Barges Poems | Examples

The Rivers

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.

Goldie Locked Up

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.

High Rise Legends

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.

Sparkle

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.

Prologue To Alternative Earth

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

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.

Ballad of the Harecastle Tunnel

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.

A Visitor

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

Chance Visitor

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

This Ever Changing River

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.

Fast Food, Fast Death

Let’s get some pizzas nice and cheesy

Nothing to cook, life is easy

Another quick fix, just what we need

Fast food, at lightning speed.

Food can fix most of our troubles

Deliveroo, comes to our homely bubble

Stay in and they deliver

Bad for your heart, bad for your liver

A gallon of coke, quench your thirst

Rot your teeth, a trip in a hearse

Your fast-food gut expands and enlarges 

Let’s a buy a fourteen-seat sofa 

For a couple of barges. 

Look in the mirror a gastric disaster

Use some pills as a sticking plaster

Fatigue, couples the weariness of sloth

Cheese up some bread and finish the loaf.

David Cox 24/06/22

A Fine Day In Cascais

A fine day in Cascais

A beautiful spring day in Cascais, the centre full of people
which I found a little disturbing.
We moved slowly on old legs like weather bitten barges
in a sea of jubilant racing boats.
It was warm, down by the sea, and we were overdressed.
My wife’s niece had the patience of an angle adjusted her
strides to our gaits, not easy I’m sure she is a picture of 
healthy living.
We had lunch, theirs was fish, I settled for a Greek salad
no wine though knows from experience unless you by 
a full bottle, the wine served individually in glasses tend 
to be inferior to the residue of bottled wine of dubious taste.
We drank beer, and the healthy niece stuck to water.

Fire On the River

The boat rocks gently under a reddening sun,
is it wrong to wish for a Viking burial,
to ponder a last journey West
into the dying light?

I could rest my soul here in this skiff
on this one long warm wave of evening;
let the wooded lands and sloping meadows,
the coal-stacked barges, the brimming ports,
all the patched up river towns slip on by
under the flaring sails of evening clouds.

To watch as night slips into the river,
to be a dark swimmer,
then to ponder a burning boat
surfacing from the depth
of my enkindled imagination.

I Sat By the Riverbank

I sat by the riverbank today and wondered
How long it takes the water to get to the Gulf
Considered things my inquisitive mind ponders
Like what is so enjoyable about playing golf?

Save for an afternoon stroll, I see few merits
Especially since my back has developed kinks
My bag of clubs, the works, my son will inherit
While I spend afternoons catching forty winks.

I sat by the riverbank today and wondered
If those barges ever break loose in rebellion,
[Since their burden is a product plundered],
And run amok like some undisciplined hellion.

I suspect I should beware of my mind adrift
For, at my age, questioning can embarrass,
Although the soothing water gives me a lift
A day like this spent idling is simply fabulous.

BRONZE MEDAL WINNER
Written April 12, 2022
"Anything Goes" Poetry Contest
All Poetry
April 19, 2022

The River Is Sighing

Last evening, I noticed the Ohio River is sighing
As its waters flowed lazily toward the west,
I wondered if old rivers might fear their dying.

They tell me her fish are no good for frying,
Technology prevents her from reaching a crest
Last evening, I noticed the Ohio River is sighing.

As I sat resting along the bank, I felt like crying,
The view hindered by barges floating abreast
I wondered if old rivers might fear their dying.

I could see the pollution along her edges drying
Not in negligible amounts, too much is manifest,
Last evening, I noticed the Ohio River is sighing.

A few civic-minded folks who care keep trying
To clean up our waterways, doing their best,
I wondered if old rivers might fear their dying.

Tugs were anchored at the ship’s store buying
I wondered if the tugs ever take on a guest,
Last evening, I noticed the Ohio River is sighing
I wondered if old rivers might fear their dying.


Written April 4, 2022
submitted to Brian Strand's
Premier Poetry Contest

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