Best Riverbanks Poems
I can see us now Luv,
pettin ponies, musing in warm moon light,
free versin in satin style, a smile born from genuine form,
Two hearts too stubborn for apologies or effigies of maybies,
sunburned by stardom, kingdom of monsters fathomed,
forlorned by the "Cloak and Dagger" of fox hunt horn,
withholdin my love from you feels like a wasted martyrdom,
The riverbanks of apocolypse may swell over my joy
but I will not drown Luv, I will not crumple,
winds of hysterical 'what could be' scratch my face
still I do not frown, I collapse not to the ground,
I am not a runaway from your palace of peeps & pain,
nor am I a tresspasser in your orchard of ecstacy,
I can no longer accept lovin you in the third person,
these masks of merrigold manipulation have become dreadful,
Much of my life has been spent defendin
against manipulators, abusers, haters, and mockers,
I needed to hear you say
that my affection for you was not taken for granted,
Thanks for being my Eve on those evenings of earnest thirst,
my Viper Rose, that it was I you chose, as God knows,
my love is not runnin, its stayin,
not prayin or playin
just gainin from the sayin,
love once levied is forever bevied,
gotta keep certain that my spine is mine Luv -
J.A.B.
Foggy mists slither through the highlands
As downdrafts force them to the riverbanks
To the naked eye ethereal warm icicles
Among tow’ring long-needle pines piercing sky
From the other side near the rustic cabin
The yawning night watchman waits the 7:30
Preparing to hand off the latest dispatches in
A leather satchel, the hook catching its strap
The silent river valley comes alive screeching
Then wanes to deadly silence, the fog lifting
As he prepares to hand over to the day shift
Driving the winding road home, sleepy-eyed
written October 29, 2021
Mystic River
lazy mists dawdle
in sinuous rivulets ~
fog surfs in deep dales
river of white clouds
threads through alleys of tall pines ~
fog garden slow dance
curly silver mists
pale kisses on riverbanks ~
swirling shape-shifters
flat bottomed clouds float
wispy fogs tickle thunder ~
joy ride for cloud ships
mystic tule songs
gypsy brumes on evergreens ~
forest singalong
Some days and nights it feels too hard
not to turn back former times,
ages and stages,
agreements and arguments,
investments and divestments,
births and deaths,
to ask all rebirth questions
I had no voice to ask yet.
Sometimes it hurts ache deeply
not to turn back able time
to ask my wiser questions of today
before we slipped apart.
Deep time may help to remember
I never could have learned to ask
if I had ever known more power
to stop time's flow
Remembering why this time
in this wide place
we could ever hope to meet
just right
on riverbanks of questions.
What were our odds
of landing here together
given all of time's vast space
invested to remember
what to ask each now together,
and why,
and how long is too short.
I left my home, it wasn't so gorgeous,
but I knew I could no longer stay
I had nothing to live for,
seemed like only sadness would come my way,
headed for any deep water bay,
sitten' on the edge of sadness,...
wasted by time.....time...
on the bay of grief and sadness
I sat and wondered aloud....
how can I feel so lonely....
even in the midst of a crowd?
sittin' on the dock of sadness bay
wearing my ......crow....crown.....
I was royal fodder for sorrow,
looked like just sh_t would be comin' to me
I wanted so much to hold him,
but somehow fate would not let that be.....
so I'm sitten' on the fringe of cryin'....
every day.....ay, ay, ay, ay...
I'd whistle if I could...
and if it'd bring him to me
for just one more day...
but my throat is simply too.
clogged with tears
what can I say?
I sit on the riverbanks
of mighty river styx
the river I've longed to cross
so I could hold him once more...
but sadness has stranded me
here, on this lonely shore...
for Rene, my sister in sorrow,
among the millions of us in
the dark seas of grief....
On sandy beaches and along fertile riverbanks,
In fecund soil and in lush green plantations,
Coconut trees stand tall towering into the sky.
They are benevolent palms at the service of generations.
A coconut tree is a marvel of creation, every part of it can be used.
Its umbrella like crown of leaves shades us from sun.
Its circular, heavy cluster of fruits enrich our bodies.
From coconut husks, coir mats and ropes are spun.
The milk-white kernel inside the coconut shell,
Is used in curries, cookies and for extracting oil.
The water inside is a healthy, delicious drink.
Its vast net work of labyrinthine roots holds the loose soil.
Its sturdy trunk is used as a support for anchoring small boats.
Coconut shells in the hands of a craftsman turn into attractive curios.
Palm fronds are used for thatching small hovels and sheds.
