Long Riverbeds Poems
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An impartial day
Upon lush yonder valleys,
golden sun rays glow
Reflected raindrops prism,
forming a partial rainbow
Just above my head,
darkness stubbornly grows
Interrupting one of natures,
iridescent idyllic shows
I follow blind trajectory
towards riverbeds below
To find a multicolored haze,
surrounding the meadow
Fleeting glimpse of oneness,
albeit broken as it goes
Perfection alone is nothing,
fulfillment makes it so.
By
David Kavanagh
The cold has fled this place, and wrapped in light
The world is once again so warm and bright.
The sky is blue and shattered are the walls
That kept the sun outside those wintry halls.
The winter’s fled, and with her’s fled the ice,
Replaced with summer’s sun, so warm and nice.
Is this what people call a lovely day?
Is it their hope that summer’s here to stay?
The winter’s ended, and a mighty roar
Has sounded through the fields and over moor,
Yes, through the valleys and the wood as well.
The summer has arrived upon the dell.
The frost is over, gone now is the snow,
Once frozen rivers mightily now flow,
And beavers work to gnaw their way through logs
To turn these riverbeds then into bogs.
The dams they build, so perfect in their place,
Should still the flowing water in its race.
They calm what winter, in her death, made wild,
That rushing stream now gentle, soft, and mild.
Though once were white, the woods now glow with green,
The lakes are filled with swans that swim and preen;
Too soon the winter shall return, in time,
But now the woods are filled with grace and rhyme.
The birds return back home, and build their nests
While hibernating bears wake from their rests.
The stillness that the winter brought, so rife,
Is gone, as with the spring, all’s back to life
Spring’s fading flowers
Worn down rocks on riverbeds
Trees losing their leaves
Is this growing old?
Is this what it is to age?
Not if you get there…
Spring’s perennials
The rivers water flowing
The trees budding leaves
The ones who fight age
Still lose to time in the end
The dance crude and vain
Those that grow with age
Gain wisdom, moments of joy
The dance elegant
Sincerely live life
Honestly love and be loved
Truly be happy
Unfortunately
Life’s lessons can be cruel, hard
But still there’s meaning…
Into the bargain
Life’s lessons make one stronger
If you choose to learn…
You have to grow up
But stay a child in your heart
And you won’t grow old
Age is the price paid
But the cost is no real loss
And profits are big
The wealth of your life
Is how many friends you have
Not how much money
The income, wisdom
To find your bliss in spirit
To learn, teach, live, love
Called the golden years
Some would say age is a curse
Really rusty years
Age has its drawbacks
The body starts to break down
The mind wanders off
Age is a challenge
Getting old can try your soul
Sometimes breaks your heart
Aging can be hard
Sometimes there’s sickness and pain
Loved ones pass away
Though we lose someone
They will live on in our hearts
Until it’s our time
We don’t know God’s plan
Sometimes we live a long life
Age is the reward
Cherish every day
Live your life to the fullest
Make good memories
Age is a gift from God
Wondrous metamorphosis
Like a butterfly
Grow old with your love
Are the best years yet to be?
The age-old question…
Soundlessly ricochet to and fro
hither and yon
roundly bobbing within squarely donned
talking heads of psycho killers,
one pyromaniac burning
down the crowded house
sparking magnificent conflagration
towering inferno emulating
caterwauling, kickstarting, ululating
(think) stray cats on a hot tin roof
nsync with 10,000 maniacs
intense heat and duraflame
long since eroding
weather beaten soul asylum
strip mining away
vestial trace, hence impossible mission
rectifying purposeless existence
imputed to passive self sacrifice
upon cusp of prepubescence
mystified, mummified, modified,
stilled, lulled, andhushed
obsessively grammatically fanatical
oftimes feeble efforts yielded countless
corrective editing measures
subsequently rendering lame
resultant deplorable effort
despite NON GMO gluten
and monosodiumglutimate free
diet of (hooked) worms
limply tethered symbolic constructs
analogous to dangling participles
scraping, plowing, etching...
imperfect triangulated Hollywood squares
across parched stream of consciousness
former luscious cerebral riverbeds
long since bone dry
millennium since onset climate change
courtesy global warming
blowing in the hot torpid wind
sands of time elapsed
accepted biological demise
forever linkedin with his forebears
birth/death repurposed cycle
activated, demonstrated, gifted...
integration, narration, reincarnation...
biochemical, geological, paleontological...
