“Here I can spend hours to unwind and renew-
with nature's blue sky, rolling hills, river view”.
__By Poet
From my backyard, I love our river views,
where the Hudson River meets each season's sky
of gray clouds, snow blizzards, or sunny blues.
The river's mood can switch as days roll by,
from rippling waves of grays topped with frothy tips,
to the calm of a pond's reflective eye.
Day and night, they pass- the barges, cargo ships
chug on from North to South and back again,
while private boats sail round and return to slips.
But best of all are each new day's windowpane
that frames the morning sun's majestic rise,
while fiery glows paint both sky and river plain.
These lovely views bring nature to my eyes-
and too, at times, a huge rainbow surprise!
To turn water into wine,
Treat it like it's Divine,
The finest thing around,
Find a copper ground,
Fine tune it with sound,
It's found in everything alive,
Striving for survival,
Surviving until our arrival,
A rival to the environment,
Hell bent on succeeding,
Needing more and more,
Scorching the forest floor,
To pour concrete in the sore,
Building store after store,
Exploring the inner core,
For a place to store garbage,
Barges dumping trash at sea,
You can't see the damage,
You're trying to manage the bills,
Taking pills to feel better,
Better get your stuff together,
The weather can change in an instant,
Those strange instances,
Were never a coincidence,
Convinced you can't change it,
You re arrange your perspective,
But water is reflective of us,
Trust your intuition,
Ask as if it listens,
Glistening in your glass,
Passing on information,
A Divine integration,
Bringing a sensation,
That tingles down your spine,
Aligned with Divine intention,
Water will make you feel fine,
Like drinking a glass of wine.
Pink skies
Weary eyes
Another morning
Mourning
People lie
“It’ll get better with time”
But time never ends
The pain barges in
And makes a home within
I’m afraid it’ll always stay
At least I’m never empty
You’re always here with me
Thoughts of what could’ve been
fifth grade in Peoria
I stand alone
on a quiet street
in front
of my grandmother’s
apartment building
where my mother
and I are staying
until the summer
and my young eyes
on a Sunday morning
watch
a stream of water
near the curb
it is a river
I take snow
divert its flow
before it reaches
a drain
all is taken
to the Illinois River
just down the hill
where workers tend barges
as they have for ages
a quiet morning to savor
as the luminescent sun
glows through clouds
and winter reaches
toward spring
and the sky
o the sky
it is an ocean
The Chesapeake Flotilla consisted of 18 small vessels,
fGunboat No. 137 and Gunboat No. 138
Several of the small ships recovered from
St. Leonard's Creek were part of
Commodore Joshua Barney's Chesapeake Flotilla
during the War of 1812.
While many were gunboats and barges
these had no formal names
identified only by there hull numbers
n addition to the gunboats, the flagship of
he flotilla, the USS Scorpion, was located
buried in the sediment of the nearby Patuxent River.
Written by;
Mort Rainey
Researcher for
Ernst Bettler University in Swisserland
Gill-Men's Navy
Book and Movie
The ghost Peppers were grown in winter
by the Siberain Aqua Farmer
A filmmaker wanted to film a movie
his dimented mind
came up with an idea
Use the Creature of ledend to eat
the scum from the street and save on cost
and produce the film fast and cheap
and make alot of money.
It was a hsush, hush affair
and involved very few.
Until Capt. Ymaly an alien
who transported here to find a creature
of space orgin
The rivers race, the rivers flow,
in great torrents and low oxbows;
the rivers flux, the rivers breathe,
small minnows darting endlessly;
the rivers deep, the rivers wide,
fishermen cast off from the sides;
the rivers cold, the rivers ice
runs jagged like a glassy knife;
the rivers press, the rivers force
turns the turbine, powers the core;
the rivers breadth, the rivers path
lets all the boats and barges pass;
the rivers curve, the rivers rake,
they give shape to the whole landscape;
the rivers breach, the rivers surge,
when water speaks, it’s always heard.
That Goldilocks, a miss or a misfit,
How did she spin a classic charming theme?
Breaks and enters, she gets away with it -
Runaway teen in home invasion scheme!
Her arrogance exceeds all social norms,
Her conscience strikes unprecedented deal:
Not only unaware bears’ home she storms,
She barges in and settles for a meal!
But not until she vandalizes by,
Breaks a few chairs, bends spoons, too cool to care.
Guess what catches her burglar’s savvy eye?!
Sweet sentimental stuff of baby bear!
And then she acts as if she owns the place -
She’s heading for a snooze, all fed and chill.
Guess what she chooses as her resting base?! Innocent baby’s beddy, better still!
