Trying
to retrieve
the things
you threw off
the boat
before they
sink
and with them
my legacy
They drift
in the
saturation
of what never
should have
been said
and never
should have
been thought
I
fall into
the dark
water
where our
past
spawns in anger
treading
in desperation
Hoping
for a
last reprieve
still floating
on the
surface
of what
never really was
— and never will be again
(Dreamsleep: August, 2026)
I refuse to live in a castle said the king
maybe a houseboat, hut or yacht up in Bing?
a treehouse even, if it has an elevator ding-a-ling
royal kitty rolled his eyes with exasperated zing
But not a beehive, for I am allergic to their sting
Realtors called all day, every few seconds, a loud ping
This cottage has a garden, tractor and a porch swing
I do not want to do any work at all, reminded the king
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The canals wear mirrors today,
polished by bicycle tires
and the scuff of slow-moving clouds.
A houseboat tilts slightly left,
its geraniums nodding
‘welcome to Amsterdam’
Someone’s lost hat floats
down the canal
like a disobedient thought
between two bridges.
P.S. The coffee here
tastes like rain
I built my home high up in a giant oak tree
two kookaburras and an owl lived next to me
the day birds chattered all morning, conversation bright
hoot owl kept up a continuous hooting throughout the night
an orangutan moved in showing off his big red butt
I could not ignore it, so moved down to a hut
saw the shadow of a lion through my tent one night
moving to a houseboat tomorrow, trying to get it right
Lucid refractions prance in this day's gloaming
Window panes sway in play to each heave and hoe
Stirred by haunting echoes of distant loons wailing
My gaze awakens in sheets that float her still to and fro
Shimmering, the surface murmurs...Take the Plunge
A primal beckoning that whispers to us each by name
Push the door, step up to the edge...Take the Lunge
Into freshwater so translucent, it hides no shame
Shimmering waves of satin ripples, all of the black night,
As lustrous moon visits the river, in its pearls of white.
In the fragrance of the hour, stars twinkle for me tonight;
And the water mirrors the sky, as it did in noon daylight!
Just awakened from dim dreams, in my houseboat on the river,
I again greet porcelain moon, making my heart beat quicker.
A missed beat in the somber rhythm, made the dream I prefer,
Of moonlit diamonds and pearls, dancing on a liquid mirror!
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 lover is to me a cluster of henna blossoms
from the vineyard of En Gedi.
Song of Songs 1:14 NIV
he is vulnerable
with me.
he is charming, handsome —
his silver hair and bedroom eyes.
i press my nose
into the featherbed of his chest —
the mix of his scent with cologne
his arms encircle me
embrace only me
the ripples of henna
paint a vista
for my love and me —
our song of songs
blossoms
we’ve left youth behind
embracing the divine.
he knows me —
the cluster of our fingers
singularity, our intimate jokes
and home sweet home.
after the sprig of coolness
excites and weaves
into the dendrites and sinews
of our life,
comes the wintergreen crest
of the ocean’s shiver,
climatic and familiar
rock of our houseboat —
survivor of tempests.
j’aime mon mari —
love defies the language
and sound barrier, the dangerous
reefs. communication,
as our pressed together crowns
on downy pillows,
speaks with its own lavender ink.
6/10/2019
In this time , this town, you'd grow
In this town, this time, you'll feel at home
your poor plenty more than rich enough
to crack the faultline,
your cup half full, half overflowing.
You stretch your legs and wings and mind and laugh
Find friends too easily,
and hand frayed throw cushions
to basement strangers.
But is it your life?
Tomorrow you'll return to the terraced houseboat,
to the gulls and the buoys
and there's a fresh breeze blowing
through fused stamens along the towpath,
coaxing brilliant notes
from your empty letter box
and spinning ancient coins
under a tear-shaped moon.
The chimes are natural now
not flat, not sharp, not late,
not ringing through your dreams like an ice-cream hearse.
He'll phone you at the weekend
She'll pop by with that book, that child, that unfinished thought.
And you'll drink methode champenoise
straight from the bottle
Like winning at Monaco
or from your shoe,
and chase your other lover
upstairs.
Now write a letter to yourself
and copy it to the moon.
Take the ferry to the island
and drive back across
the broad causeway.
In this time , this town, you grow
In this town, this time, you feel at home
Abandoned houseboat
a cage, hungry bird within.
just a living thing
A repressed scream.
Someone breaks the head.
I was hitting the wall.
The rape hurts.
Withers away the dam.
River was changing the course.
It was very pompous;
the benign torture. No
more I belong to this world.
And the dilapidated
houseboat floats on the lake
to collect the immersed-
bones of ancesters. A
door opens. The poem prints
the pain of centuries.
Satish Verma
Sir Rule, Ian Ballew and Ock, a marine
set off on a houseboat to study
the difference between greenish-blue and bluish-green.
The deep blue sky on that fog-foggiest of days
they mistakenly thought was the sea
which explains why to us, when they saw a green haze -
Ian whooped, "It's a film on the water!" And so...
Sir Rule smirked, "Ock, go get us some popcorn and Pepsi."
Ock started to cuss, "---, why do I always have to go?
Since blue means profane and if naive spells out green,
Who wins the Oscar? It's not hard to see -
greenish-blue, naively-profane - Ock, a marine.
or if you prefer:
bluish-green, profanely-naive - still Ock, a marine.
Author's Notes: The names in this piece are puns for the colors, cerulean blue and aquamarine. No reflection on the hard working Marines who serve our country so well.
the illuminating sounds of summer
first there is birds sweet sernarding amidst cottonwoods
and if your lucky enough even capture whispers of the wind speaking
down in a lustrous valley of green and don't forget about
echoes of an eagle encircling the blue yonder looking for it's mate
or you can capture sounds of a babbling brook flowing
down an winding outcrop stream but to me
I think my favorite sound thus far is the laughter of my child's voice
and the sizzling sounds of hot dogs and hamburgers
being made on my grill as were watching fireworks display
from the back of a twin engine houseboat floating down
a rivers edge Oh the sounds of summer would be nil
if I would awake from this enchanted dream
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