Some People Like To Take A Water Droplet
Some people like to take a water droplet
and turn it into a haiku.
Some people like to write
like the loose thread
of a quick-witted alpine stream
trying to unravel the mountain all the way down
with dazzle and flash.
But when I shoot my mouth off
about what I don't know about nightingales
it always comes out ice-hot stars
above a rush of northern rivers,
the Mackenzie, the Fraser, the Thompson
and when I want to risk
my cowboy B.C. French in public,
the Gulf of St. Lawrence.
Some people like to weave their mindstreams
into lakes with their third eyes open
to the flight of the white clouds
and the sky that doesn't inhibit them,
but me I like to flow and fall and crush
swell and fork, shift, shape, loop, swerve,
destroy, nourish, and change course
like the Ottawa or the Skeena
in the May spring run off
when the ice floes and weight-lifting waters
are flexing their muscles
in powerfully sculpted anthracite and jade.
A river, yes, blackwater and white alike;
what could be more
quintessentially Canadian than that?
A river as inhospitable and bleak as the Arctic
toward life in its beginnings,
and still as wild and dangerous as Hell's Gate
as it approaches the sea
after many perils and epiphanies.
I am the sorcerer's apprentice
when it comes to rivers
but I like to go with the flow, the power, the depth
the cosmic expansion of their homelessness,
the cataracts and wetlands of their manic mood swings,
the way they uproot and sustain,
carve traffic islands out of granite
and tear down bridges in their path
and then slow down mellifluously
to let a doe come out of the woods to drink
from the reflection of the way the water sees her.
I give the orange spruce root rot in rusty shallows
and strip the bark from defrocked trees
the herons nest in like a brain trust.
Grizzly, moose, cougar, wolf,
elk, deer, beaver, mink and muskrat,
eagle, loon, drake and Canada goose,
what totem of star mud
has not mingled its blood in my flowing,
what stars have not tingled on my skin
like butterflies landing on single sunlit hairs,
what tribes have not sat around their fires
while I flint-knapped the moonlight
into radiant silver spears
as the waves made small music
like a background theme of silence?
I don't need to know where I'm going.
I can be Kelsey, Thompson, or La Verendrye,
and keep a journal of where I've been
and make rough sketches of what I've seen
because flowing freehand isn't a point
it's a destination that's always on the move
shooting the rapids of the life line
in the palm of your hand
as if life were precious enough to risk it all
to see how far you had to go
to flow off the edge of a starmap that doesn't know.
Clash, dash, swirl and recover,
turn, counter-turn, stand
I like to waltz my way out of knots and nooses
like an Horatian ode in the glands of a Romantic poet.
I like to boost the torque of my whirlpools and currents
and open up the throttle
on the straightaways of cobbled river stones
as if I had a big four-stroke between my knees.
Underwhelm the birch groves before the beavers do,
tear the cedars out like molars,
turn whole villages into houseboats
and take my wrath out on the petty roads
that whine like potholes and puddles
if it so much as even rains.
All weak threads of ancillary streams
are gathered up into the strong ropes
of northern rivers with enough spine and backbone
to have all their chakras open
like the lunar and the solar filaments of serpent-fire.
My poems taste of stone and glacier,
unnamed valleys where the red-tailed hawks
have never set eyes on a human
and the sound of a voice
leaves the mountains speechless,
not knowing what language to echo.
Roil, roll, tumble, and spume,
lost in a froth of creative chaos
that brings forth rainbows and stars
and auroral veils of water and light
to mystify the message in the medium
by frustrating the logic of syntax
in the scintillant radiance
of counter-intuitive metaphors
that relate in myriad family ways
like salmon swimming upstream
summoned out of the spontaneity of the past
against the flow of the timely waterclocks
up to the sacred pools of birth and death
to die like old moons in the arms of the new.
I wreck whole forests like the Spanish Armada.
People run to me like a lifeboat
for shelter and sanctuary from the fire.