Thus, from foot to crown, its uses and charms are various.
If one is stressed, it is therapeutic to de-husk a coconut.
It is a fine exercise and an ideal way to de-stress.
If angry with some one and wish to tear him limb by limb,
Break a coconut and it will take away all your noxious distress.
Still if you don’t feel comfortable and are with tingling nerves,
Scrape a coconut bit by bit and by the time you finish,
All your anger must have slowly gone as steam into air,
And in course of time, you will see it thoroughly vanish!
What remains:
a quieter, gentler world—
no busy highways,
no heavy freight trains,
no factories casting fumes into the air,
no steel birds cutting through the sky.
Water speaks, bubbling in the creek.
Birdsong echoes through the hills.
What returns:
first, what had waited at the edges—
seedlings held in the dark,
moss covering the abandoned tank.
The earth remembers every crack
where it was made to wait.
What enters:
small animals
once shunned—
snakes and lizards
warming in the sun;
birds nesting safely
in eaves and sheds.
Slowly, tracks gather
around the empty sheds.
What loses its name:
feral—
the word loosening
from hoof and paw,
from hands that know
to leave the gates open.
What is returned:
water to the low ground,
shade returning to the riverbanks,
hands lifting wire from the reeds,
room for the creek
to rise and fall as it must.
What gathers:
frogs in small ponds,
dragonflies above the shallows,
small fish flashing
through the reeds.
What remains:
space at the water’s edge
as day gives way—
each life making room
for another.
When the bird no longer cares, the rushing
river cannot be crossed. All strength I
possess, but if springtime does not boil my
blood and laughter falls not; in summer
rain, then~
The sun shines, but blossoms wither.
Tickets cost a pound, half shilling in my
pocket.
Still I hear!
Clouds echo with lightning, straight to my
heart. Comrades thought fallen; rise to
greet me, once more at my side!
A raft, secured to both riverbanks, will
lead us across the troubled water.
Together, the purser waves us through,
taking what he needs from our collective
deposit.
The day is still long, the sun
bright, and flowers bloom once more.
02/23/14
© All Rights Reserved
Lost Mayans
Ancients who lived long go
Living for the sun and waning moon
Some hoped to be living by noon
Children laughed in the maize fields
As elders struggled for the grasshoppers wisdoms
Life was simple
Daily toils and simple strife
Intermixed with love and social struggles
Lost Mayans
Sifting in my dreams
The ancients have had many a princess
As have I
We both are buried deep within our dreams
Longing for days when love kissed our salty lips
Wine flowed like riverbanks at their brink
Only when the waters ebbed did the sadness make the noon
Now the Mayans are but stories in a book
I often wonder
Who am I?
If not a line
In someone else’s story
Skeletons of love
Inside a burnt out heart
For I myself have nothing to tell
Being lost long ago
Stands a beautiful city of glass, bricks and smooth roads.
French perfumes fill the air;
Cars from the showroom fill the roads;
Designer clothes decorate display glasses in malls...
In the city outskirts,
people sell donkey meat, with the pretext
it's cow meat;
get money from pastoral offerings in the day,
and selling hot coffee in the night;
sell latest movies and music during weekends,
and deejay in clubs during weekends;
borrow old text books from friends,
and start their own libraries;
roast maize by the roadside;
go to the riverbanks and fetch river water,
fill it in containers, and sell it to estates
without water.....
By the end of the day,
everyone wants to earn a daily bread;
wants to smell of French perfumes;
wants cars straight from showrooms;
wants to wear designer clothes....
"Lo! the dolphin dotes laughs
My passion is the maritime coast
'Ocean!' said I, 'thing of seawater.'
Oceans dolphins
In a kingdom full of coastlines
Eagerly I looked for the seaway
I crave the marine, more mare
That up bound jellyfish - that unbound jellyfish
I felt compelled to sniff the territorial waters
I am shorn of my catfish
I discovered the riverbanks
Suddenly, I heard some tiding
Rise, fly mighty dolphin up through the skies
And its eyes have all the ponding
Resulting and resulting with my pacific
But in the fact that it was fluttering
I had dreamed of ribs cluttering
Only this and a ameba
The west water whaling
The dry dock smiled
How they were curtailing, prevailing - derailing
I discovered the crayfish
I crave the marine, amidships maritime
Ah, distinctly I was swallowing
Rise, fly mighty dolphin up threw the skies"
11/19/21
Written words by James Edward Lee Sr. 2021©
Listen carefully: those are bells ringing.
To whom are they calling?
