Best Boathouse Poems
HELLO DR. SEUSS – DO COME IN
There’s a BEAR
On my STAIR,
And I wish it
Wouldn’t STARE!
There’s a WUPBOARD,
In my CUPBOARD
And a DOX
In my BOX,
I know there’s a DARSKET,
In my BASKET
And perhaps a ZUBOON sitting
Next to my BABOON
Who resembles a BUFFOON!
Then there's SCRUB
Who lives beneath my TUB
A pleasant GUY,
He’s from Planet JIY
And taught me to FLY!,
But there’s a pesky GARBET,
Who lives in a JARPET
Within my bedroom CARPET!
I enjoy GRUDGET,
Who’s a tiny CRUDGET,
Who sees to my BUDGET!
In our boathouse,
Is a family of WASCALS
I really love these RASCALS
3 of them love me a lot,
The other three, wish I were not!
Old Mr FUBBLES,
Who blows BUBBLES,
Has a LUTTON,
Who’s a GLUTEN
On his BUTTON!
I also have a XELF,
Who likes to DELVE
On my SHELF
It’s fun living with my sister
Who has no idea,
I keep a ZOBBIT,
Who resembles HOBBIT,
In her BONNET!
POTD 20/6/2019
ASSUMPTION, PRESUMPTION , GUMPTION
I don’t enjoy been on a plane,
I find it scary and a tad mundane,
But last time I flew,
I sat next to a lady I slightly knew,
I was bored and wanted to play a silly game!
It was the same lady who lived across the street,
Her sandals were shoddy and she had ugly feet,
Her face looked bloated, red and big,
And every day she wore a new wig,
I thought she was also perhaps an adulteress,
A cheat!
I noticed that she ordered a stiff brandy,
She’s having an affair, she’s used to being randy,
Truly how could this lady attract a husband
And lover,
She was clearly quite plain,
What did either of them have to gain,
Even her hair was mousy brown and sandy!
We started chatting about this and that,
And told me she was on diet for she felt fat,
I’m no professor but have two degrees,
So noticed she spoke with intellectual ease,
I felt bad at what I thought earlier,
My thoughts had to somehow retract!
She was CEO of a well know airline,
But sadly had cancer of the spine,
Which she was hoping to beat
The cancer had also spread to her feet,
She could only wear sandals, I knew then
I was out of line!
I wanted to make her feel good,
My thoughts weren’t nice, that is plainly understood,
I invited her to join us on our luxury liner,
For as long as she liked, she was also a deep
Sea diver,
We became best of friends, and pleased her,
As only a friend could.
It turned out that the man I saw going
In and out of her house,
Was her brother, so she didn’t cheat.
On her spouse,
In fact they were about to repeat their vows,
Underneath the boughs,
Of an old oak tree and a river on which
They had a boathouse.
Elsie got better, thank God,
Both she and I thanked Him, He was
Our rod,
I was really lucky to have found
Such a genuine friend high up, off the ground,
We both lived by the sea, had a picnic,
And watched the whales, a huge pod!
I have now learnt not to make any
Hasty assumption,
But to have gumption,
For I was horribly wrong,
I had come a long
Way, since that day on the plane, not to
Make any hurried presumption!
He's quick to flash his latest jewel.
They must have brought it by mule.
And while he's dazzling your eyes.
He's quickly saying his goodbyes. Smirkedey Smirk. What a jerk!
He's spotted mermaids from afar.
Quick introductions, hit the bar.
Imbibe it all, babe, it's on me.
What I want later will come free. Smirkedey Smirk. What a jerk!
Next day he's strutting like a stud.
Forget the gym. It's steroids, bud!
As for performance, he's the star.
He'll screech the stop lights in his car. Smirkedey Smirk. What a jerk!
Long, lovely wailing sax solo. ( While all around him plot a discreet murder)
( behind the sand dune? No, under the pier!)
( In the boathouse! Oh, no, he's going to sing!)
My daddy's rich, he's CEO.
I know everyone there is to know.
So keep your hands off me and mine!
My Speedos are designer line. Smirkedey Smirk. WHAT A JERK!
Smirkedey Smirk. Smirkedey Smirk! ( Repeat and fade out. And then, a shot rings out?!...)
