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?
Copyright © Jacob Reinhardt | Year Posted 2013
The lonely scent of a drop of rain,
It floods, then disappears to ground.
If only people were as aware as so,
Then loneliness would no longer be around.
The lively smell of the ocean,
Sea salt and the long tides that make music.
If only we didn't crash like the water against sand,
We would be stronger, brick by brick.
The long lost scent of a teardrop,
As it streams down your cheek.
The scent I thought would have disappeared,
But our bonds were much too weak.
Water is just another thing,
To say my mind is flooded with emotions,
But if I could truly feel my heart as it races,
My ocean wouldn't feel so empty by my actions.
Copyright © Frisk Carris | Year Posted 2014
A river folds upon its banks
with waters deep and cold.
Its molten flow rolls endlessly
from aquifers untold.
It ripples over ancient stones
placed when the earth was cast.
Each sheared and formed the bedrock's course
'neath outflows bold and fast.
Swift currents know of time's slow ebb,
and legends never told.
Its surface gleams beneath the sun
of sagas being scrolled.
The sky above has seen the work
of time's artistic hand,
and knows the melding and the strength
of water and the land.
An ancient bending vein of life
connected with the wold,
that shields enigmas deep as time
in runnels which enfold.
Roll on past hill and fertile land
'til deltas cease your course.
The river and the woodlands speak
of life's primordial source.
Copyright © Brian Baumgarn | Year Posted 2015
Feel me standing there
on the draw bridge
that stands stubburn and erect
over the rushing waters blown by the wind
back and forth.
I listened to the crows
posted on gargoils designed
of eightenth century Gothic architecture
singing their death songs,
when the sun is setting in the far.
The voices of women passing
startle me with a feeling of sorrow
I can't breathe, I am dying.
Feel me, can you feel me rot away?
Slowly but surely rot away
as time passes with ease,
and taxi cabs take smiling, intoxicated faces
to wayward cafes, oh how they screech to a halting stop
and wave to me to get in.
"No thank you, I'd rather walk." I say to the smiling faces
highly intoxicated with the thought of the birds and the bees
rattling around in their empty minds.
Then they drive off, into the city lights and turn a darkened corner.
I look at the rushing water
and feel myself rot away
slowly but surely rot away.
Can you feel me?
Can you hear me?
Can you see me?
Feel my heart thump with slow paces
that manage to keep up with fast melodies.
Of songs that play in your mind
only the ones that make you sigh
and think those one days in Spring time
as you walked over the draw bridge
and paid no mind to the water underneth.
I hear no more talk of you and me, I hear no more talk
of the good old times we all shared.
Time has passed, as I take my last breathe
and hold my chest and shead a tear.
Feel me, can you?
If you can, put your hand to my weak heart
and feel it thump away with every second wasted
on useless items.
Now, see me a man of one time greatness
reflect his life with a reflection in the water below.
How I sigh and cry and breath heavely,
as I feel myself rot away.
The voices of woman pass me by.
Tomorrow is a new day,
for the smiling faces in taxi cabs will go home
and soak their raging hangovers with cool, wet rags.
As I still stand on the draw bridge singing with the crows,
feeling myself rot away.
Can you feel me without you, rotting away?
I surely can feel myself rot.
Such a heavy word, "rot"
So vulgare, yet a great description of me,
I pull out a shawl you once wore and I kiss it.
As the wind gusts and the sun rises and my shadow
comes to meet me, the wind shall take my last memory
of you away.
And I shall weep no more.
Then what will I do? Shall I walk the streets
and think of you.
Yes you, still rambling all throughout my head
like a lose screw.
Can you feel me? Feel me rot away
feel me think about you, and all your works.
Can you feel me?
Copyright © Chris Boskovski | Year Posted 2013
A Poem to love
To day I am placing here a great Hindi poem of a renowned poet
Translated by me as a poem which I hope would touch your mind
And heart intensely.
From the day I read this poem in between a play its wordings
Have touched me very deeply.
