Best Canal Poems
The powder of white sand holds her flesh
close to his musk pelvis
as she gasps with the murmured waves
trembling on the coast
of a fragrant mouth against a manly tongue,
and they lay on hidden grass
in an old Ipanema cove
where rippling strokes fondle
the east and north of her sylph-like
curves: amidst the liquid Brazilian dusk,
her flowing hair sinks from the lapping
of crest in rhythmic grinds;
tanned fingers exploring
a soft canal of a nymph's heightened pleasure…
by the sea- bend, he pulls her creamy thighs
like a driftwood sailing
afloat upon each quivered abandon
while they melt under balmy trees…
without the need to speak.
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100 in a ROW contest -- 11
I could not paint a better picture,
Than the one in front of me,
Of twists and turns of the canal,
Bordered by endless trees.
A warm day with a slight breeze,
Giving the grass moving shadows of leaves,
Multiple species of birds stop by,
Some on the ground, some in the sky.
Gulls, Terns and Cormorants dive,
For crustaceans and fish of various size,
While sparrows, robins and occasional chickadees,
Grab insects on the fly.
Parades of boats, barges and ships,
Fascinate and entertain our time,
Sitting by the canal is more than a pastime,
It's watching life at its prime.
Fishermen, bicyclists, joggers and tourists,
They enjoy this special place,
Taking it all in; they embrace,
Nature at its purest!
frozen Dutch canal
sharp blades glide effortlessly
passing Anne Frank's House
Glancing down from breathless heights,
Amidst climey sighs,
The looming colossus awakens from slumber
And stretches across Thelwalls linear skies.
The hot engines hissing steam -
Recalled from fond memories long back -
Tumbling like huffing little rain clouds
Down from the lofty metal track;
Wherein brightly painted carriages:
The publicans daughter, the verger,
The magistrate, the chief executive -
Seated first class, all habitually sat.
Swift grandiose arches, a celebration
Trumpeting the artful masons cunning devise,
Boast loudly of the great towers
Parallelogram of terrific forces:
Crossing over in giant leaping strides.
Here below, like Hercules reclining,
The stoic gates of Latchfords black fortress locks
Lift to brace against the immense swell
Far and beyond the chimming remarks
Of Greenhalls absolute, mechanically proven,
Georgian bell;
When, ensconced within a purpose-built,
Purple brick tower:
Strikes the centuries old brewery clock
On the twelfth
Of every God given hour.
A rich bankers cantilever
Pushes doggedly against opposing, sheer,
Red Sandstone walls;
Again the mauve and azure rock pigeon claps...
And then...coo, coo, cooingly calls.
Dry buzzing heat blurs over
The hum of a high noons imcumbent midday;
The coup-de-gras scimitar wing stoops -
To fasten onto its slower-witted prey!
Steeped sides slipping amidst tumbling yellow
Gorse and sporadic flowers
Balk at the foreboding waters edge,
Where, over the denizens swirling bowers,
The resolute little rusting lugger,
Puffing and chugging,
relentlessly dredges and scours;
Churning the murky Eastham silts
That drab Manchester draw:
Into the vast hollowing quays
On beachless, concrete Salfords industrialized,
High-rise dockland shore.
Through the deepest part of the black
Channel
A salt grimed hulk smoothly slips...
Attached by a twisted hemp to the tugboat
That hauls the great ships.
Stirred by the bow waves
Flowing and ebbing like currents in time:
From the trough to the peak
The jettison and flotsam climbs -
Before succumbing to powerful undercurrents
Of irresistible designs!
Stilled again across the canals broadening
Girth;
Mesh cages of rock-filled Gabions
Reinforcing patches of exposed and arid earth,
Reflecting the glints that gleefully
Twist and dance in the hot glare of the sun...
Provoking images and stirring indefinable feelings
That begin to irrevocably up and run;
Pictures and voices crowding into my mind:
Immersing me in the flooding moments
To which i am briefly resigned.