The rain appeared, arctic
Spattered the duck board
As angry pellets flinched
And recoiled
Boathouse dank, bleak
Galley proofing transpire
Moist and humid
With sense of Frangelico
And bitter almonds
The sord chattered
With new fervor
And feeders sojourned
Past darkled dawn
Composition turned to
Decomposition
Place in basket
Not to collate
Wits and writer’s block
Onset of migraine
Twinge
With visual disturbance
And sorrow
Write of grief
She is not coming back
Time heals
Do not die
Spring frontward
Go home
Sun is aching to flicker
Drop downbeat design
Bloom buds of dreams
My head splintered with silent thought
As I pondered over the crimson memories of you
Lifeless you lay
Like a boathouse wooden
Still as a frame
No longer in view
Lay
Little birds spill onto the gravel
Chirping with disoriented confusion.
A spindly flock warbling
“Mère! Mère!”
Through cracked lips and bony beaks.
Hawks circle indifferently
Unfamiliar with the call
But acquainted with the cry.
The scarecrows converge,
Singing their songs of
Reunion across the river.
Seductive assurances and
Dry straw lies
Come together when
Hopeful lines form
For a mère poule promise.
Across that green field
The boathouse beckons,
Under late summer boughs
Alive with blossoms.
Across that green field
The boatman waits.
One night in Central Park
Was a love that I embarked.
Of the moments I've endured,
I've never been so sure
Of what may compare to that boathouse,
'Cause when I looked into her eyes,
I saw a faint surprise
A moral hiding out.
Once upon a time, I loved.
Once it ended with a shove,
I found justice by the pond,
Already grown quite fond
Of somewhere I knew I would be,
'Cause when I looked into her eyes,
I came to realize
I had another need.
By the water, she took me there
With sweet spells in her hair.
Echoes of loose words she said
Rang in my head,
Deep in my head.
There was no way I could doubt her
When she asked for fifty dollars,
Everybody has some kind of fee.
She took my heart,
She took my money,
Then she took me.
In one night in Central Park,
I loved her in the dark,
And when I finished, I implored
I had something in store;
I told her I was wealthy,
And when I looked into her eyes
I came to realize
She had another need.
Butterflies filled me at first
And as she reached into her purse
I still felt our lives had begun,
I felt so young
Till I saw her gun.
I knew my dreams would not unfold
I had simply dug a hole
And once I fell in too deep,
She took my heart,
She took my money,
Then she took me.
There was no way I could doubt her
As she robbed me of my power;
Everybody has some kind of fee.
The house, sailing on the boathouse, trains are in the roundhouse, I served jury duty in the courthouse. I played with dolls in the dollhouse, my husband is in the doghouse, I never want to visit the jailhouse, flowers filled the greenhouse.
Date Written:6/17/2021
Note: It has been a very, very long day/week and it shows
here.
Laugh a little.........
3 Place
Workshop: Adjectives Deleted Contest Judged 7/11/2021
Sponsored by: Jack Webster
we'd drink something that'd give good boot
something strong
he'd tell me about Dylan T
the boathouse
the scenery
how he'd party with the worst of them
show 'em how it's done
and maybe
somewhere between
the laughs and the re-fills
it would spiral downward
to past loves
ideals
the occasional awkward stare
and silence
Then we'd part ways
fluff-brained
wobbly
and forget what we'd learned
about each other by the morning.
The Medusa
I painted a picture of a tranquil bay, a red boathouse
rowing boat, golden pebbles in shallow water
naturally, the sky was blue, the mountain afar hazy.
A noise upstairs, the woman rearranging furniture
doesn’t go out and gets bored, breaking the dream.
When she was done, I looked at the painting again
it had changed; the boathouse had holes in the roof
the mountain was too close, gloomy and snowy
In the sea, a medusa, with tentacles reaching
70 years back in time when the aside was spoken
lasted into the future.
The sting of the medusa had a woman’s face, stung.
When the aim of the bite had gone, the hurt had not
putrid through the ages, a wound that does not heal.
The upset said: “we can no longer tolerate this slight
against us.” We are a proud nation.”
No one knew what the remark was about, it had been
vindictive, and a demand for a historic apology was issued.
Sabre rattling, ambassadors left armies at borders
war broke out.
Sunday Fishing
In a tranquil inlet a boathouse pained red, a wooden pier
with steps and a rowboat, tied to the pier. The sea is clear
as spring water off a mountain fount, but at the bottom
a woman on her back, eyes wide open, around her neck
a heavy iron chain. Her long skirt moves with the tide like
Brown seaweed and her legs are white as a bride´s dress.
