Best Kayaks Poems
Rush down from the hills and mountains
Maneuvering around untold hurdles
Negotiating paths of least resistance
Adorn your banks with trees in blossoms
Be the source of food and water
Float the kayaks and row the rowboats
Being a reveler for recreation
And through it all you must remember:
Sometimes shallow, sometimes deep
Sometimes wide, sometimes narrow
No matter the terrain, a river will always
Reach for its goal to merge with its ocean
May 6, 2019
I gaze beyond
the sky of sapphires,
waiting for a
spark of sailing light,
listening to
the balmy breeze~
they kiss the
rays of silver,
with tales of
my eclipsed past.
Maybe tonight dandelion
wind will dance in sync~
to sunset kayaks cruising
through wounded waves,
shimmering amidst
tear-stained dunes…
I lean on the seething sea
of seven sisters,
to rewrite my destiny~
learning from flawed art
within my aching heart.
But am I the one at fault?
or were you the
reason we fought?
I question the twirling time,
passing through
hues of forest haze.
Was the blame in
broken melodies~
strung from frail strings
of my antique guitar?
Maybe, somewhere
down the lane of
finding myself,
I lost our rhythm,
trying to fine-tune
symphonies of
frozen love.
Now I’m gliding towards
the moonlight
away from the
soulless midnight,
to reach a cosy shore
where I can knit
quilted patterns,
unraveling a place
that feels like home.
As I’ve been searching
for an island that has no
lifelines of faded vows,
so I’m running
from the limelight;
ice green footprints,
following me and
our musical memories,
like sinister silhouettes.
I never thought that
you were the one,
I always knew I was the
throned queen of darkness.
Who will it be next,
to rescript this
tattooed misery?
Maybe, a poet with
an acrylic quill softer
than the air I breathe.
Now I’m gliding towards
the moonlight
away from the
soulless midnight,
to rise above the silence.
I still hope that I’ll waltz
through a sphere
where warmth
of faith flickers in
colors of honeyed hope,
and home will no
longer be an illusion,
etched on dusky feathers
of diamond dreamcatchers.
Someday, hourglass pearls
will fall in shades of
this poem I’ve woven
in starry ink~
this is the unfinished story of
You and I.
Ole Les set out by kayak from the shore
Big blue marlin rose from the ocean floor
Nipped his bait, gave Les a tow
Water-logged craft sank below
Friends shook their heads and said, "No Les, no more"
4/27/2011
Written for John Freeman's "Fishing" limerick contest
Okay, the man's name wasn't Les ,but this video shows two kayaks being towed 11
miles by marlins. I took a little poetic license with the ending too. Both men
survived. If you fish you will be amazed by this video:
http://www.youtube.com/user/KayakFishingTales?
v=FqVEvNocKTA&feature=pyv&ad=4751720259&kw=kayaking
The seasons revolve in sublime spell,
joyous essence I feel within me dwell.
Summer’s departing footsteps I hear,
as blazing sun mellows down at noon.
In autumn meadow dew pearls appear,
the leaves rustle, they’ll be gold soon.
The seasons revolve in sublime spell,
joyous essence I feel within me dwell.
Dawn’s prism emits the autumn color,
as crimson cloud kayaks across azure sky.
In sunburst landscape nature is never duller,
as in zephyr the fallen bronzy leaves fly.
The seasons revolve in sublime spell,
joyous essence I feel within me dwell
Catching seasons’ signal on my radar screen,
I can detect winter’s approaching shadow.
To soak the last warm air of the fall I’m keen,
in frigid times I won’t be glacial and fallow.
The seasons revolve in sublime spell,
joyous essence I feel within me dwell.
Chilled miasma melts making cyan sky clear,
spring descends through the sparkling air.
Wispy clouds in sapphire expanse appear,
suffused with sunshine the buds bloom in flair.
The seasons revolve in sublime spell,
joyous essence I feel within me dwell.