Now momentarily staid by the shimmering
Instance
In which i find myself inextricably caught,
Perplexed by something rather intangible,
Seeming almost to tease and laugh
Whilst confounding upon my evasive and
Fleeting thoughts;
As glancing across at the opposite bank
Where drawn up a line of densely packed trees..
I swore...I heard the reel of a high squealing
Fiddle -
Playing ever so briefly alongside a tricky little
Breeze.
For stood there I, wondering,
On a grey painted swing-bridge:
Of brightly painted Steamers, dirty Trampers
And of double masted white canvassed Brigs.
Oh! The everlasting glory of a New World order
Redefined:
Entrusted to those instructed in her Majesties
Construction of sprawling Victorian sublimes!
The men who heroically dug, picked, blasted and
Strove:
To securely fasten an Iron cast girdle around
An ever diminishing blue globe.
Dreaming of long ago, dutiful, Golden-Age days
Rigorously pursued down, what are now,
Weed strewn, abandoned byways.
Faustian clothing and a Velveteens cap;
The thick buckled leather gaiters held about
By the strap.
Many the word spoken in a soft southern brogue:
All hail the glorious navigators -
The navvies of old!
Staunch and desperate men forced to resign
Their native Gaelic shores
And burden unto themselves with
Mattocks, shovels and garishly painted-up whores.
Under the high flaming beacons
And over the obscure little brow -
They carved out the new waterways
To float the laden down prow.
Yes! Men of the Emerald Isles
I salute you and your kinsfolk
From lands cast westwards afar:
The magnificent "Paddies" from the verdant island -
Of Erin-Go-Bragh!
The working navvy did dig deep
He followed Brindly’s new laid plan
A transport system to complete
A salvation for the labouring man
As the furrow cut with sweat and maul
With breaking backs and torn sinew
Each man in turn to heave and haul
Sustenance for starving kin renew
Tracts of land transform through spade and pick
Veins enriching the countryside
Bringing new life, each shovel, each brick
Levelling earth, raising national pride
A true revelation this arterial plan
Almost lost through modernisation
Abandoned, grown dense, dispirit man
As steam and diesel grew within the nation
Each lock assiduously built
Before first steam engine’s whistle blew
Weeds strangle, progressive man’s new guilt
The canals ebb, debris as seeds strew
More beauteous now than ever been
Our arterial chart of the waterway
Each torn muscle, victuals did glean
Bed and nourishment for one more day
The navvy’s ghosts look down, heads held high
Their gnarled hands rest in heavenly peace
Majestic waterways dug in sweat with sigh
A once industrial, now beautiful masterpiece.
© 16/11/2013 GG Inspired by Harry J Horsmans'
free verse 'The Cut' which is a colloquial name for a canal
Farewell my Rooty
I don't see you in X-Rays
I won't miss you though... :)
He, he, he...
On summer, fall, winter and spring days, I roar over jagged rocks,
how people love to come and watch my crashing journey!
The story of my life began in 1831, that is when I was created,
humans made me, before I was just a trickle, now I am beautiful;
eagles soar above my mighty, crashing waves and ducks visit my pools.
Bike paths and walking paths through lush greenery flank my sides,
even strong fish swim beneath my tempest;
and in the trees birds nest and chirp and tweet all day.
until night quiets their constant songs.
To visit me at night is a thrilling experience as my mist embraces you.
In the winter, I have a special beauty of snow covered rocks and frozen waves.
From a dam, I have a fifteen foot drop into a gorge that winds and bends for miles,
under the blazing sun, rain and snow I am a dangerous surging torrent;
loud my cobalt blue water crashes on ancient rocks creating a white foam.
Really I was created to divert water to a long winding canal system, I am the beginning,
I hear the sounds of laughter and see the tourists watching my rapid flow;
do they realize that sometimes I have claimed a swimmer or a fisherman?
Even those who have tried to kayak my rapids have failed,
and their life's ended tragically . . .