The sea darkens a rain shower passes over, then it stops
and there is Sunday calm. A man in sou'wester appears,
carrying a plastic bucket, he jumps aboard the boat, casts
off, rows to the bay and begins fishing.
When returning it is getting dark, the bucket is full of fish
He secure the boat, before leaving he lights a flashlight
to see if he has forgotten anything in the boat, then walks
home; and there is calm in the inlet
How ideal to luxuriate
supposed divine right frill
maximizing climate control
with matter of fact bravado
creature comfort pang to fulfill
consequent flagrant portent
to exercise freewill
beware controlled environment
pays hefty bill
cracking heat as
temperature gets chill
cumulative destructive
ecological footprints generated,
thus advisable to swallow
figuratively bitter pill,
herewith suggested
binary/digital quill,
cuz unchecked energy
consumption will
necessitate fossil fuels
subjected to frack and drill
invariably contribute
render moot no rhyme
or reason for Jack and Jill
to hastily clamber uphill
fetching pail of possibly
tainted, ruined, polluted... water
evidenced courtesy eutrophication
algal blooms, decimated krill
aquatic flora and fauna stockstill
meaning... untenable for life
perhaps percolating, spewing, zapping...
seepage from landfill
nsync with detritus
many industries spill,
not necessarily directly
linkedin to cranking thermostat until
warmth ideal for barenaked ladies,
who cavort, frolic,
viz yule eyes imagistic poetic skill
veritably lighting boathouse row
reflections shimmering, scintillating,
glistening off Schuylkill
deceptive brilliant appearance
unsafe toxic drinking water courtesy mill
yens flowing electrons to power
industrial secretes no longer confidential
public knowledge and awareness critical
to stem tide allowing, enabling,
and providing juice to sustain treadmill
ever faster rat race pace of life cozily housing
*****sapiens hermetically sealed against
extreme temperatures,
ye must adapt experiencing chill
bundling layers of clothes -
case in point yours truly,
who also keeps windows ajar
refreshing brisk air lungs to fill.
This is the story of Albert Bligh,
who painted a boathouse upon the sky.
Albert was as bored, as bored could be;
he’d grown up in a house high in a tree.
Albert had a bigger dream, you see
and wanted to sail the seven seas.
Through the world, he did roam;
seeking a perfect ocean home.
Albert couldn’t afford a boat,
an artist poor, he stayed broke.
But dreams still came to him at night
and he envisioned things just right.
He mixed his paints with oh, such glee,
for a special boathouse, he’d soon see.
Upon that Oceanside sky of blue,
a boathouse, Albert painted true.
It hung there like a magic beacon,
he completed it in summer’s season.
That night he dreamt of sailing far;
for he had never owned a car.
When morning came Albert was surprised,
for right there, before his aging eyes;
up in the sky hung his houseboat;
beneath was water and it did float!
A ladder he placed by its’ side,
and inside it, he did climb.
He sailed away on heavenly seas;
his longing truly was appeased.
Now if you see a painted ship,
sailing by beside a blimp,
know that it’s magic, that you espy;
the magic boathouse of Albert Bligh.
My baby has bi-lateral bonbons.
She modulates her rhythm side to side.
She’s a twenty-mule team moving violation,
Her motives pure as borax, her methods bona fide.
She stood naked in a shell at her creation,
Now she promenades down Broad Street like a queen.
She claims her corner armed with guided mistletoe
And decorates her hair in wintergreen.
She’s wearing pearls and sexy Christmas stockings.
She’s stunning as the lights on Boathouse Row.
'Twould be a thrill to occupy her manger,
And nestle ‘neath her starlight’s afterglow.
But her champagne's lost its fizz,
And all her virus leaves me is
Much alpha delta omicron about nothing.
Distant country
The flat was on the third floor, flights of wooden stairs
deep groves from generations of people going up and down
in the living room, I sat down, had been away too long.
The autumn wind blew, the house swayed and creaked
like an old schooner meeting the Atlantic swells.
The room was simple, a few pictures and an Amateur
painting of a rowboat in a fiord, a boathouse and blue sky
afar the silhouette of a mountain range, the painting was
ominous by its deadness; got up went down the same stairs
I entered; the past and those I knew had gone.