I walk on water. . .
I feel the coolness of the
Rolling waves splash
Beneath my feet.
I watch the sun sprinkle
Diamonds across the sea.
I float above the clouds
And feel the radiant warmth
Of the sun bless my body.
I feel the power of the wind
Caress or twist and break
Anything into submission.
I rise above the towering Alps—
Snow capped and pristine.
I enjoy a fragile flower sharing
The faint scent of heaven.
I know the Sequoias, ever growing.
I blend with verdant pastures and
Serene rolling hills in misty rain.
I know the secrets of the
Deep dark abyss.
I sense the moon’s tenderness
And share in her emotions.
I flow with the clever rivers
Seeking new exciting paths.
I form a rainbow in waterfalls.
I am free to be the wind, the earth,
The sea, when all you see is me.
© 2010 Connie Marcum Wong
I am only inferring I am one with nature in this poem.
I told my Hubby I needed a fountain to help the words to flow.
It seems in the shower my creative juices, really know how to go.
My Hubby says it’s because I become relaxed, in body and in mind.
That releases everything to flow with ease and in record time.
But then he stated it might also be: the water pounding on my head.
It’s beating me senseless to release the flow and to open it up, instead.
This may be true with a hard head like mine, sometimes it needs a touch.
But I think a fountain would be way more fun, and not hurt near so much.
And what would be more beautiful, than water as it’s simply cascading around.
My lovely birds could have a drink, as my barriers come tumbling down.
My Trolls could frolick and play all day in water as the sun comes beating down.
My dogs would jump to catch the droplets as they fall upon its crown.
And all I need is to get a basket to collect my wandering thoughts.
Truly nothing could be more worthwhile, no matter what the cost.
Droplets falling thru my thoughts would become a rainbow for my mind.
With a prism throwing forth-countless words, to arrange within record time.
I wish! I wish! Oh, how I wish! To bring forth this dream of so much renown.
So many words bubbling to the surface, before they’d come tumbling down.
They’d fill my mind, and fill my soul… before touching each other’s soul.
My fountain would finally be complete, as cascading words did achieve this goal.
Now I truly know, I’ll have no fountain, or any great renown.
Still I am grateful, for the few, who’ve read the words, which I have written down.
Written by Carol Eastman
It's difficult to fabricate a verse
whose words convey like water in a stream,
but one should try, for there is nothing worse
than words that cannot flow nor form a theme.
I wish to write with words imbued with spring:
the kind that bloom within the reader's mind
and linger with the scent that season brings;
no better words than these can writers find.
Though, words of autumn also can console,
and so I'd like my words to warmly fall
as different colors toward a common goal;
and, like that season, may such words enthrall.
Upon my page I wish for words like oil:
acutely bold and never poor in point,
the kind that gurgle under ivory soil
and long to meet the eyes that they'll anoint.
Have not you ever yearned for words like song--
the sort of dialect that sings when said,
or maybe words whose voices carry strong
within the reader's mind and ring when read?
I want my words to thrive like fervent fire--
engulfing every eye that wanders near,
to dance with little match and never tire,
for words should last and never cease to sear.
It's also my desire to write like ice,
with words akin to water-- smooth yet sound,
the kind that naturally form and gleam concise
when brought to light where thirsty eyes are found.
But every word at least should taste like wine:
a flavor fermented and rightly earned--
the kind when sipped again, tastes more refined,
the kind that urges readers to return.
If the lovely breeze had a name
we could drift together as two dandelion wishes
floating wanton on foamy winds.
If the river were rolling, gently
we could slide in and swim
for hours, without rushing
and love is like that.
Love is like still water
standing so deep in a vessel
yet so easily broken upon the smallest of stones;
scattered, and yet-
from this another river begins
(as you begin)
How lovely if you had a name
I would call out to you
and I would hear your reply as
the wind blowing, the water rushing
and not your echoes
as you trickled across so many small, jagged stones
One fine day as I was traversing the green,
in the last throes of Autumns' twilight.