Since the poem is a beautiful piece of poetry by a great Indian
Hindi writer, poet, dramatist and story writer I am trying to
Bring its translation as much I could make from my mind without
Claiming that this is the best.
Brief background story for poetry soup lovers to judge the poem
In light in the light of its real beauty:
The heroine who was in the age of sweet sixteen was in love
With someone very intensely, but his actual lover ask her to
Show her love for someone else for obtaining a greater result
For the sake of his motherland and the heroine tries to love
Some one else, who asked a price for the same and gave only
Pains and agonies to her. But, when she sees her actual love
Her hearts is willing to welcome him and how- you will see
In this beautiful poem:
Translation of the poem of Jai Shanker Prasad a great Hindi poet.
Jaishankar Prasad (January 30, 1889 – January 14, 1937),
one of the most famous figures in modern Hindi literature
“Intoxicated by the wine of youth, in the age of sixteen
She cared only to love
And to whom she should give her heart,
She had no desire to know
And the one to whom she sold her precious heart,
Was asking a price for the same
The greedy even took away
The only treasure of pains and memories from her
She felt dusty storms were rising in her heart
And her love was coming totally unaware,
She thought to sprinkle water running from her eyes to
Make the path slippery
So that her love may walk slowly
And she may behold her love, a little more
The longing of her life may get fulfilled
And her hopes may get a base to stay a little more
She knew all the steams of the world would be running from her eyes
Making it more difficult to recognize her face
As the deep sea in her eyes would be splashing water on her face”
Only translation is made by me and the poem in Hindi belongs to
Late Jai Shanker Prasad.
Kanpur India 29th January 2010
Copyright © Ravindra K Kapoor | Year Posted 2010
Time is water running free
running wild into the sea
Sometimes slow sometimes fast
you try your best to make it last
Time is known to always pass
flowing down your hourglass
All around you - always new
you see it melt like morning dew
Time is floating in thin air
you try to fetch it pure and clear
But you just have to let it go
slip it through by breathing slow
Time is candles burning bright
bringing warmth, love and light
In a flickering timeless blast
the glowing flame of time has passed
Time and water
Feel it flow
by growing old
Copyright © Steinar Gismeroy Olafsen | Year Posted 2016
Water Age Haiku
Smooth rounded rocks hold
In deep water, age slows, forms
Birds follow ripples
8/21/13 Haiku On Enlightenment contest
Copyright © Earl Schumacker | Year Posted 2014
The days are water
dripping, dropping globules
falling from somewhere high,
past the clouds,
past the trees,
past the hands of the thirsty
trembling on their knees.
Copyright © Ekso Ekso | Year Posted 2014
The water rippled and folded smoothly
as it entered the first delicate slope
down to the lagoon.
The rocks, slick and ebony black,
shining in the moonlight.
Laughing can be heard,
above the bubbling sonata
echoing through a hollow log
as water dropped from
ferns and forest primeval.
Teasing, her tongue slightly brushed his
in hurried anticipation,
her soft young body changing from
that of a child, but still more
advanced than the young prince.
He had not filled out as his father hoped
and already puberty rites were late.
He hoped for the growth spurt
that would let him be called a young man.
The young prince was not concerned.
He planned to rule wisely instead
of with a heavy hand.
He entered the water above the big rock.
Going limp and floating as
a disjointed piece of hemp rope,
he loved to glide over and around
the slick rocks as the current lazily
carried him downstream.
He slowly entered the lagoon,
fireflies and moon beams
dancing on the water.
She was waiting with a smile.
They made love and
the only sounds were theirs,
falling on no one else’s ears.
Their world was perfect in that one moment
in time, and space, and pleasure.
Strange- - -he no longer felt like a child.
© Jun 1 2011 Charles Henderson
For Rambling’s Rippling Stream contest.
