Rivulet Poems | Examples

River I

The sedate, dreamful morn
is  planted in a heteromorphic
carnation.
It is engraved  on the sonorous, 
red star.

The  moon is sowed in a melodious,
delightful route.
An unparalleled felicity  fills the 
soundless, enchanting rivulet.

A Father's prayer for his son

My son lies teetering 
On the edge of the abyss
And tears rivulet.

God, I beg you, please. 
End this suffering, I beg,
I die as he breathes.

I love him, dammit,
But if he suffers for me, 
I'm a poor father.

So decide. Heal him
Or quiet his pain. Mercy,
I beg of you, God.

Was not once enough?
I yield. Take my dreams, my love,
But please, spare my son. 

Your house is great, God.
Let him know true love, mercy, 
Kindness. Take him home. 

Else heal him, Father, 
He is too weak, as am I,
He should not suffer. 

Not like this limbo, 
Do not purgate him alive
But heal, or relieve.

Take my every tear 
as payment. Soften your heart.
Miracle child mine.

Pilgrimage

I sit, this morn, on the bed of
A dried-up rivulet,
Head-bent and full of compunction.
It’s clam-quiet except for the impatient
Squawks above which prompt my heartbeat.
I raise my head, heavy with grief.
Climbers and weevils align in a silent choir,
Singing with precision the lines of a forgotten
Mirth.
It’s 5 o’clock in the morning — a time when
Cockcrows are loud enough to wake the dead.
I cringe and slink as I traipse about in the dead woods,
Among the cadavers of river plants, decimated,
Deserted, and vitiated through seasons’ flagrant ebb.
I see shadows that sing with their mouths tightly shut.
Like them all, I, too, am lonesome, and I draw about me
The dry waves of parched waters.
On my lips is a certain prayer — a revised edition of the
Paternoster.
Return, waters, return from the underrocks, I pray thee.
My sorrows are old and fragile.
Hoots and cries and stridulations beseech me.
I have picked my way among paths that
Cuddle the feet in sympathy and soothe
The souls that hide from the earnestness of
Sunrise.
Wash my dry naked feet, O waters,
And grease my palms so cracked from
Endless chafing.

Illusions on Rivulet Path

Written: May 15, 2025, for contest Sponsored by: Crystol Woods

                 **********************

I’m neither harmonious nor a hidden hymn
Who said I'm wedded to whimsy, lilac looks?
to all those who gifted me 
countless worries through the years. 
Simply silhouettes in my rear—view mirror.
I sail past rhyming reefs, 
of my quest faintly reflecting 
Why should I let them define me anymore?

I make mistakes; so what?
my heart is full of love and ambrosian words—
it shines with rhapsody.
my hands can heal amidst the severest pain.
my mind envision cures 
for sparkling vanilla—algae tears.
Tidal teals whisper tales that truly transform.

Despite doubts in glittering, grape-colored gales,
I'll face them as the north star kisses the sea.
I will rise and face them head on,
while history hisses at my heels. 
I'll sustain my anxieties for what they are — illusions 
with a clairvoyant cape and rivulets unraveled
what matters is now
what matters is my striving
what matters is the rise 
toward rebellious rainbows
and what I require, 
as a necklace of seashells 
worn and stained with sepia

River Of Lies

Tears, they flow as giddy gushing streams,
and meddle with our facile sense of joy,
seamlessly they interface cod emotions,
whirlpool laughter smothers trite elation,
smirking bogus rivulet, weeping willow branch,
to that toxic ocean known as hollow mirth

tribute to gratitude

I never thought of it as more than a side stream
a rivulet of minor proportion and influence
until the miracles and blessings appeared

always about me and more and right now
centre of the universe deserved pole position
up to the time disaster struck hard and fast

today I have resolved to take nothing for granted
am grateful for the privilege of being alive
for food water sheltered abode and love in abundance

an inner war has abated and peace has arrived
sobriety in body mind soul and great spirit
grant me the vital force of existential existence

what cannot be changed I am able to accept
that which can be I try to alter and amend 
and I am beginning to know the difference

in the here and now of today
I am thankful to feeling gratitude
now life flows on its own appreciation

Vox Sforzando

I murmur like a rivulet through the 
hitch of your hands, where the canyons 
carve their parched longing into your fingers—
where silences sublimate like cera,
pooling beneath your glissando touch.

Your tremolo breath convulses rough and low
like sibilant submersion in water—
spilling, sinking, staining everything it meets.
I watch the estuary of your gaze split my horizon—
watch you hush abysmal eyes into 
celestially arched surrender.

There is no stillness between starlight, 
only the pull of mighty magnitudes,
fuses lit beneath the ribs,
pulses and throbs teaching the air 
how to cleave—how to… 
sforzando!

Love, here, is neither reserved nor reticent—
it is lightning bottled in glass—
hellfire burning beneath the tide—
language that deconstructs 
even as it is uttered.

I step forward—some faltering cadence,
some submitting ascension—placing my hands into your fire,
not to be consumed, but to remember 
how stars revel and rain.

Frolic - Frolic Along With Me

Frolic - frolic along with me
   And be as a spritely fawn
Running carelessly through the reeds
   As best we can imagine.

Let's traipse across the rivulet
   Where a log fell in the right place.
What luck that we should find it
   Like it knew of our escapade!

The shrubs have something to say;
   Small murmurs are thrown to the wind.
They catch up to us and whiz by
   But we've not a common language.