A northern river is the jugular of a snow dragon
with its wings spread as wide as Canada
breathing fire like two year old red oak
in a Napoleon airtight with a see through window
and a ten inch Selkirk chimney
that looks like it were cast out of moonlight
instead of polished aluminum
on a cold clear winter night in the country.
A poem should not mean or be
but do something to you like Vancouver,
rip off that life raft you've moored yourself to
like a running shoe tied up at a dock
and throwing it down like a gauntlet at your bare feet
see if you can learn to sink or swim for yourself
or, at least, walk on stars,
or pull the thorns of crescent moons
you're bound to step on along the way
out of your heels with your teeth
like a wolf pulls a porcupine quill from its paw
with barely a whimper of regret.
Sometimes you've got to bite the bullet
to get it out.
But a river's like a barbed arrowhead
and it's better to push it all the way through
than it is to let it tear at your flesh
like a bobcat on its way out of the bag.
It's not a good idea when you're in a northern bar
to start arm wrestling
with drunken men who build dams for a living
but you can get away with it
if you're a river and not a highway,
because they of all people
know your potential for destruction
when you're backed up
and there's no other way out
except straight through a brick wall.
El Toro!
And there's a crack
in the cement cape of the matador
that taunted the broad-shouldered bulls of the river
like a cattle prod in their stalls,
and a horn through his gored heart.
Torrent, rage, acquiesce, and chill out,
yes, a northern Canadian river
will do just fine as a similitude
for the way I like to write,
a neural connection to the planet,
a water root of dendritic black matter,
the circuitous blossoming
of wild irises and quaking aspen groves
all along the great water ways of life.
And as for inspiration
who needs more than the coming and going
of the waterbirds
to learn how to master words
as if they were as free to be what they are
as I am?
poem by Patrick White
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Related quotes
Sediments of life
Fresh and so curious
With purity and innocence,
What lies ahead, eager to know
As a stream we start to flow
Along this course down a hill
So many brooks of hope and vision
….of strength, dream and will
Conjoin as big river
Step ahead and flow further
In the course of life
This river is just young
Wild is its imagination
So strong, its ambition
Upwelling of its emotions
To secure a future, identity to define
Push the flow to rapids, down the valley to fly
The river of youth, went in speedy currents
On its way carried what was there on the earth
Down a deep gorge
As the water swiftly surge
Its strength at climax
Churn the drift to cataracts
In misty foam or a rainbow’s arc
The river leaves a benchmark
We as rivers, flow in currents
Posing on achievement and failure
Unfaltering and calm is the mid course river
Wide is its bank, serene its journey
As it steadily flows for legacy
On trails of time clays to imprint
To pass on layers of silt,
To witness its once existence,
It residues on the track of life
We as rivers, flow in currents
The long trip from its head
Through its voyage to recollect
At the last course, in the sunset
The river ponders on its sediment
At the mouth awaits the sea
As an outlet to infinity
And mistakes learned, toiled effort
Life of success, well travelled path
Enough sediments, brings about
Fertile ground to cultivate
A platform to reflect
Delta of life before the sea
Leaves the river to eternity…
Sediments of life to pile up
At the end since the start
Determined to move, if hope ever fails
The river ends without a trace
Through sieve of life, having no sift
The salty water the river meets
Rivers we are, to sediment in time
Flow in currents, life to define.
poem by Fasika Ayalew
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Ode To The Peshtigo
It starts as just a trickle, a spring which comes up from the ground, fed by many tributaries, to become one of the biggest rivers around.
Always there, constant flow.
Before it had its name, Native Americans used it as a highway, for even today people still travel it the same way.
This river has seen many a traveler, explorers, settlers, trappers, loggers, fishermen, hunters and boaters.
Spring, summer, fall and in winter, even though covered with a blanket of ice and snow, the river steadfast in its flow.
Stretches of water, blissful and serene.
Its rapids, waterfalls, noisy when one is near, yet tranquil to the ear.
This river is home to many animals, fish and birds.