Copyright © Charles Henderson | Year Posted 2011
A dam burst in Iraq and that`s how it began it rained for months
and no one had thought of building a Noah’s ark fill it with pigs
to feast on when Christmas came around but there would be
too many objections from practising Jews, vegans, not forgetting
Muslims and the two Semitic people`s family would squabble as
they have done for centuries and the vegan`s would eat seagrass.
When Himalaya was a reef sailors on ships had eaten each other
sardines, a metre and twenty long, danced in The Radio Music Hall
a shimmering synchronised display entertaining dolphins; and
the Wall Street was a hangout for hammer- head sharks as were
the way of the pre-flooding days. Finally, the water ebbed enough
for the only man left to go ashore on the reef and dry his feet,
burning his raft, smoke a cigarette and wondering, what happened
to the blue whales.
Copyright © jan oskar hansen | Year Posted 2016
(Argument for the Biblical Account of Creation.)
I don't see why some people try,
without reason, to reach a conclusion.
They must haveconceived an end to be achieved,
through pre-supposition already chosen.
They accentuate the positive, ignore the negative,
and, apparently, find comfort in illusion;
to prove a connection they've already reckoned
will fit their pre-supposed delusion.
Yet, steadfast is truth, we find from our youth,
in solving the age old mysteries;
by following the evidence through reasoned inquest
of science, and accurate histories.
True science has shown aging to be known
affected by the rays of the sun.
Bible history attests longevity was best
Before Noah's Ark made its run.
We see man's age decline right in line
with the canopy deluge postulation.
Now, we can't see how fitting this must be
from the onset of creation.
The Bible also lists, a pre-flood morning mist
rising to water the earth each day..
Would this not lead to the conclusion indeed
of a water vapor canopy in play?
Then, the canopy fell as rain, quite well,
all the habitable land to cover:
"the deep" broke up making the oceans a cup;
can we logically conclude any other?
Urchins of the sea have been found to be
upon the highest of mountains.
Wouldn't this tend to show proof of a flood flow,
and its ebb into the fountains?
Don't ever pre-suppose a rose, a rose,
if it looks some what a carnation.
If you do, I must firmly assure you,
You will earn reason's indignation.
Reason can surely be a help for you and me,
if not corrupted by pre-supposition.
Think it all through, ignoring the Bible won't do
You'll be found in an untenable condition.
Copyright © Lionel Ledbetter | Year Posted 2011
The wind was moving into the mist of heaven,
it is a fog of light streaming from down below,
in its eyes of realization,
into the unknown of the bliss and sound waves
echoing to be into the vastness
of the light blue sky, and beyond the enormous
bright stream of shadowy rainfalls.
Copyright © Brigett Hurley | Year Posted 2013
I am nothing but a raindrop
Sliding down the path of life
I feel in the beginning I was pure
I was wholesome
but as time went by I collected dirt
I lost myself along the way
And now I need only look back to see
Parts of me that rubbed off
On the world
Sometimes I feel lost and afraid
Feeling like the path I'm on is predetermined
And perhaps that's exactly what life is
Maybe we're all sliding down predicted paths
To what will likely be similar ends
It's not as if I'm the only raindrop on this path
For there are millions of raindrops just like me
Yet each raindrop tells a story
In the pathway that it leaves behind
And perhaps one day my story will be told
Or maybe I'll fade insignificantly
Yet all I can do is keep sliding down this path
The fear of the unknown is always there
And perhaps that's exactly what life is
We're all fighting our own demons
Hoping to defeat them before they defeat us
And perhaps every raindrop loses part of who they are
We only need to look back to see
But what rubbed off someone else
Has become a part of who we are
I feel that maybe in the end I'll be pure again
And I'll be whole with a lifetime of experiences
While the dirt will be cleansed
I am nothing but a raindrop
Sliding down a windshield
Copyright © Christopher Goss | Year Posted 2013
History takes us back, two thousand years ago,
People walked and rode, where'er they had to go.
News would travel slow, and folks would gather roun',
To hear the latest thing, passed from town to town.
Cities had a well, where water could be drawn,
Families lived in homes, without a yard or lawn.