Until recently people could come a sit on the rocks close to my roar.
Can you not see how dangerous I can be? It is the nature of me,
and once I held a girl with hair as soft as a spider web;
nudging her, I carried her to my bank and she was saved by fishermen.
Always she visits me, in summer, fall, winter and spring,
lulled by my roar, she says that I am beautiful and still she loves me . . .
___________________________________
June 15, 2016
Poetry/Acrostic/Personification/Oh, The Beautiful Rideau Canal
Copyright Protected, ID 16-800-671-0
All Rights Reserved. Written under Pseudonym.
For the contest, A Place Called Beautiful
sponsor, Janis Thompson
Second Place
It's midnight on the Erie Canal,
And I'm alone,
Going home,
Wood Creaks,
I seek,
Something,
To bring,
Peace,
Unrealistically black sky,
And it's quiet,
Too quiet,
No cliche' intended,
No sound to me is candid,
Upon this water,
As I mutter,
Words that reassure,
My destination has not found me,
And though my fear has not yet bound me,
My nerves are shot,
But fear is not,
An option yet for me,
I must stay strong,
It won't be long,
Uncertain though,
But all I know,
Is that it's midnight on the Erie Canal,
And I'm alone, going home.
Strictly still in the marina
Loving and toying with the pier fingers
Shes a heavy, long boat
An old worker
Modern and comfort slipped with no disturbance into the workwomen
Her engine starts with aggressive industrial baritone chugging
Before oozing into the canal with the grace of a disgruntled elderly woman
Designed for the manoeuvring collisions
Water off a boats back
Undisturbed water – all but an inquisitive pike breaching
Silent cataclysmic rumbles moves her along
The smooth canal trampled
A minute slit in the graceful water
Our old canal is in decay
The water rank and brown
So different from its yesterday
When, with barges plying up and down,
Was the life blood of this market town.
One English Quintain
Along the canal bank I
go, another day wandering
just a quiet stroll. Watching
the Swans as they happily
glide past, wagging tails and
a trail of five signets. This is
my walk of sweet bliss
More than fifty ships go through the Suez Canal on any day.
However, a very large freighter has blocked the passageway.
The ship called the "Ever Given" comes from a company in Taiwan.
Unsuccessful efforts to move the vessel have been going on.
Tugboats and personnel are trying to get the big ship free.
Meanwhile, hundreds of other craft have been stalled on the sea.
This incident is having a negative impact on the world economy.
From a story found in the Los Angeles Times.
Birth
Crawl
Tears
Steps
Laughter
Smiles
Fears
Careers
Diseases
Betrayals
Denials
Full circle
Death nears
Tears
Laughter
Frowns
Dead clowns
Dead
In ground
No sound
Silence
Abounds
SAVIOUR CHURCH, GRIBOYEDOVA CANAL, ST. PETERSBURG
In defiance of its Soviet museum-death
Reflected in water moved by God’s breath
The five-domed Saviour church gives
Hope, for its bulbous gold dome yet lives
Silent spheres sing of new life glowing
With gold-edged scales reflecting, showing
In watery swaying flashes
Like shoals of precious trembling fishes
Each scalloped wavelet free of bondage
A floating rocking hollow image
Each preserving part of dome
Like cell-life survivors, seeking home,
Always dividing, always merging,
A breath behind them always urging
Each insubstantial golden sliver,
This restless gilt amoeba-river.
Passing boat’s wake - the song of cupola,
The surface is alive from passing gondola
Shimmering millioned changing shapes
Countless gold-coin waterscapes
Myriad miracles – smithereens of gilt -
Tremulous treasure, shining spilt
Water calms from images manifold
To cells quiescent, edged in gold.
They coalesce. From many are spun one
Music of the sphere living in the sun
Of God’s golden dome - museum dead -
By the life-giving saviour water of canal fed.
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Note.
Ever watched how a reflection of a church or other object in moving water produces small swirling part-images, each undefined but still clearly part of the object's image? It's fascinating.