For whoever visits this river, many places seem yet undisturbed, but one thing is certain, the river will always be there, constant flow, the mighty Peshtigo.
poem by Alvin Schaut
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To Gather Moss And More Of Moss
to gather moss
be a stone
to gather more moss
be a very still stone
be a stone still till the end
of time
you stand still and think
you want to be the moss
rather than a stone
to be all moss
you must betray the stillness
of stone
you must even forget
the importance of
what a moss can be
then you think some more
to be completely this moss
you need to be friendly
to the water and to the river
then you decide to be the water
instead of the moss
to be more than the water
you wish instead to become the river
and so you flow and learn the rush
and become the running river
until what you want really
is just to flow
to rush and run and then
you become nothing
but the motion itself
until you are lost
and then
you become what you are now
lost but real
always flowing, rushing, running
where nobody owns you
not even the river
or the stones or the moss
you have become
this running, this flowing, this being
so real so free
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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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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Watching The River Flow
While Sun shines bright
And the Moon is full aglow
That is the time
To sit and watch the river flow.
For that is the time
To write poems in the sand
And also in the mind
To hold a Lady's hand.
Heaven is above us
And Earth is still below
And not a better place to be
But to sit and feel the flow.
Fishes now are swimming
As the birds they do fly
Up and down the river
To where the bullfrogs cry,
Stars are shining bright
And the Moon is all aglow
While sitting beneath the moonlight
Listening to the river flow.
The shivers are going out
For the rivers flowing in
Up and down my life and soul,
Only to begin once again.
Heaven is above us
And the Earth is still below
How I love to sit and wish
And hear the river as it flow.
Randy L. McClave
poem by Randy McClave
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Water Vortex
It's hot on the river walk
Where to River? Play in new clothes
And rivers, remote back over at a friend inside.
Words to break the outer covering tears
What is the path to climb stricken with hardship Play
The sweet cruelty
Stone water fall flowing all evening
Away drag it out of the river
Danaya the birds glow, deep sigh Anonymous
And tears of your feet and flowers in water
Stand up to water, the loneliness at school.
You know, water's water, water vortex breakdown silence
None of the ship's mast Tear
The Black Keys pray for rain at night?
I was crying, asking plunged music.
poem by Shafi Sumodro
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River
(ArmandGwinn)
River, there are no stars in the city. Here, there is no telephone in the trees.
Beautiful days fall on the water, and all I can do is write you a letter.
River, it's cold here in the morning. Later, I can see it in your eyes.
Wild and white, we follow the canyons. Quiet at night, we stare at the sky.
Leaving you now will never change me. Running away will change the view.
All I can see is the highway.
River, you will carry me through the fire. Maybe you'll drown me in your arms.
But if I die like that, it won't be like dying. When I rise again, the ashes are mine.
Leaving you now will never change me. Running away will change the view.
All I can see is the highway. All I can see is you.
song performed by by John Denver
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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If life’s a river
If life’s a river
Flowing on a course
Long proven to be the best way
To reach the sea, then flow on
If the rocks and boulders
Are the cross
Each one of us is given to bear
Let our river flow around rocks
Over time, the sharp edged rocks will
Be rounded by the rivers flow
Ever there, but not so jagged
As they were before
The ever changing banks have seen
A trickle grow into a youthful stream
And swelling into a mighty river
That sometimes mingles with another
Every river looks for a path
That’s less rocky, a shorter way to the sea
Ever quietly flowing
Ceaselessly searching
Until one day, when it is time
A new path opens
The river changes path
And yet, every river pours into the sea.
poem by Anita Atina
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Electric Eel Song
Ay! me one child Ay-eeee!
Ay! me one daughter
Take out you’ foot
From the black river water
Haul out you’ hand
Out the slow river water
Stay ‘pon the bank
Of the cold river water
Ay! me one daughter
Ay! me one child! Ay-eeee!
Electric eel
Is the eel in the river
Shadow ‘pon the bottom
Is the eel in the river
Something like you’ hand
Is the eel in the river
Swimming like you’ foot
Is the eel in the river
Ay! me one child Ay-eeee!
Ay! me one daughter
Foot after foot
Though the black river water
She can’t touch the bottom
Out the slow river water
Shirt like umbrella
In the cold river water
Ay! me one daughter
Ay! me one child! Ay-eeee!