_______________
July 7, 2022
Contest : The Time Between The Seasons
Sponsored by : Kim Rodrigues
unspoken ~
the siren of sour-ice sunsets
hangs on the cusp of kismet ~
tied with swarovski threads
of viper-thorns and
sinful solstice seasons ,
I, the mistress of the snake,
slither with the minstrel ,
laying the cobra crown
of ash feathers ~
on your elysian epitaph
where the solaris weeps
and esoteric emeralds sigh …
O blush opal love …
you were my Ouroboros ~
in the skin of seven-scaled saint,
the snake biting its tale
forming forever sparks
of flaming rose rings ~
as eternity emanated healing
on sapphire heart-fire,
surfing on the crest of the sea
with coconut-scented kayaks
that reach beyond
the endlessness of the earth ,
and there was still
a lore of life lulled
by devil-oysters
and ocean-dragons
until death fed
upon what never felt alive …
I reminisce the mists
of medieval romance ~
rippling in your rage
as remorse remained weary
and the clouds
spilled a thousand secrets
soaked with teal and topaz,
this moon-water
became a venom song,
shean and slippery ~
with sarcastic notes
bleeding in velvet,
and the fangs of the fortnight
remained fatal
with their fever of fixation …
but … maybe
our longing is a myth
a reincarnated taboo,
flowing in psychedelic papers ~
like a tributary aching to meet
the soul of silver ink ~
because a torn canvas
is two paintings
consumed into one …
as if, pulses of the lost
dwell between
the diamond edges
becoming twin-flame breaths ~
and the sun sighs
defeated by the
ancestral spirits
hanging low
within the smudge
of liquid sins
in the sky drenched
with smokey blood
of the dusk and the dawn …
in this pathological
heist of premordial passion ~
let the kiss of the serpent
exhume me …
let the python primroses
dress the infancy
of affection that could
not come true …
because,
I'm seduced by the stars
without a script ,
love-drunk on desire
as you melt my tears
into your sweet fire ~
where I blemish …
within wrinkled ache
betrayed … and buried
beneath the pearls you left for me …
The sherbet orange light of a fall morning in Connecticut crackles with the scent pine. The lake’s parking lot overflows by nine thirty. The S.U.V.s park in a haphazard manor. The boat crew’s flight from reality – or the emersion in it—began in earnest hours ago. Neon-colored, plastic, kayaks adorn the grass skirt before the water’s edge. Dressed in shades as lively as their hulls, the small craft owners match themselves up with their water-horses. They shove off at random intervals.
geese
land and take off –
squirrels scamper
Disturbed, Lake Lillinonah ripples with the dip of paddle and the morning breeze. The cotton wood trees chatter to passing egrets. The smell of powerboats, only slightly mars the bathing-beauty glow of the day. Days end will find a conga line of cars pulling in to a local dairy for homemade ice-cream. Truly, God is in his heaven and all is right – at least here, for these few hours—in the world.
pink tipped tongues
lick sprinkles from the cone:
eyes roll
Watching Homer struggle
to explain how a god wounded by a mortal
cannot die but may hereafter live with minor pain
and the humor when that god
complains to Jove that His supervision of His daughter
is inadequate and His Love too unconditional
while Diomed (or Tydides)
wreaks havoc on the Trojans and Hector
gives it back (in kind)
anatomically correct descriptions
of spears piercing jawbones (and groins)
sons without fathers hunting and fishing thereafter
alone. Written
amazingly presciently!
as a metaphor for Vietnam (our war)
forgotten consensually
as this generation slips lazily away
to Hades (or kayaks to the huckleberries)
where the lights are always blue, gentian actually,
supper's served at 4 and former adversaries
pass the heavy hanging time playing pinochle (and pool).
We're selling the house to pay the taxes.
Pallas Athena wars among the men
from the axle of her chariot
and Venus is injured by Diomed,
standing in the field of battle where she never should have been,
in her adorable hand.
What has this to do with Solomon in jail.
Not the Jewish king, a black American male,
same thing.
Your children can be failed at school and marched to war.
You can be taxed and sent to gaol for the honor of it.
anyone lived in a pretty how town.
We have no obligation
to perform the Iliad or read poems and even Homer
considers Achilles effete (compared to Hector)
and Odysseus is wrong even when he's right.
Therefore, modern man explores
the mathematics of circles in coordinate planes and their tangents
when (sooner or later)
the secret of warp speed is discovered
expansion of the species will be limitless and permanent.
Pastoral country
Where folks wave to passers by--
Farmers plowing
Exit 386
Wal-Mart, fast foods, and hotels--
Tourists stop
Modern businesses
Of every type one might need--
The short road to town
Refurbished storefronts
With arts antiques and barbers--
Downtown businesses
Houses big and small
Fill the local neighborhoods--
Quiet streets
State Parks, music fests
And neighborhood barbeques --
Entertainment
Outside of town
Beautiful farms and woodlands--
The rural folks
The river rises
Bringing water to my land --
Children in kayaks
The home of brave hearts
Who understand nature’s way --
King and rattlesnakes
The home of the free
Where people are seen smiling--
Live Oak, Florida
ã June 5, 2012
Dane Ann Smith-Johnsen
Written for Poetry Soup Member MY LAND IS MY HOME
Sponsored by: ~ SKAT ~
Wallpaper Vapors?
