Best Canoe Poems
My soul is my canoe
sails me in a sea of verses
a poetic harbor is my destination...
Morning coffee drift
Disconnected from the shore
Solitary bliss
Paddling on a swirling river.
Her husband takes the right.
His wife uses her powerful left hand.
Oh, what a truly serene feeling.
Gently gliding over the rippling water,
As the moon mesmerises the sweet scene,
Stars twinkle in the vast, darkening sunset sky.
They paddle in a sing-song, singing off-key.
One, two, kiss me sweet, kiss me soft.
Moonlight dances on the rippling river.
Their hearts entwined in an elated effect.
The peaceful sounds of flowing water
Mingle with the thrushes. chirping wildlife.
But as water seems to seep into the old canoe,
They paddle to the shore and safety.
And on the dew grass, they hug and kiss,
Their old canoe is truly drowned in the abyss.
Young me took this to heart:
“Love many,
Trust few,
And always paddle
your own canoe”
Now I paddle my canoe
In icy waters
Far from my youth
and my many lovers
not one of whom
I trusted.
Upon the placid pond
With nature, a strengthening bond
Of these moments, he is so fond
A man, a canoe, and a dream
Some tackle, a reel, and a pole
Equipped with a motor to troll
Searching the old fishing hole
A man, a canoe, and a dream
He waits for the largemouth to strike
A Pickrel, , perch, or a pike
He's yet to find one he dislikes
A man, a canoe, and a dream
Each moment his confidence grows
And deep in his heart, he knows
He could fish along side of the pros
A man, a canoe, and a dream
Early one Saturday morning,
In a warm July sky,
We walk up to Mary’s to set up our canoe to the river.
My friend and I would take our supplies to the crust,
And prepare for our adventure.
We would be pushed by the bigger boats,
As a way of giving a nudge to intimidate us.
But we would not falter.
We would travel our canoe up the salty water,
With each of us staying sure in our direction.
If it would not be for my friend,
The road would be too hazardous,
Too lonesome.
We share stories of our kids,
And our lives as kids as we guide pass the rocks.
We know our faults, but we love them anyways.
As the canoe hit rough waters, I wonder if we would make it.
My friend gives me the confidence,
As he leads through the rocks and waves.
Our teamwork saves the day.
Thank you, my friend.
Now the time has past.
My friend is gone.
There are no trips to the North River.
No sense of adventure of present and future.
But what I will honor were those trips,
Where we shared our memories.
All in a magical canoe.
gliding through its ripples breaking the stillness
in harmony paddling with my ancestors
serene other than a loon's call as witness
gaging the span of mountains by trimesters
a sunrise about to make its grand entrance
closing my eyes as to trade furs feels intense
ageless today there is no one keeping time
river sun mountains clouds paddling paradigm
AP: Honorable Mention 2020
Submitted on January 31, 2019 for contest MY PLACE MULTI-PART EASTER PRIZES sponsored by CAROLYN DEVONSHIRE
on August 6, 2018 for contest AUGUST 2018 PREMIERE sponsored by BRIAN STRAND
and July 9, 2018 for contest PICTURE ME A SUMMER RISPETTO sponsored by BARRY STEBBINGS
I left my voice, down by the water.
It will be safe.
At least there, any tarnishment of tone,
will slip invisibly into the simple rythmn of the earth.
I can't hear it.
I left my soul, standing quite cold and still.
From beneath the protective shadow of the dream tree,
it will keep watch.
Sneak, back into the warmth of the sun?
My spirit has become weary.
On pure will alone,
it may fly me once again, across the search grid.
I hear, it is a good path....Trust.
If I ever find it,
I may ask a friend to walk back with me.
Down to the water.
Maybe, even ask them to help carry some of the weight,
if only long enough to feel unburdened for awhile.
Share gladly, the same in return.
Push hard.
Send it finally away.
We could sit and hold hands.
Watch and wait, for the heaviness of our fears and sorrows...
to finally sink, the broken red canoe.
Our riverbank launch at dawn
where dense forest chills the breeze,
where cottonwood leaves flutter like wings,
and weeping willow penumbras tease.
Glistening, rippling turquoise water churns.
Crystal swirling pools symphonic and aglow,
elliptic aluminum crafts coast over craggy stones,
riverbed scattered rocks gleam clearly below.
Current River splits between sandbar silt.
Our paddles sink through rivulet tug.
Meandering, twisting, converging again,
water sculpting limestone, granite, or sludge.
We drift into shallow magic ponds of quiet.
The sweet fragrant water lilies subsume us.
Along the bank, turtles cling to driftwood.
The rowing in this reverie is not arduous.
Another sunlit pool, a home for trout,
their waving shapes dart under shimmering stream.
Pausing our paddles, we heed distant water rush,
how ready are we for river rapid extremes?
Our canoes enter fast-breaking flows.
Frantic, we navigate dead trees and rocks.
The roller coaster of white waves propels
past vague landscapes and distant crow squawks.
One canoe capsized where river sharply bends.
Lifejackets on, other canoeists to the rescue,
all the cooler food, a gift to the river.
Sleeping bags turned sponges; no one argued.
The canoe water finally emptied; we resume.
Each winding channel, a chapter in our allegory,
musky, muddy scents and echoed whippoorwills entrancing.
The bold beam of afternoon dims into dusk’s glory.
We camp on a sandbar under night bouquets of stars,
our trip has just begun: our quest must take us far.
Accepted for Publication, 11/2023: PoetrySoup Anthology Vol. III
Reflections on the Important Things
Beneath the hanging branches
of the weeping willow trees.
Along the winding river
so very hard to see.
On a lazy summer day
floats a tiny white canoe.
The water lapping at it's sides
beats a soft tattoo.
Cradled in it's center
quite out of view.
Lays a small Indian boy
sound asleep named Cuc'koo.
What a way to spend
a sultry afternoon.
Drifting into dreamland
in a tiny white canoe.
This poem is part of a series including Sunset Reverie, A Night of Dreams, Days End and An Evening by The Lake.
Feeling like Gary gnu in a PC world flying my space canoe When did gnarcissist politicians become correct
Let me tell you a story
One day, near summer’s end
Martha and her husband
Went canoeing with a friend
Suddenly a log’s there!
And what can Martha do?
Then she’s in the water
She tipped from her canoe
The canoe was righted
But she’s still in the creek
“I cannot climb back in there!
Oh, I am just too weak!”
Then the men were thinking
About what they could do
To somehow get her out
And into the canoe
Then their friend gave warning
He pointed, “Look up there!
In the logs and branches
I saw a snake–beware!”
Now it has been proven
That miracles are true
For when they looked at Martha
She’s back in the canoe!
Theme: funny
willows in symmetry
ripples in crowfoot
swan goes with the flow
I was paddling down on the lake in my canoe
Written By Dean Masciarelli
August 2, 2010 (12:30am)
I was paddling down on the lake in my canoe
Waiting for the early morning sunrise
and wishing
that I could be right in front of you
So that we could both look into each other eyes
and enjoy the peacefulness that transformed in the skies
Because it would be so nice to share the smiles
that we would have on our faces
as we both shared some very pleasant conversations
But you see I haven’t even had the chance to meet you
But I have dreamt about you countless times
And let me tell you when I finally do meet you
I will truly be more then pleasantly surprised
Because in my heart I will know without a doubt
that you will be
the one who can make all of my dreams come true
TRAVELS BY CANOE
wind blown
wilderness,
they sought to show-
divine disquiet, art
nouveau
exhibition-Canada's Group of Seven eg JEH MACDONALD'S
Little Falls
www.arthistoryarchive.com/arthistory/canadian