Electric eel
Is the eel in the river
Cutlass shape
Is the eel in the river
Black blade or brown
Is the eel in the river
Dozing so quiet
Is the eel in the river
Ay! me one child Ay-eeee!
Ay! me one daughter
Slap of a tail
Through the black river water
Shiver like ague
Out the slow river water
As if she take cramp
Of the cold river water
Ay! me one daughter
Ay! me one child! Ay-eeee!
Electric eel
Is the eel in the river
No blood, just a thrill
Is the eel in the river
Lightning bold
Is the eel in the river
And she Drown now, she chilly
Is the eel in the river
Ay! me one daughter
Ay! me one child! Ay-eeee!
poem by Slade Hopkinson
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Moonlight river.
moonlight river the eyes are shineing bright.
moonlight river love her with all you might.
moonlight river the darkness is falling.
moonligh river is there such thing off morning.
moonlight river makes my head sway.
moonlight river voice off the ocean on a sand beach bay.
moonlight river i think off her night and day.
moonlight river bring her back to me today.
moonlight river the star's are shineing bright.
moonlight river she is back with such delight.
moonlight river never let her go.
moonlight river tell her i love her so.
moolight river tear's in her eye.
moonlight river why did i have to die.
poem by Neil Derek Singleton
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Rubies Of Blood Running Like Ruptured Cherries
Rubies of blood running like ruptured cherries
down my arms. The night swarms
like a feeding frenzy of junkies
all in for a little taste. The heat hangs
like something dangerous in the air
as if the atmosphere were on a short fuse
and you can feel the fangs of its potential bared.
Like a bear to berries, I come here for stars.
It's a lair of sorts for wounded wolf hearts
gored by the moon, and it's healing
to look upon the waters when you're in pain.
There's nothing undisciplined about the chaos here.
Everything just seems to fall into place
of its own accord without anyone having
to explain anything to the animated silence
about how it all works effortlessly
in an unintended harmony of living and dying.
The trees understand like an alphabet
that's never gone out of use, what it means
when the wind skims through their leaves
like the synopsis for a serialized book of wisdom
with an ambivalent happy ending
that takes your breath away in awe.
And the waterlilies show their poems to the stars.
The serenity here could almost seem offensive
in its aloofness, as the genetics of random chance
get on with fate, and if you're noticed at all,
it's as a possible threat the beavers choose to ignore.
And the white-tailed deer cue off of them.
Not one of the wild irises clustered
like the indigo fires of the Pleiades
where the river slows down to pay homage in passing
to the decimated groves of the fallen birch
that lie like wrecked wharves in the water
the turtles and the frogs could sun themselves on
like happy freaks with no concern at all for their downfall.
Everything acceptable as a matter of course
with equanimity. A kind of impersonal poise
sustained even beyond death
in the way all living things
give themselves back to things as if
they were returning to the source of their own lives
to lavish the watershed with inexhaustible gifts.
Moonlight on the blades of silver swords
forged among the stars, surrendered
from a bridge between life and death
in a wordless tribute to the crossing of the river.
Or the unsayable insights of the rocks around here
that keep the epics of the glaciers
like enlightened haikus to themselves,
or a poet retreating into his solitude
to see if he can still remember all the names
of the stars that were the herbs and flowers
in the chalice of the ailing kingdom of his childhood
and if they still had the power to heal
what the man in me has left for the boy to feel.
poem by Patrick White
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Life Is Like A River
we give away like the way a river flows
day to day
we may start with the petals of the flowers
we let them fall one by one
to the flow of the river
then we begin again with the leaves and then
the twigs and the branches and then if we have
nothing more to give we give away the tree itself
to the flow of the river
we look at ourselves we give every part of us
piece by piece to the flow of the great river
our properties our honor our clothes and when all these
are given away we start to give back our hands, our feet
we look at every pocket of our senses and when everything
is given away we shall now give the last that we have to the flow
of this great river of life
we let flow our soul. we have given everything
sometimes we ask that we stay for a while, but this cannot be
the law of the great river of life is clear, we give everything away
slowly, willingly, until all the pain of giving is gone away
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Free River
Free River flow, Free River
so cold, Free River
you’re getting old.