So wildly about the winds gush
   That my whipped hair looks feral.
We trample the weeds underfoot;
   We overtake a lonesome hill.

Somewhere, anywhere - let us run
   And forge for ourselves a new path.
Frolic with me through the unknown
   So sure that we never look back.

RAINDROPS

RAINDROPS

Each and every raindrop plays its part
In a shower, or a torrential downpour
Do we know if they have a pointed tip
Or just a sphere, either shape will drip
Pure water in an innocent world before
Now slightly acidic, tasting faintly tart

When landing they spatter and coalesce
On windows, running down in a rivulet
And yet it’s worth looking to the skies
Letting all the raindrops wash the eyes
Be assured, all surfaces will soon be wet
Being caught in the rain can cause stress

The pitter patter of rain on a metal roof
Sometimes a comfort for the ill at ease
It breaks the grim silence of desperation
For the anxious, a source of frustration
Warm or cold, timely rain can still please
So stand and be welcoming, never aloof

Eagerness

Great eagerness in the pursuit of wealth, pleasure, or honor, cannot exist without sin. - Desiderius Erasmus

Three rumbustious good friends
Wealth, Pleasure and Power
Took a break from their
Busy lives and went to a forest
To spend a free fun day together

They were startled to see
A hut, laid back, hidden
In pristine green, a
Flowing rivulet played harmonics
As tall trees swayed just to breathe fresh air

A wise couple lived there
With eerie quietude -
Truth and Happiness
Little needs kept them away riches
And Loss never crossed their path ever

A heavenly retreat
Yet, the hut's calmness choked
The three merry friends
Who left eagerly like hurried thieves
While the couple felt safe and relieved

Haiku surge

.

  back mine dome'z locks roamed
'twixt eve's legz mine wavy strands
            crisp rivulet rush 








*rousing the astute's
  vision  ,)

DIVINE REALITY THAT AWAITS US

with glorified bodies
there we joyously tread 
along streets of gold 
basking under unclouded 
celestial firmament.

midst jubilant countenance
there we are zealously excited 
to plunge into rivulet like transparent glass
of crystal water, absolutely refreshing.

along vibrant spirit of revealed faith
there we are savouring succulent fruits
from tree of life that bears twelve kinds of fruits
with therapeutic leaves for divine welfare…

gratefully triumphant
there we are secured around fortress of gems
with pearly gates exuding flawless wealth 
upon foundations garnished by precious jewels.
  
possessing radiant eternal life
there we are worshipping midst endless songs of praise 
the omnipotent Almighty God
constantly shining with Alpha and Omega* glow.

*Revelation 1:8 I am Alpha and Omega, the beginning and the ending, saith the Lord, which is, and which was, and which is to come, the Almighty.

January 29, 2024
3rd place, "YOUR CHOICE I" Poetry Writing Contest
Sponsored by Brian Strand; judged on 4/6/2025

A Very English River

This woodland stream could be a small English river,
it dibbles and dabbles, it meanders, and has the air
of an old water way, one that never saw the need
to rush or gush.

The small ripples pace themselves; a sepia rivulet
that tugs at a nutrient silt, carrying it down gently
to green pastures.
In autumn the fallen leaves add ocher flotillas
that sail into valley mists, never to return.

April showers refresh the brook,
it waltzes between tufted hillocks,
glides almost giddily between sky and earth.

If the path of the water flow has a name
it is known only to grazing cattle,
that drink of it,
and the meadow lark
that hovers high above the little beck
to sing of its native wandering ways.

Opposing Poetry

POETRY DOESN'T ALWAYS COME TO ME TIPTOEING IN A VEIL OF IMAGINATION OR RAGING LIKE A TURBULENT STORM
IT DOES EMERGE WHEN WAKING UP, I GAZE AT THE ENCHANTING VERMILLION SKY AT DAWN, MAJESTIC SUN RISING IN THE HORIZON. 
IT DOES WHEN GORGEOUS SUNFLOWERS IN MY GARDEN BLOOM, FLAUNTING THEIR MESMERIZING GOLDEN PETALS!
MY HEART LEAPS AND FLUTTERS LIKE A BUTTERFLY ENRAPTURED WITH COLOURS
IT DOES WHEN A MURMURING RIVER CROONS A TALE OF PASSIONATE LOVE
SPLASHING THE PEBBLES WITH TENDER KISSES! 



Poetry comes to me rushing in a chariot of imagination, not tiptoeing like a bride!
Doesn't emerge, unless I gaze at vermillion sky, majestic sun setting at ocean, 
It doesn't, unless glorious sunflowers bloom in my garden, petite and shy, until
My heart quivers and shivers like dewdrops, in euphoria, 
Poetry disappears unless I listen to a brook humming a tale of romantic love... 
When the rocks are caressed by the rivulet with wild emotions!

superficial silence

why do we 
still assume that whispered diamond dialects
delicate and sheer
aren't scripted with blades 
that curdle blood-stained musings
as summer symphonies scorch ebony skin
tattooed with dark and deep sinister sonnets
sewn from superficial scarlet syllables 
that emanate rusted mahogany hues

so listen to the mulberry metaphors
that rain with roseate rhymes 
from the hazy melancholic midnight skies
where not every mist of dust 
becomes a halcyon teal blue rivulet 
of passionate poetry
nor do they mirror 
the wind 
carrying unspoken tale
that is veiled
beneath twinkling twilight tides

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