Each month, write a new collection.
lazy on the riverenveloped in watersun on my facearms outstretchedlegs danglingI float freedrifting down thislazy river, the soundsof life mufflededdy to the shorenestled in therocky beach
OK, next month just say water for every day and I'll write a poem about it - no no this is not hyperbole.
Great poem man. I will have some water poems next month! I'll be up on the mountains, splashing through streams.
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.
I'm posting a first draft of my water poem, which will probably never get redrafted:Foolish mother could beDigging for sandcrabs Skipping in the waterCollecting seashellsDragging seaweedDaring the waves.Instead, she talksTo the grownupsUnder a canopy. A grimy marineLayer covers My face andBurning sunWars againstMarine gusts.Ocean spraysRinse away lifeAnd the tide keeps It at bay until it’s tooCold and I must find myWay back to my mother And that blasted canopy.
Hey Carole! Nice to see you here and great poem too!
love it. I like the shape of the poem also
Faces of waterWater flows in the riversRuns deep in the oceansSeeps through cracksleaks in pipes and fallsIn beautyOf a waterfallInto a pool of coolsurfaceRippling acrossthe pond as you skipYour stone to see it slip and jump along the lakeTo rest at the banks of thePulling and pushing, pulsatingAnd flowing, drawing back and Forth to hear the sound of the Ripple from the middle to the edgesand then back againThe water you see The water you feel on your faceand the freshness you drink inas it inaugurates youand refreshesgiving you energyand lifeThe sustenanceof all living thingsWaterIt cleans and washesIt is clear when stillLike when we are clearin our minds to sit stilland become like the waterour friend to emulateand be of onegiving life
I love this. I love the way you play with language and give the moment texture.
There is a secret lake in the dark canyons near the windy coastIt remains hidden deep in my memory filled with sweet waterI go there lateat night alone walk the path to meet lost lovers and old friends. The moon is fulland there are bottles of cold white wine waiting, wantingto be cherished lovingly, leisurely lost in my mind
I like the secret lake idea. I have one too!
Yeah absolutely. That's wonderful!
I've been wanting to write about this for a long time, not sure it works though:IrrigationThey 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.
Yes, this absolutely works! I love the personification and the sense of power!
Walk Along the Sespe CreekThe trees reached up into the skyarms outstretchedoffering worship to the autumn sunThe banks were tightly packedclosely guardingkeeping the water from escaping the streamThe rocks nestled against the sandcomfy, cozycreating natural bridges for us to crossThe water gently wandered alongnever stoppingcarrying stray leaves like paper boatsThe breeze followed close behindnature's telegraphpassing on messages sent by the frogsWe stepped in with cautionalways listeningto hear the secrets the creek had to tell
I love the personification that's happening in this poem too. Beautiful!
It was a 3rd grade field trip :)
She pins their clothes on the line after dark.His work shirt. Their school uniforms.The dress meant to disguise yearsof marriage and motherhood.She looks up at the superior moon. She hums a melody and driftsagain to that distant afternoon, rowing him in a boat,reading his fortune in a passing cloud.Her hopes grew like wild geraniums. Her faithhung 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 sandinto a rush of waves and kisses. She offered to show him howthe birds charmed the sun outof hiding every morning,but she couldn’t convince him to wait. She wanted to love himthe 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 smileand made those first burning wishesto stop hearts and time. Her faith is quieter nowlike her expectations.She loves, yes, but it is not so honest or clear.Life drifts and drifts.And no matter how carefullyshe tethers her boat to the shore,it always returns here.--Lynne
Wonderful poem. Beautiful! I love the pain and isolation of this.
That's beautiful, Lynne.
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 toMy siblings and his wifeMy 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 pipesThat water came from into the creek.I remember thinking thenI thought this was supposed to be a real and natural creek.I felt cheated.To this day, I'm still confused...
You were lucky too. There's almost never water in it. Great poem!
Really? Hmmmm. O:-)
The first time I walked into the Pacific I snuck clothed intoComplete wetitude Laughing in our corduroy pants and matching tops my cousin and I egged eachOther on to go past wading bit by bit the parents not watchingUs carefully til we got Our legs soaked the cloth sticking to the skin the stain bloomed upwards the water ballooningOur underwear out inside the sodden pants. We’d startedWith toes but the water was so cold and delicious andGiggling that water said let me darken those pants. The water talk Won Out over stilted well-behaved dryness. It felt inevitable and slow and certain, so we bothGot 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 whenWe got back to shore sheStripped us of the dripping mass stuck us in giant grown up parkas, with bandanas for panties —Why this? Propriety, I guess. Those tiny girl privatesCouldn’t be left naked even under a coat.Our pants flapped in the wind on a makeshift clotheslineWe pranced in our parkas waving at the sea.