I sat upon a flat stone,
overlooking a trilling brook,
to ponder the meaning of life.
As I sat ,and thought,
the soft chimes of music,
from the water spirits,
lulled me into a dream state.
Some where in that liquid crystal,
stubborn stones are worn smooth,
by the passage of time.
Elsewhere the fluidous mercury,
rushes toward a cleft ,
a water fall.
Bringing forth melodies,
never to be reproduced ,
by mere human hands.
As my lids grow heavy,
I'm awakened by the flash of silver,
silhouetted by the last rays of the setting sun..
With regret its time to leave,
as I turn to go ,
a misty rainbow is captured ,
by the fading beams of light.
I smile, at peace,
the promise ,
the sun will once again ,
eclipse the horizon.
I turned on the water sprinkler under the Weeping Willow
A fine stream it did spray
The tree was lacking the nourishment that it gets from water
For it has not rained much in many days
As I was working in my kitchen and viewing the scene
Along came a male Red Cardinal
On a rose bush he did preen
Just close enough to the water to receive a fine spray
When he was water coated, he flew away
Up into the Weeping Willow and puffed his feathers out
Shook his tiny body as a dog after taking a bath
Then he sat in the Weeping Willow and rested for a spell
Before he had time to dry, a Black Bird
Landed on a Weeping Willow limb
Just close enough to the spray to get his shower today
Very intelligent these birds of the yard
Knowing how to refresh and clean their feathers
Sometimes I wonder if they are not more intelligent
Than some of the humans that have big brains
And fancy hair....
(I'll call it free verse for no other reason than I don't know where else it would fit.)
The ram died high
On the snow covered
Mountain, when the thaw
Of spring came, it's
The melting snow
The waters flow
Brings death in grip
The less germs
(This is also a metaphor for sin. The farther we stay away from it the cleaner we stay. Of
course, we can repent but the results lingers.)
Waves crash down on the rocks reducing them to sand
Then sweeps them away to some far off land
The wave roll in covering my feet in sand
In the concept of time I wonder just who I am?
I gaze before me the vastness of the sea
Represents all the possibilities inside of me
I can’t think of any place I would rather be
I have trouble describing there’s so much to see.
I walk out to the rocks to find some treasure
I find many starfish much to my pleasure
It seems that the only way to go is up
So I step up and take a drink from life’s cup.
Peace and tranquility fill me inside
While the waves provide a pretty good ride
The water is cool and so refreshing
All of the pieces seem to be meshing.
A seagull in the water and gets hit by a wave
I dawn a smile and feel I am saved
I like how the sky melts into the sea
Over the horizon sounds like the place to be.
The adventure I’m on may never be through
Sometimes I’m not sure what I should do
I just press on and see what shall become
I like what I see so I try to grab some.
She sees herself suddenly as a small girl
bare feet on the cold black and white tile
little toes curled
sees the white porcelain tub and
how pretty the light blue water was
so deep it almost came to her chin
as she climbed in
For hours she'd play with her dime store sailboat
loving it though it would hardly float
always taking on water
listing, never level
her wet skinny back hunched over
shoulder blades like primordial wings
every few minutes she'd have to shake the thing
Trying desperately not to break the spell
it was time to let the water out
she'd always stay to watch the water drain
weighing the emotional pain
both fascinated and horrified,
as the suction intensified,
by the force of the water
the unstoppable slaughter
waiting for the inevitable rotation
the dizzying spin
Slowly at first growing faster and faster
a miniature cyclonic water disaster
The dime store boat of course on its side
circling faster in the relentless tide
Then the drain would give a horrible belch
much satisfied with itself.
As she grew the tub got smaller
with shallower water
less and less room
for pretend to bloom.