Now you tell me how classic is the tale,
Why is this blonde protagonist indeed?
She should be held in custody, no bail,
Goldie’s Breaking Bad story banned to read.
Red Riding Hood, another drifting child,
Chatting up wolves - likelihood to turn wild.
London growls under the tread
of diesel driven dreams.
A stork visits,
an attic full of discarded toys.
White mice sleep in pajamas,
made of childish nightmares.
Barges reek still, just as when,
sweat was as common as dirt.
A window in Baker Street,
opens to let pipe smoke out,
it uncoils in the air
like a left-handed genie.
Meat mongers return to their,
gore-soaked cradles
before the dawns leery light.
The city is a fable,
there is fuel oil seeping,
through tunnels and runnels,
where entrenched gutter snipes
lie low and wait.
Denizens' crabwalk
along Regents Street
barking Chinese commands
at oppressed corgis.
Stately towers are pressure washed,
until they shed a dark sunlight
that fractures ferrous raindrops.
Tenements sink under the weight,
of red carpets
until the blood flows
out of them.
London by night,
is a veneer,
a crust
of low expectations.
Now what do I do with this love of mine?
It seems to have lost it's sparkle and shine.
I hope and keep praying, that he'll show me a sign,
That shows that he feels I've now paid for my crimes.
But here I sit waiting...wasting more than just time.
Playing house and pretending that everything's fine.
Until reality barges in, as I write line after line,
And I see my poem come together...
It's my life that won't rhyme.
Imagine a world that
Could have been
A little more rural
Of forest and green
Steam is the power
Coal is still king
And they rely a lot
On the clockwrk spring.
A much slower world
As Shires pull loads
Along its network of
Near empty roads.
Canals are still busy
Towpaths are still clear
Though it’s more likely
Steam barges will appear..
Eyes closed to imagine
Let your brain give birth
To that concept of
My alternative Earth.
If you are now ready
To accept that scene
Then I’ll tell you my stories
Of what might have been.
Outside my office window, is a field with a canal running through it,
Today people have turned up with diggers and dumper trucks and are digging the field up bit by little bit.
Oftern barges slowly and gently go with the flow and casually moor there,
But now with all that equipment just to go ashore they have to really beware.
Don't know why they are doing this, no one is really sure,
It's probably to build new houses, everyone knows we need more housing stock,
But you jst can't help feeling they are taking the countryside apart rock by rock.
The moon shone on the water
Dyed ochre by the iron mines.
Centuries of men have toiled
In trenches and in chines.
Carving through the sheer rock face
To tunnel under hills
Canals to link the land of wealth
To the cities of the mills.
Airless channels deep below
While all above is calm
And death could be a breath away
Placed in the way of harm.
Pick and shovel toiled away
Through millstone grit and stone
Canals for coal to fuel the kilns
Firing plates for every home.
And now two hundred years or more
Have passed and times have altered
For Instead of barges lain with coke
Are cruisers strewn with boaters.
The working boats have been replaced
By holidaymakers vessels
And the tunnel stands as testament
To the stone masons true mettle.
He comes visiting when least expected
In all places at any time or clime.
No rich nor poor ever can shun his calls,
Not the youths or those who are past their prime.
When he arrives, you cannot close your door;
He makes his entrance though you say, “No more.”
He frequents battle fields and hospitals;
He drops by on anyone, weak or strong.
His visits, though unwelcome, fall on all--
Man, woman, child, alone or in a throng.
When he appears you cannot say, “Next door,”
He barges in for what he’s looking for.
Though mute who utters not a word nor sound,
Oft he announces himself with a “Bang!”
Sometimes he bides before entering a home,
Sometimes he’s as quick as a boomerang.
At times he leaves a clean job, at others gore,
His visits are an event to deplore.
There are few who invite this visitor
And would embrace him if he could be touched.
But most fear and detest this unseen guest
That distinguishes not who’d be dispatched.
He crawls or slides or floats, or he may soar--
And comes for you before you can implore.
March 30, 2023
A poem is a chance visitor
Who barges in unexpected
But when waiting for his arrival
He may not show up
A guest with no propriety
Feb.2.2023
Bite size Contest. No.60. Poetry Contest
Sponsor- Line Gauthier
The Ohio wipes its face every few miles.
A bend in the river
forgets the wharfs, the gravel silos
and power plants,
only occasional coal barges
push an industrial past before them.
Here cattails gather herons
into measured dominions.
The river gallops under placid waves,
fish-eyed currents dip and toggle
in the ripple.
It is possible to watch yourself
in this new bend in the stream,
possible to wash your face
anew also -
there to see your own rivering.
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