Friday, June 19, 2015

June 19 -- Water Poem


  1. lazy on the river
    enveloped in water
    sun on my face

    arms outstretched
    legs dangling
    I float free

    drifting down this
    lazy river, the sounds
    of life muffled

    eddy to the shore
    nestled in the
    rocky beach

    1. OK, next month just say water for every day and I'll write a poem about it - no no this is not hyperbole.

    2. Great poem man. I will have some water poems next month! I'll be up on the mountains, splashing through streams.

    3. awesome, sounds like fun. I remember when I was about six floating on the Colorado river. The trip ended really badly, but that is another story.

  2. I'm posting a first draft of my water poem, which will probably never get redrafted:

    Foolish mother could be
    Digging for sandcrabs
    Skipping in the water
    Collecting seashells
    Dragging seaweed
    Daring the waves.
    Instead, she talks
    To the grownups
    Under a canopy.
    A grimy marine
    Layer covers
    My face and
    Burning sun
    Wars against
    Marine gusts.
    Ocean sprays
    Rinse away life
    And the tide keeps
    It at bay until it’s too
    Cold and I must find my
    Way back to my mother
    And that blasted canopy.

    1. Hey Carole! Nice to see you here and great poem too!

    2. love it. I like the shape of the poem also

  3. Faces of water

    Water flows in the rivers
    Runs deep in the oceans
    Seeps through cracks
    leaks in pipes and falls
    In beauty
    Of a waterfall
    Into a pool of cool
    Rippling across
    the pond as you skip
    Your stone to see it slip
    and jump along the lake
    To rest at the banks of the
    Pulling and pushing, pulsating
    And flowing, drawing back and
    Forth to hear the sound of the
    Ripple from the middle to the edges
    and then back again
    The water you see
    The water you feel on your face
    and the freshness you drink in
    as it inaugurates you
    and refreshes
    giving you energy
    and life
    The sustenance
    of all living things
    It cleans and washes
    It is clear when still
    Like when we are clear
    in our minds to sit still
    and become like the water
    our friend to emulate
    and be of one
    giving life

    1. I love this. I love the way you play with language and give the moment texture.


  4. There is a secret lake
    in the dark canyons
    near the windy coast

    It remains hidden
    deep in my memory
    filled with sweet water

    I go there late
    at night alone
    walk the path

    to meet lost lovers
    and old friends.
    The moon is full

    and there are bottles
    of cold white wine
    waiting, wanting

    to be cherished
    lovingly, leisurely
    lost in my mind

    1. I like the secret lake idea. I have one too!

    2. Yeah absolutely. That's wonderful!

  5. I've been wanting to write about this for a long time, not sure it works though:


    They pulled it away from the great river, taught it
    to flow down a vein of concrete through the desert.
    My dad would make a phone call and the reservoir
    would begin to fill. The water would then flow
    through the rows of oranges, lemons, grapefruit,
    where each row became a long, narrow Roman bath.
    Each tree stood in this trough, drinking in water to feed
    the hard green balls of fruit that hung beneath its leaves.

    Sometimes there would be a call from the hired man
    while Dad was eating lunch: “Breakover!” and he
    and my brother would scurry to action. Somewhere
    in the orchard, water had forced open a mud trench
    they had built to guide it, and would be gushing
    over the road until the men would rush down
    and rebuild the trench. For this, the great river made
    its sacrifice! Throughout the drama, we sisters alone

    could lounge on rafts in the swimming pool, spin around
    in an inner tube, dive from the bruising hot summer air
    and into the warm clear liquid, watching our shadows
    on the white bottom – our hair pulsing out around
    our heads with each frog kick, prism shadows made
    by the ripples on the pool’s face – for we were girls,
    and never had to pick up shovel or hoe, even
    if we wanted to. All we had to do was one day find
    the perfect men to marry who would take us away
    from this land of sand, heat and diverted water.

    1. Yes, this absolutely works! I love the personification and the sense of power!

  6. Walk Along the Sespe Creek

    The trees reached up into the sky
    arms outstretched
    offering worship to the autumn sun

    The banks were tightly packed
    closely guarding
    keeping the water from escaping the stream

    The rocks nestled against the sand
    comfy, cozy
    creating natural bridges for us to cross

    The water gently wandered along
    never stopping
    carrying stray leaves like paper boats

    The breeze followed close behind
    nature's telegraph
    passing on messages sent by the frogs

    We stepped in with caution
    always listening
    to hear the secrets the creek had to tell

    1. I love the personification that's happening in this poem too. Beautiful!

    2. It was a 3rd grade field trip :)

  7. She pins their clothes on the line after dark.
    His work shirt. Their school uniforms.
    The dress meant to disguise years
    of marriage and motherhood.
    She looks up at the superior moon.

    She hums a melody and drifts
    again to that distant afternoon, rowing him in a boat,
    reading his fortune in a passing cloud.
    Her hopes grew like wild geraniums. Her faith
    hung warm across her shoulders with the sunshine.

    That day turned into a night like this one.
    The moon extinguished the stars.
    They laughed and twirled across the sand
    into a rush of waves and kisses.

    She offered to show him how
    the birds charmed the sun out
    of hiding every morning,
    but she couldn’t convince him to wait.

    She wanted to love him
    the way she wished to be loved, with joy--
    honest as mountains and clear as the sea.
    But when he let go, she turned away with a smile
    and made those first burning wishes
    to stop hearts and time.

    Her faith is quieter now
    like her expectations.
    She loves, yes, but it is not so honest or clear.
    Life drifts and drifts.
    And no matter how carefully
    she tethers her boat to the shore,
    it always returns here.


    1. Wonderful poem. Beautiful! I love the pain and isolation of this.

    2. That's beautiful, Lynne.

  8. Is This Man Made or Natural?

    Lytle Creek was an exciting place to discover.
    I don't know where my Dad finds these places to take us to
    My siblings and his wife
    My uncle, his wife and their kids.
    My first impressions?
    I guess it's like a river.
    I guess it's like a lake...
    I guess this is what a creek looks like.
    I was disappointed.
    Yet, at the same time I felt an intense fascination with the place.
    The water current was mild that day.
    "Let's walk to the pipe", I remember hearing a family member say.
    Okay. I went.
    After some trudging,
    We ran into a series of several pipes
    That water came from into the creek.
    I remember thinking then
    I thought this was supposed to be a real and natural creek.
    I felt cheated.
    To this day, I'm still confused...

    1. You were lucky too. There's almost never water in it. Great poem!

  9. The first time I walked into the Pacific I snuck clothed into
    Complete wetitude
    Laughing in our corduroy pants and matching
    tops my cousin and I egged each
    Other on to go past wading bit by bit the parents not watching
    Us carefully til we got
    Our legs soaked the cloth sticking to the skin the stain bloomed upwards
    the water ballooning
    Our underwear out inside the sodden pants. We’d started
    With toes but the water was so cold and delicious and
    Giggling that water said let me darken those pants. The water talk
    Out over stilted well-behaved dryness. It felt inevitable and slow and certain, so we both
    Got wet past the waist and beyond to the ribs. My cousin’s mom
    didn’t yell, but she must have called us back somehow
    and when
    We got back to shore she
    Stripped us of the dripping mass
    stuck us in giant grown up parkas, with bandanas for panties —
    Why this? Propriety, I guess. Those tiny girl privates
    Couldn’t be left naked even under a coat.
    Our pants flapped in the wind on a makeshift clothesline
    We pranced in our parkas waving at the sea.