Years later, dime store sailboat long forgotten,
life having been mostly rotten
working with the most cynical of cynics
ER nurses bitter that it's more like a clinic
runny noses and coughs that folks thought were urgent
working hard to save those who were truly emergent
Hearing from them the phrase: "circling the drain"
memories suddenly flooding the brain
almost able to feel herself as that young girl
watching the sailboat beginning to swirl
Feeling the blood drain, face going pale
she sees vividly the boat with its bright red sail
yellow hull and blue plastic deck
fine hairs rising on the back of her neck
She realizes now the fatigue of age
is from fighting the pull with defiant rage
The closer you get, the faster you spin
and soon the dark whirlpool draws you in
With a knowledge that seems to be purely primal
she now understands the downward spiral
And she knows that she will not put up a fight
she'd rather go silently in the dark of the night
And the dime store boat comes to rest on its side
so it's all come full circle at the end of the ride.
Water! Earth! Wind!
A new photograph floats to the surface
Playfully dressing up as the world around me
Hat, striped socks and all
Tiptoeing at the top for one last sweet moment
Before sinking back into my ocean mind.
One after another they arrive
Steeping my eyes in the world
As the minds shutter, ever fluttering
Strings together this conscious stream I play in.
My photographs fade in time’s wrinkled arms.
Joining their brothers and sisters at the ocean floor,
They hold hands and try to answer the question that is always asking itself:
Who am I?
Flight of stillness;
Ladders point up
but they say the ground is greater;
sunlight knitting to their brown feet green socks.
They crestfall and
buckle at the knee.
Hear guts clap thunder off somewhere else
but no storm in sight to maitre d' this mesa;
got to rot the mud lest
an urge to ripen ripens.
But hear now
the locusts flood this rut,
hunt for want,
impelled to eat each lunch of your decay.
Earth uncorks her pores.
you drift upon the grass, lift the damp from the sod
like a pillow of cloud sopping Earth's steam-
to be made the steward of this land;
Pay in full the cost of water,
less labors not yet lost.
Why Poets Write
Why do poets write?,
Why does the moon shine at night?.
Why does water fall with such grace?,
Why is a rainbow such a beautiful sight?
So, why do poets write?
Do they write because the moon shines so bright?
Do they write because water falls with such grace?
Or is it because of the majesty of a hawk, in flight?
Poets write because that’s what we do,
Whether it be a Sonnet, Etheree or Haiku,
We see things through our own prism,
And write about it in our creative point of view.
This is why I write,
I write because I see beauty in the moonlight,
I appreciate the splendor of a waterfall,
And the majesty of a hawk, in flight.
I write because it feeds my soul,
Writing the perfect poem is my ultimate goal,
I write, I do my best,
The rest is out of my control.
The perfect words, in the perfect order,
Follow the rules, no pressure,
Slowly see your creation come alive,
When it works, there’s nothing better.
Poets, generally, don’t write for the glory,
We heal people by proxy,
We are emotion peddlers,
And we do it all for free.
I can’t speak for everyone, nor would I try,
My urge to write is something I’d best not deny,
Or things go drastically wrong,
Like ice, in the middle of July.
So, regardless of why you write,
Keep your vision in sight,
Take criticism with a grain of salt,
Never get discouraged, never get uptight.
Jesus... The Living Water
Jesus is the living water
which can satisfy.
HE is the oasis in a land
barren and dry.
Only HE can bring true
satisfaction deep within.
HIS living water can break
the bondage of sin.
He awaits you with his
love and grace.
His living water shall fill
your "empty space."
You were made according
to his design.
He created this world
with you in mind.
Come and drink of his water
that only he can give.
Taste of his everlasting love
each day that you live.
NOW is the day of salvation...
please don't delay!
Listen to the words
Jesus has to say.
His promises are forever,
steadfast and true.
It is no secret of how much
he loves me and YOU!
By Jim Pemberton
(Another old, childhood poem.)