From where come the peals?
Here in the wild countryside
the pale-yellow cowslips
dance a lonely jig
to the tune of the wayward breeze,
dispersing their melliferous fragrance,
gracing us with their herbal remedies.
And still the bells peal!
Do they toll for me?
Reminding me of my needs?
Shall I gather the cowslips?
What shall I do with weeds?
There see them grow in the vale
or along the riverbanks
where waters rush headlong,
zigzagging through the silvery alleys,
making their way to the far off sea.
And the bells still peal!
The cowslips sway in the breeze.
I stand still devoid of fantasy,
empty of coherent dreams.
What will I gain from cowslips?
except distil it in my cellar
and enjoy its narcotic sips?
Still do the bells toll?
Why? What for?
My heart knows, of course.
I find a shade, I kneel, I pray.
Let the bells toll.
I've heard as cowslips bend their heads.
OUR MASGOUF
The fishes have high wings, but they can feel our deep pain like sisters. Yes, we are the fishes’ brothers and any halo you may see in the dark night is a birthday of this brotherhood. Come here and see the seeds of this earth in an ancient Sumerian tablet, which its recipes were shining as the sun. In that Iraqi mud, you can see the smoke of our Masgouf and you may smell its exciting flavor. It is residing in our dreams like the moon, and we delightedly disappear in its perfume with the butterflies. The face of our Masgouf is pure, and I will be so happy if you can see its chants dancing as fairies at their small riverbanks.
THE MAGIC DOLMA
The small girls in our gardens knew nothing about the flowers or their breathtaking colors, but they are so efficient in making of magic Dolma. In the morning they meet a green dove, and listen to her chants. They are soft and pure exactly as our Dolma’s smiles. She teaches our girls the art of Dolma and the secret of grape’s leaves with a smooth voice and gentle hands. This Dolma’s master is so soft and deep, and she can color the girls’ hearts with the wedding dresses.
THE KEBAB GLORY
The Iraqis can’t live without war or Kebab, and can’t smell the morning breeze without their deep voices. Our souls were kneaded with the sad Kebab’s Sumac and the tears of war. Our dreams had immersed in the Kebab’s perfume and straggled in the desert of sad Sumac. Yes, you need the Iraqi sad smiles to find the Kebab’s sublime glory.
Being the urban outlaw has its own rewards, especially when this vingilante-like person is helping the Marshall oficers capture the bad guys. It's just like a modern-day version of the Wild Wild West, except that the buildings (including the saloons) have closed down or whatever. When one of the urban outlaws are riding their horses into town, they're either greeted by the townsfolks or feared by them. What's so great about the urban outlaws in the Wild Wild West is that the cowboys are playing a lot of poker and drinking, but minus the alcoholic beverages, let alone whiskey. Everybody knows that the urban outlaws have their backs, especially when corruption rises in their towns. The urban outlaw has to abide the rules that society has handed to him, especially the townspeople. God only knows that cowboys and outlaws are either against each other or working together and stuff. All urban outlaws also love sleeping by campfires and riding their horses through the heated desert and by the riverbanks. Not only does the urban outlaw has a lot of adventures, even in the Wild Wild West, he also has the freedom to ride his horse anywhere, even in town. Those cowboys and outlaws should be very proud of themselves. But what is so great about being an urban outlaw most of all is when he's on the run from the bad guys who he had jailed, even better. Well, I guess that's how these people roll in the Wild Wild West. Right now, I find the cowboys, the urban outlaws, and the Wild Wild West very interesting, especially when he and/or she's outside of the city. It's also as if we're back in the year 1867. And if there are going to be modern-day urban outlaws and modern-day cowboys everywhere these people go, even in rual places like outside of Dallas and/or Albuquerque, that would be awesome for everybody, even me.
This craggy place
vehemently clings to
dawn’s perpetual shadow,
the desolate wind arbitrates
with the warm body! Mine.
To the west grey stone
fuse with inhibited sky,
within the brownish bracken
sly vixen gives me a second look,
possibly doesn’t like
my scar fell face!
Alpine flower reaches out
to a watery sun for life,
soon to be put on hold,
but surely an end to
one’s misery?
The fragrance of the morning
send the beast to the wall,
no need of the weatherman
up here. The kennel next to
the cattle grid remains inhabited
the doorway of jute guards against
inclemency.
In this isolated place,
the riverbanks expose all
to winter, cheerless waters
witness a cortege of inanimation,
many shades bestowed by nature
in respect to this
cycle of the seasons!
© Harry J Horsman 2000