legacy randomly begetting me
epochal, integral, orbital saga
since time immemorial
fifty plus shades of once ashen gray
well muscled athletic human specimen
oblivious corpse good n plenti
petrified, metamorphosed, coalesced
bleached skull and crossbones
grown brittle when blazing sun's
rays generated aforementioned disparate ideas
jangled, rankled, and zapped
in tandem with bared tiger (no lion)
slapdash pell mell, helter
skelter, higglety pigglety...
germane blitzkrieg rained down above
leaving writer, tortured, mortified, and benumbed
without either sense or sensibility
nor pride and prejudice
perusing discombobulated chaotic
kamikaze lobbed muddlesome nonsense.
Let the gaze fold, softly shut,
a moment held—
a slow tide of breath that enters and leaves.
Within you, gently,
not demanding or rushed,
who is left there to judge?
For in this stillness the past can hold no claim.
Is it your imagination,
or the drift of fallen leaves
like papery whispers outside the door?
They gather, dry and scattered,
smelling of dust and worry—
magnetic forms of the lower mind.
You have been here before,
cloaked in yesterday’s echoes,
ruminating on the creases of time
carved like ancient riverbeds
onto an aging, fragile face.
Look out to the unveiled skies
and see the light moving across
without apology—
this endless flow where truth is found,
and the ego’s frantic season
is stripped away as illusion.
Before the first siren tore the sky, there was the stone,
Cool and patient, holding the sun's old memory of warmth.
Before the tracer's arc, the river's constant drone,
A hymn for roots, not for the crumbling of a home.
We poets have filled our pages with the human cry,
With righteous rage, with elegies for shattered bone.
But what of the olive tree that watched the children die,
Whose gnarled bark now cradles shrapnel, all alone?
Listen. Beneath the thrum of drones, a deeper sound:
The soil's slow breath, the patient turn of seasons underground.
It is not peace—peace is a human, fragile art—
But an older, sterner silence, ready to restart.
This is the poem I bring you: do not write of guns,
But of the single seed that splits the tank's cold treads.
Do not just mourn the smoke that blots out fathers, sons,
But chart the stubborn green that threads the riverbeds.
For when the last report has echoed into space,
The argument of vines will still reclaim this place.
They will not speak of victory, or draw a line,
But simply, quietly, design a different vine.
And we must learn from this—to be not just a voice
That shouts an endless protest to the deafened air,
But to be like water, wearing down the noise,
And like the silent, growing things that choose to still be there.
So let our verses be the root, not just the rose.
The quiet, after, that a shattered world someday will know.
“Snowflakes are winter’s butterflies.” – Unknown
Winter is not always bitter, lifeless and drab
Snow gleams as it blankets and caresses nature
Birds become a vibrant display in reds and blues
A Blue Jay squawks as a cardinal stands ground
Perched on shimmery branches and bird feeders
As their songs warm frigid air with joyous melodies
Trees sleep as their barren branches provide shelter
While ice shimmers in artsy patterns under sunlight
Squirrels busy at feeders, hoarding seeds and nuts
Winds blow snowfall as it cleanses the drab ground
Ducks heard quacking while perching on icy riverbeds
Nature becomes a magical display in winter
Close up is when you see the cracks,
the lines etched, scratched onto canvas.
An oil painting that survived a fire.
Close up is when you see the ash
loosen, drift away in a breeze. Smoke.
Something once hot white turned to charcoal.
Close up is when you see the riverbeds
dry now from drought, once drenched with desire.
Cargo stuck in the mud of the water we were.
Close up is when you see marrow, the blood
and bone bristling under transparent paper
once pink and once flesh. Once strong. Once marble.
So leave, please. See me blur as those cracks become hazy.
Retire, step back. Zoom out. Fly up with only a dot down here to see.
Take a snapshot out of focus. Forget to develop the memory of me.
Cursive Consolations
David J Walker
Heartlessly pressing words into wine
Our feet are blood red from the crushing
Our heads flowing in faint rhymes
Into dry riverbeds genially growing
An ocean of poetry waiting
Waves bathe the salted bathers
On white beaches lying
Side by side naked in the sand
Sunning themselves in the afternoon
Toweling themselves of pungent prose
After the sun rose the following morning
I remember the rhyme one will say to another
Who has fallen deep into a sleep of poetic meaning
Are you listening one says
No, I’m dreaming he replays as starfish cover his eyes
Creating cursive consolations