Free River don’t cry, Free River
you’ve run dry.
I still see you through my youth’s eyes.
Free River you told no lies, Free River
your path has been made, Free River
all things change.
Free River you made it to the sea.
The friends I swam with once
are now gone, left only me.
Free River you’re worth more than gold, Free River
I've grown old.
I’ve lived by you my whole life and
I’ve left my seed through my wife, Free River
I lie at your shore; now dry,
Free River it’s my time to die.
poem by Patrick Dumas
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Sea of Immortality
The river flows through life as fish in the sea
The soul follows every twist every turn
Follow them and you will see
Follow life as it goes in time you will burn
Life flows as a river around turns and bends please follow me
Follow the river through its course
Through The pain and trials
Follow with truth if in vain the pain will worsen
Through The long hard miles
Follow the river through its course
Through the dams past the currents will flow
Through the trees and vines that you know
Some places flow high some flow low
Some filled with pleasure some with woe
Yet it shall not slow
The river of life it flows through the turns
Follow as the river moves on
To the ocean, to the sea
There your soul shall be lost
In the sea of immortality
poem by Bethany Maxwell
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Riverwalk
High above the mile high Colorado Rocky mountains,
Anywhere I see, I see the tall cliffs with silver lined snow caps,
The Alpine fir, blue spruce and oak trees abound,
The winter snow is gone, the summer greenery has come to stay.
In and around the trails,
I hear the music of river creek flowing down the hills,
The sparkling clean glacier water sings its own divine tune,
The gentle wind blows over and serenades her with whispering chime.
There are many obstacles in the river's path,
The fallen limbs, boulders and numerous rocks,
The river embraces these hurdles with tender touch,
It embraces, under flows, overflows, still playing its melodious tune.
I walk miles along the river walk,
I try to listen to the joy in the music of the current flowing fast and slow,
Whatever the intricacies and hurdles we face,
We must flow like the river, singing, dancing and living with joy.
poem by Jay P Narain
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It's a river
When the time keeps passing and the world goes round
and the sea is crashing at the cliffs and the sounds
erupting as the seabirds cry, you can watch the river
as the time goes by
And it's like it's holy and it can be hell
and you feel so lonely and you fear the smell
of the guns that fire then you see the light
of a rainbow dawning and you realise
that the river's flowing as the time goes by
And you met the people and you knew them well
and you said you loved them and you rang the bell
in the tree of life you watched them grow
and the world is turning as the river flows
The earth smells good and the sky turns gold
when the birds are singing and you bless the old
you can kiss your woman and it feels so right
as you touch the river as the time goes by
As you stand barefoot upon the morning shore
and you feel the centuries of death and war
and the wind is biting and it tears your skin
and the river's flowing where its always been
And the river washes and the river's clean
and the soul remembers where the river's been
as you watch it tumble and you watch it flow
your life's a river now you know, now you know
your life's a river now you know.
poem by Charles M. Moore
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The River
Last Sunday
I spent a whole day
with a beautiful river
trying to feel close
to each being, each thing,
even to become one with everything
that surrounded me.
In some way,
I learned from the natural
flow of water
what it means not to look back.
I should remember that river
every time I need to forget the past.
And it helps me to not mind much the now...
Why? Well don't you see how
"Now" is going into the Past fast?
So, the river taught me to aim forward.
It may last.
I tried to follow it
with my eyes towards the horizon.
And maybe there is where
River called my soul.
I believe I had the feeling
of sweet water loving me
more than anybody else
(as if I'd ever be loved much, lol.
So I have learned never to ask for love.
For my soul, that may be
as shameful as begging for money) .
But I have thanked the river
with my entire heart
for letting me in,
for washing my soul clean
and I gave it all the love
I could gather,
the river loved me back,
so much that "it"
(calling so because
of my indecision
of calling a he or a she)
almost let me to become one with.