Do you remember the old water well,
constructed of wood, stone, shingles, and clay?
It still stands in the dell --
old, decrepit, and gray.
Bordered by flowers of varying hues,
it serves as an altar to a lonely recluse.
The old water well where once we did meet
lies crumbling in dust, a hermit's retreat.
leaves catch sky water
buckles with too much weight--
Written August 21, 2013
There's a girl in the garden
She's messing with your rose bed
Plucking weeds out from your head
And watering the seeds in your bed
But where will she wander
When the roses are dead
Will she come back for more
When they turn back to red
She can run all alone
Write this story in stone
On concrete slabs
Of skin and bone
Tears from the sky.
Looking at me.
Abyssal, deep, the
ocean flows and ebbs--drowning
souls under, tide-like.
I know you.
Candles lit, incense fuming,
You like it when I bite your neck, just hard enough.
Blankets thrown about the room
So recklessly, they refold themselves.
And we roll down a hill together,
Kissing the leaves, tickling with our eyes,
Laughing with our hearts.
"You'll just leave me for the next girl you find."
"Yes," I say. Because only
And it spills through the cracks in your hands
The moment you grasp it.
Like water from a stone.
She bites my neck
Drawing lines of ecstasy down my back with her fingernails
Spilling into me, fighting my words.
"I leave when the sun sets."
The animals know better than us. The rain has never poured so loudly in a key so soft.
To the front, the sailing of city buses and mini vans cruising across in this weather makes the water underneath their tires sound like the street is crying out for 5 more minutes of sleep. Up above, the trees are protecting a nest of baby blue jays before they get washed away by the silence of their mother not being there. But with sky blue young spirits, and small empty stomachs, they keep hope alive in the fact that even children know storms and struggles don’t last forever.
Below the trees, nature has found a name to call it’s own. From the hole dug by the little boy next door, a family of three foxes have named human nature sanctuary, and burrowed their problems into the sediment to rest for a while.
To the side of the hole, a flock of ducks are swimming in the water with eyes open wide enough to where you can see their loyalty to love one another rushes wild.
To the right of the pond, caged up in a man made blanket, and lost in his own mind, is the boy. From what he remembers, last night was like a train accident; A head on collision of two people he could’ve sworn he saw holding hands just the other day. He hears the sound of plates shattering in C-minor, and the chorus of words that his parents screamed in F-sharp, so he imprisoned himself in his own bed sheets, accompanied by the courageous corduroy bear who he swears keeps hearing whisper “everything will be okay.”
It’s raining outside, and the crescendos of screams have been silenced by it’s peaceful security.
The boy, sleeps soundly now. The rain has protected his ears, and guarded his heart from being washed away by all of his nightmares.
He doesn’t care whether he wakes up. The baby blue jay, the resourceful fox and the brave little duck are all he wants to keep dreaming about.
Maybe he’ll run away into the rain? Or maybe into the arms if his mother?, whom he prays he can still recognize. To the left of his bed, he picked up the blank page of his coloring book and a crayon, and became a life long poet in that moment that morning. Taking a deep breath in, and giving a soft breath out, his first sentence was
“The animals know better than us.”
It so hurts
This feeling of nonsense
This inequality of love
Of both sides
Because of excuses
Because of worthless attempts and matters
You perform the most despicable and careless mistakes
You know I can’t hate you
But I’ll dislike you forever
And I’ll avoid the speaks, the furious gazes
I’ll avoid you and try never to need you
Never to want something from you
Because I know
My tears aren’t that precious anymore
Aren’t that water that really matters
Cuz the fire within me grows
Without the water to let out that blazing mass of anger
It would shoot the stars and take out the moon
To come back a fury stone, a burning Meteor
My kind acts and reasons to be better
Chucked sharp thorns onto my face
So I went off, leaving those pitiful acts behind
To move on, to step on a new trail
One with one of nonsense
Turn On Your Light.