I wanted to repaper my room
But mom and dad said it’s too soon
You just did it yesterday, you crazy kook
But THAT paper had kayaks and today I want nuns
My parents just looked at me, clearly stunned
Had I gone religious all of a sudden?
Ignoring them I tore down the paper with glee
It wasn’t level, anyone could see
And put up my nuns in revelry
But the nuns didn’t pop
So I decided to stop
And hang up my posters of musician Kidd Rock
But that looked too teenish to me
So I threw them away and grabbed a painting
Van Gogh’s “Starry night” looked like a dream
The perfect wall covering, at least while I sleep...
Palindromes used: repaper, mom, dad, kook, level
4/17/12
Black Eyed Susan
The suburban pressure cooker expelled its multiethnic horde north. Laden with implements of leisure, bicycles, kayaks, canoes and camping gear; world weary travelers of urban and suburban bent surged north ever, north. Bucking, they wrenched in unison at road repairs, shunted into single lanes by flaming orange cones of warning like so many track horses at the gate. Tail bitten, truck locked windows up; the denizens drove forth cocooned in metal steeds seeking the clean air and open expanses, north.
Few, freer souls dare the unfiltered air of the artery, north on motorcycles or in convertibles, hoods down, or windows down, blaring an enlivening mantra of sixties rock as they shimmied forward in the in the endless conga line of commerce, past urban blight. The trip north became a Chaucerian Pilgrimage from Nutmeg State to the Green Mountain State of Vermont.
The border crossed, the sky opens wide-eyed, ridge rimmed dolphin gray clouds swim in a cerulean scene. Roadside picnic tables fill. Monarch butterflies flit in the breezes between majestic rows of pungent pines. The whoosh of traffic dulls and the robin’s call emerges over the roiling hills and gurgling brooks. Silence falls, complete; upon the entrance to the first gravel road. Heaven is immersed in the scent of fresh hay and sweet purple clover.
The morning -
kayaks launch, voices call,
sound moves cleanly over deep waters.
White ibis and blue heron cordon cypress knees;
shallow eddies mirror the faces of our dreams.
At twilight, sherbet reflections paint
sunlight's fair, fading face
on our lake.
Copyright, May 31, 2014
Faye Lanham Gibson
Indianapolis welcomes you.
Navigate, find your place, sailing through
synthetic waterway just for fun.
Off’ring journeys with anecdotes,
carriages, kayaks and pedal boats
worthwhile way to enjoy snow or sun.
We'll park your vehicle, while you fete
with friends, fam'ly, or special date.
Hire out a gondolier; he can hunt
for local sites, you don't want to miss -
hideaways where you can reminisce,
use Indy’s canal at Riverfront.
written November 29, 2016
Kayaks
Kailua Beach, sandy shores
keep paddlers at bay view,
kissing turquoise surface,
keenly riding the lips,
knocking on pantomime,
kid like, with seaman dreams,
kayaking reefs of bay.
3/9/17
Jammed some fun into one day
Aboard kayaks, paddling play
Mangroves, stingless jelly fish
And in my head, a hand itched
In beats, a beach reggae-tunes
Crashing waves upon the dunes
As curling smiles seemed to mock
Monster cruiser at the dock
Yellow sun did set too fast
Dashing night on anchor cast
Awhirl the sea’s brooding deep
Yesterdays pile on the keep
(9/12/2020: '04 Carver 420 Mariner; DMS)
The sunlight streams to the earth below
Beckoning the flowers, "continue to grow"
The pillows of clouds floating by
Are highlighted in the airbrushed sky
A red tailed hawk and his prey on the move
Tracks made by a fawns little hooves
The sound of the water crashing the shore
Boats, kayaks, water skis and more
The sound of the dog running in the thicket
Crows, rabbits, squirrels, and crickets
A jogger and biker on the same path
Meeting and smiling as they pass
A picnic lunch for my friend and me
Beneath the shade of a large oak tree
Copyright © 2009 Lena “Lolita” Townsend