new commodity will be water.
poem by Oskar Hansen
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