Turn on your light
Turn on your light
Light the velvet softness of your night
You might have felt that breath of sweetest power
In that silver moon
That paints the twilight hours
Have you ever felt that mystic pull
That takes you from the smallest flower
To melt into the all.
I sometimes stand there staring at the sea
As each wave reaches out to destiny
To fade and then to come back
So another wave might form
To be destroyed
Then to be reborn….
Turn on your light
Pass no judgment, who’s to say what’s right?
No need for this when light is shining bright
Have you felt such magic
Have you felt that pull
It’s something that must happen to each fool
He must learn how to melt into
The silence of the all.
The secrets they be wrote within your soul
Seek them out and let them make you whole
Each flower it must bloom then die
So know your precious I
Must be destroyed
To be reborn…
I do not know?
My Wishes are Simple
My wishes are simple,
my desires few,
to gaze upon an ocean,
and marvel at a solitary drop of dew.
My wishes are simple,
my dreams not too grand,
to feel the waves teasing my tired feet,
with no footprints left in the cool, wet sand.
My wishes are simple,
my thoughts serenely gentle, calm,
my heart resting beneath a swaying palm,
healing my being, caressed by nature's soothing balm.
These pretty little creatures
On the serpent road to Exmouth
They be some of the features
Along with Emus, Kangaroos
And handsome birds of prey
These little goats be bountiful
They’re all along the way.
They be domestic goats
Who’ve gone back to the wilds
Where they have bred one million fold.
As one moves along the miles
These little goats be seen so much
In their many shades and hues
Don’t know where they got their water
It be tough country too.
The weather here be hot and dry
As the sun bakes everything
And mostly here no rain does fall
To drinking water bring.
And yet these goats look healthy as
Such nimble little beasts
You’d see some dead there in the road
As the crows do have their feast.
That be the price of progress
That poor beasts have to die
That be the curse of human beings
Sometimes it makes me cry
Yet still they be so plentiful
These handsome little guys
Another little part of nature
That make love in me rise.
Now twelve midnight, two A.M.
Water flows freely
Sleep eludes my eyes
Three A.M., four-thirty, augh, sigh
Water flows freely
A globule of liquid is
dropped into this ocean,
Blending in, one with the water that is
chaotic, frothy, never still.
Moving along, flowing along the waves
Shaken, being the shakee, watching the water move
Everything after all is a tumble of roiling emotions
Then the ocean stood still,
and there was only hmmm . . .
It turns out, this globule was a mistake...
It never belonged, never truly blended in.
An illusion, perhaps?
It had always been different.
In a word:
In every sense of the word.
Easily separated, filtered out.
Then tossed, swallowed
Vestiges of it erased,
like it never deserved to be there in the first place.
Is joy found in Thee and thine or in me and mine?
Whose words teach of the path, my life will define
Is happiness found, respecting all things, being kind?
By seeking a common good of man, with thee in mind
Or by achieving goals, success that will benefit me
Is this the key to unlock the grace foretold from thee?
It seems that many men’s words differ in religious belief
Each group’s path shifts, as when wind blows a leaf
Which men’s words should I follow, whose thoughts are true
Or do these men speak with words, mixed in an evil brew
As I think, ponder, on what path I should follow in life
You guide my direction, as the "Great Spirit", my fife
Let earths wind, water, fire, teach animal, plant and man
All lessons they need learn, from the creator of the plan
All mankind needs your grace to discern wisdom from folly
Some men distort your words to sell tickets on their trolley
With "faster is better" and “giving of your life will be holy”
Beware the cost of the ride, proceed a little more slowly
Wisdom discerns truth, as knowledge comes alive
Let your spirit be taught, before man can contrive
As the water sleeps
Amidst heavy silent rocks -
A rare twilight creeps
Highest mountain peaks
Evergreen trees clear stream
Serene living water
7-17-2011 for John Freemans Contest Power in Observation
a fifth place winner