A common thing like trash, was something of a chore,
None had rubbish cans, to sit out by the door.
Carried to a cart, drawn outside the city wall,
Where a pit of fire, was made to burn it all.
All lived day to day, with smoke and ash about,
Protection from disease, the fire could ne'er go out.
Now there's a City built, untouched by human hand,
The folks of olden days, called it Beulah Land.
It has walls and gates, and flowing water too,
And every home afffords, a quite spectacular view.
The Builder there is wise, and never let's trash in,
The disease it causes has a name, known to Him as sin.
The news has traveled slowly, even on modern earth,
The trash of deadly sin, is spread to all at birth.
Now Gehena was the word, they called their fire pit,
The 'never ending fire', the title seemed to fit.
The Builder made a pit, of fire to burn as well,
Far away from Beulah, a place we know as Hell.
The source of sin is Satan, rebellious from the start,
He corrupts each man, from deep within the heart.
So Hell was made for Satan, to rid the world of sin,
And on the day of Judgment, he will be cast in.
The Builder sent His Son, to cure us all from sin,
Starting from the heart, He cleanses us within.
This miracle must start, while we yet draw breath,
Whether young or old, but surely before death.
Sin is from within, staining soul and spirit,
The Son can throw it out, eternal fire to sear it.
But once the body dies, with sin stain still in place,
Sin and soul entwined, the fire of Hell will face.
A morbid picture true, but not the Builder's plan,
He made in Beulah Land, a home for every man.
He loves us everyone, enough to keep us free,
Allowing everyone, to choose their destiny.
How can anyone, such a marvelous Gift receive?
The Builder's price is this, simply just believe.
Copyright © David Edgin | Year Posted 2009
The story of ages goes on
Skin and bones like a cling film
Tighten against empty stomachs
Like bariatric procedures
The daily walk of miles for
Few drops of holy water
Trickling in imagination like
Lost mirages in sandy travails
Earlyman lives on..............
Childhood is not a dance in elysian gardens
But the kickstart of endless struggling days
For starving children with ribbed bodies for morsels
That we with callous hands disband in overflowing bins
April 9, 2016
Picture # 1
For Silent One
Copyright © Balveen Cheema | Year Posted 2016
I do not know?
Here is a glass of water from my well.
It tastes of rock and root and earth and rain;
It is the best I have, my only spell,
And it is cold, and better than champagne.
Perhaps someone will pass this house one day
To drink, and be restored, and go his way,
Someone in dark confusion as I was
When I drank down cold water in a glass,
Drank a transparent health to keep me sane,
After the bitter mood had gone again.
Copyright © Roger Hadden | Year Posted 2014
Between each limping breath
the sky pulsates blanched green searing;
each day inspired by gray blight, each day
the firmament harbors dense, blazing energy,
a circus troupe of skyward lungs hacking up
the essential thoughts of Winter.
Heads of hail gloriously divebomb now,
heads the very size
This Age shall never sleep
till Sleep pulls us away.
No more dimples—no more passion.
This Age slipped in
an omnipresent thief
borne on each fiery eve,
born from all of our greed.
The past seems to have never existed at all,
in every other hall lies rubble that dissolves.
I wander the wind-swept, strewn city of my youth,
seeking out Reap, to strangle the inevitable
with hands still quoting the past
I should rather not live in a world
I should rather not live
as a forgotten man; cold.
I am not the last man, yet
I am the last who has known real men and women.
I live out humanity's demise and channel Winter
through my hoary icicle hair.
I see the last black swan,
gashes dried beneath the eyes
in the shape
of what only you may realize.
How I wish for water...ah, but fool,
irony is all that's left.
I know that you are dead, dear A.—
the swarm had graced your life.
And here in verse, my love's insane,
immortal until Night.
Though the past for me is nearly lost,
one scene shall ne'er so blindly frost:
when locusts entered into all eyes:
wind-up toys in the sky.
Copyright © Richard H. Dunsany | Year Posted 2016