Long Riverbanks Poems
Long Riverbanks Poems. Below are the most popular long Riverbanks by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Riverbanks poems by poem length and keyword.
Pike Place Market and Space Needle
race tracks out at Indy
stands Jefferson's Memorial
Nashville's Grand Ole Opry
Biking somewhere downtown Beijing (Bay-jing)
Great Wall nearby Xian (Z-on)
wow, thirty million in Chongquing (Chun-king)
pass Hong Kong on sampan (sam-pon)
St Petersburg a sweethearts tryst
ballet at Mariinsky (a theater hall)
an icon city of artist
like those by Kandinsky
Cars on freeways not stepping gas
fans run after The Rock
L.A. Lakers sign autographs
strolls in Hollywood Park
Chinese market in commotion
kids playing fingersticks
riverbanks in Tai Chi motion
reruns of Bruce Lee flicks
Stunning St. Basil's Cathedral
posing pics on Red Square
pass the Kremlin on a night stroll
goulash supper affair
Golden Gate, city by the Bay
Gateway Arch, St Louis
down Bourbon Street Mardi Gras Day
Graceland out by Memphis
Like that of Poe, in his real life,
to write was his haven
suffering the loss of his wife
two years since The Raven
Lamenting a loss is noted
though before it to be
guess a premonition floated
Poe writes of death, mostly
As you can read the no-frilled rhymes
a few strokes on the board
nothing compelling no-thrilled times
such things should be ignored.
Merely go out and drive somewhere
steer from them who forebode
Just be able to simply say
"Are we on the right road?"
While at homes here, or homes o'er there
Just living the homelife
Enjoying each other here--there
Live as one, free of strife.
Let's race out, where the riverbanks surround
The grasses flitting upon ladders of pine:
Kick your loafers, my soles not leather-bound
Carefree as toes grind through a hillside climb.
Leave those pairs while tender moments begin,
For sunset rises till gazes behold
Our summers of youth, our love deep within
To recall theme songs, and never grow old.
Come dance me barefoot, ignoring night’s hours
That we waltz along , down through sand’s floor
Igniting fire- glow amidst wildflowers;
Shoeless into dawn...this pleasure I adore.
Two Pair Of Shoes Contest
Sponsored by john lawless 8/4/2017
The mist of the morning bathes the riverbanks, whetting my appetite for nature
I sit here letting the early morning tease my ears with the sweetest harmony, as
little angels flutter on wings, darting to and fro in early morning merriment.
Oh, this morning is in motion, swaying to the music of nature, as I breathe the crisp air enchanting my senses.
The poet in me is awaken as nature’s choir touches my ear, lifting my spirit to soar to its fullest heights.
I notice the wild bounding of the buck deer and the gray squirrel rises from his bed to meet a new day and awaken to a free serenade of sweet sound.
Can this poet be true to himself or will he refuse and spoil the moment?
How can I sit here on this bank and look across the mighty Mississippi River
with eyes and ears and not perceive creation? Nature sings to my senses.
It anchors me to my purest thoughts and guides the heart and soul of my being.
I have learned to look on nature, not as I did in the fantasies of youth, but in the solitude of a man, something far deeper that elevates my thoughts;
my senses honed to a fine edge, my spirit impaled.
I have fears that even in my serenity the words will not come, leaving nature to write for me.
I know it will never betray me who loves it and has reaped its beauty for my own use.
I dwell in the light of the rising sun, breathing the crisp air, surrounded by the best nature has to offer.
I know God is blessing me in this place where I sit.
I hear his voice in the songs of birds, his breath in the breeze and his hand on my solitude.
It cheers my faith.
His presents is here on this bank and it stirs my soul.
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.
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.
Sometimes I see you standing alone
Before the ruins of your past; you moan
For the withered leaves that were trodden
By you along the riverbanks, your mundane
And prosaic hours transforming into dream
Hand in hand, the soft woodland mist, the gleam
Of your crimson heart; the inevitable kiss
Opens up all the secret caves of bliss
A silent breeze caressing your careful tresses
Your sojourn to the domain of clouds that bless
All the magical fountains sprouting love
Dancing down through vales, the treasure-trove
You stand perplexed before the labyrinth of present
Where love’s fairy tale is shrouded in its end.
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.
Once there stood a golden field,
Swaying crops, a farmer's yield.
Morning songs of birds took flight,
Beneath the sky so vast and bright.
The village paths, of dust and stone,
Where children laughed and cattle roamed,
Now paved with tar, so smooth and wide,
Where restless cars and buses glide.
The thatched-roof homes with lantern’s glow,
Replaced by lights in glassy rows.
The banyan tree where elders met,
Now stands alone in cold cement.
The riverbanks where stories flowed,
Now buried deep where buildings grow.
The marketplace of voices loud,
Now lost beneath a concrete crowd.
Yet in the heart of progress’ run,
Echoes of the past still hum.
For roots of earth, though hidden deep,
In memories, they softly keep.
- Phin Jiu
Life is a journey through darkness.
It contains many lessons and challenges,
Where mornings can be difficult.
We do not eat fish every day;
We often spend hungry nights.
We want education but have no money,
Yet we ask for the things the rich possess.
They do not understand our poverty,
Which today resembles slavery.
We dream of touching wealth,
As if birds could kill lions.
In our dreams we enjoy life,
Building beautiful houses,
As if owls worked during the day.
Then we wake up and see nothing,
Thinking that robbers have come
And stolen our yellow flowers.
Heartache has become a habit,
Filled with endless worrying thoughts.
Horses are nowhere to be seen;
We are forced to walk all day,
Sleeping on riverbanks,
Like broken horses
Haunted by evil,
Which ruins their entire lives.
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
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