I felt no more sadness
nor earthly pain
or hunger for eyes
to watch me dearly,
for arms to hug me kindly,
for smiles as gifts for me.
My selfishness stopped…
I had everything flowing,
I was melted into
zillion of water drops running
with the river, gliding
into the horizon…
For a moment
I believed that's it!
The horizon!
If you ever feel unloved
go to a river,
discharge your pains
and watch how it becomes
The horizon
... Feel you are one
with the river
and your going forward
no matter what.
To a place
where everything
is equally loved
and cared for.
I can only suppose now,
human could touch the horizon,
I know I can be the horizon,
are we the horizon?
Or maybe only a river
touching the horizon...
A river of love...
could I ever hope to be it?
For each creature,
each form of life
to drink me,
so I could be part of them,
and then them,
to be part of me
totally free
to walk or swim
with all rivers
into the sea
our Mother.
Mother to sing us lullabies
to hold from
small spark of stars...
Then scattered away
for another moment
of connection...
Full awareness.
poem by Elena Sandu
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Look To The Land
Well, I dreamed I was a gypsy riding the land
With a tambourine and a gypsy queen and a rainbow caravan
? ? ? ? ? ? ? yeah, but I wont be
Stealing diamonds from the rich men to throw in the sea
Singing look to the land cause the land is the key
Keep an eye on the lake, yeah and an eye on the sea
Yes, I dreamed I was a cabin boy on that american clipper line
? ? ? ? ? ? southcaroline
Oh bring flowers for the captain that they may not wilt
On the ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? (yeah, allright)
Yes I dreamed I was the captain of a river queen
Carressing mississippi waters down to new orleans
Just a riverboat captain thats what I want to be
Wont you come on now Ill let you ride my ? ?
Singin look towards the river for the rivers the key
Keep an eye on the river and an eye on the sea (and you know its allright)
Where the sun shines I will go mama take my hand
I wanna bring you to the lake
And the wild wind blows and the mountains grow and the people know
Yes they know you must let the river flow, let the river go
Where the river flows I will follow, where the sun shines I must go
Now mama, take my hand I wanna bring you to the lake
Where the wild wind blows and the people know
And the mountains grow, yes they grow
And the river flows, gotta let the river flow
Yes I dreamed I was a river flowing free
And I dreamed that ? ? just flow naturally
Yes I dreamed I was a crystal mountain stream
Running down the biggest mountain youve ever seen, singin
Look towards the river for ? ? ? ? ?
Keep an eye on the river and an eye on the sea
Dreamed I was your lover cause thats what I wanna be
I dreamed that every night you dreamed only of me
Well walk together by the sea hand in hand
Id tell you you were my only woman and Ill be your only man, singin
Look towards the lovers for they are the key
Keep an eye on the lovers and an eye on the war machine
song performed by by Bruce Springsteen
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Sinking..
Down in the water
By the edge of the river
where I ponder my life
just how did I get to this
Down in the water
By the edge of the river
where the waterfall of dreams
sweeps away what’s left to the abyss
Down in the water
by the edge of the river
where time stands still
Just only forever.
Down in the water
by the edge of the river
where I buried all
that was ever childhood
Where I let it go,
where it bends and meanders,
twisting along as the years went past.
Seemingly calm, but screaming beneath the surface
were its hidden whirlpools, a sweeping current
Down in the water,
I left the edge of the river,
as I looked down
for my soul at the bottom.
Deep in the water
Swept away by the river
I drowned in life,
......sinking forever.
poem by Deep Dark Soul Poet
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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River Death
River was
Running...
With water...
Water are
Nice too
Play with sands...
Trees...
Mountain rocks...
Swmming fishes...
Some time jump
With dive and swime...
Sun was see
Face at river water
Mirror...?
moon was
Click the eye
About
The river....
Animals are swimming
Birds also drinking...
People also
Swmming too
Wash the cloths...
River was
Every day run
Simply not sad...
At rainey time...
At winter time...
Summer time
River not run
Stop to stop
Death the river...
Sky cry...
With rain
Run the river...!
poem by Otteri Selvakumar
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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