LODGE
like an
old castle
we rowed boats and swam
explored long mountain trails -
felt old-fashioned ambiance
“at the famed Mohonk Mountain House”
The wind grew still, the fog blocked my view,
The waters hid what I once knew.
But when the path was lost to me,
My faith lit paths I couldn't see.
"If the wind will not serve, take the oars."
So, I rowed through storms to distant shores.
Not because the path was clear,
But because I would not bow to fear.
When tides rise, and shadows fall,
I trust the One who hears my call.
Through every storm, through every night,
God gives my weary heart new light.
"Every step taken plants hope along the way; walk with God, and He’ll guide you each day."
With the art of under over,
footprints circle back,
to the gate left standing open.
Its latch polished smooth—
As I sharpen my key once again
the blade is now worn
to paper thin.
A map covers the desk.
Mountains are creases.
Rivers arch through meadows.
The valleys cast long shadows
reaching out well beyond
the dreams they sprang from.
One flower looked right.
Another hid behind its petals.
The bouquet grew to become bloated.
The vase overflowed with stems—
there was no room left
to wade in the water.
The boat left too late—
while one eye was searching distant shores,
another feared the rising seas.
Strong arms rowed out beyond the harbour
as the daylight quietly
ebbed the tide away.
One smooth stone will skip,
from a practised wrist's keen flick;
to then, sink down contentedly.
The steady hand knows when
it's right to let go,
leaving the cleanest ripples below.
When death struck
I was rowing in a narrow fjord, and the sea was calm
Then the rocks fell into the water, disturbing the peace
I rowed on
Until a part of the mountain fell, forming a gigantic wave
I was lifted riding the wave and saw a village disappear.
The boat splintered, but I was safe.
I looked down into the village, people coming out, not knowing
They were dead. I saw them dissolve, becoming drips of water
Before they ran into the sea, who was the mother
I kept on walking and came to a valley of roses, and they knew nothing
Of the tragedy that befell the people in the fjord.
I built a house in the belief that here, the sea would never reach me.
Gloria Dubbins - not much of a name,
but trust me on my judgment, gentle reader;
in terms of Beauty, she was Hall of Fame.
We’re talking – let’s see – nineteen seventy-two,
but I’m the keeper of the Gloria Flame,
and still to me she’s better, and more true,
than all your Taylor Swifts or Amber Heards.
She did the things that gorgeous women do -
in essence, nothing. Gloria had no words.
Intelligence? Commitment? Are you kidding?
For babes, that stuff is strictly for the birds.
She sat immobile and observed the bidding.
I’ll tell you this, but won’t apportion blame.
You, too, would be as motionless as cedar
if you’d been dealt her hand, to play The Game.
She’s not the kind you wound up talking to.
Her presence smote you with a sort of shame:
she struck you dumb: the words would not come through.
And Gloria didn’t gravitate to herds.
Perforce, she rowed her own sublime canoe.
Her beauty left her friendless, like the Kurds.
What was her view of Comus? Little Gidding?
I don’t have – no, I never had – a clue.
Enigma fits her. Easily two-thirds
of all the girls acknowledged her as leader,
but oddly she was Nothing Like A Dame.
O’ Hell!…to step aside, to slink along
the new-found, unstrolled alley road
and leave behind a heavy, long borne load—
Who would not, grinning, breathe a sigh of song?
InDeed, to risk the chances, Right or Wrong,
to journey off the main paths, tippy-toed,
and dare the dirty sidetracks, blithely rowed
by dank needles, gross junk,—who, but one strong?
Our dear protagonist has found himself—
entangled—in most embarrassing affairs.—
The Many chuck stones to shatter his glass
words—(Truths he’s thrown into the gaping gulf
of public opinion—)adorning now his airs
with the plumes of the aristocratic ass!
Lovely, happy hair,
Rowed, and growing in beauty;
God’s sweet locks I bear:-
Hued as is the night,
Moonlight beauty reflecting
Ebony delight:-
Locks admired so much,
Gardened rowed short or shouldered,
Just got to be touched.
God makes no mistakes;
Creating natured beauty,
Whatever hue takes:-
Mirror check and see,
The blooming beauty of thee,
And gracefully be:-
river ghost shivers gaze vicious wicked
We rowed around the river bend;
the moon peeped under a black cloud.
An eerie feeling it did lend-
beheld a ghost with a black shroud.
Our shivers increased as we rowed;
it followed us with a blank gaze.
And, then air currents quickly flowed
as winds intensified the haze.
What is this vicious scene we see?
What does the wicked vision want?
Then all at once, it flew with glee!
Black garbage bag- our scary taunt!
GHOST, RIVER, SHIVER, MASTICATE, COLD, POMPOUS
The cold wind swirled the mist all along the bank,
The ferryman held onto the boat, whilst the gentleman walked across the narrow plank,
The man looked quite pompous as he chewed upon his pipe,
He was large and looked like a cow masticating on fresh grass, I hope the man doesn’t develop the gripe,
Then as they pulled out into the river,
And the gentleman gave one tremendous shiver,
The ferryman pulled the oars as he rowed across the stream,
But this trip is not exactly as it seems,
The question is, ‘Who paid the ferryman?’ and the gentleman can’t boast,
Because after all he was only a harmless ghost.
The Great Blue soared
to a vacant apartment in the sky,
it circled its own shadow as it crossed the sun,
then rowed away on a dazzle of wind.
He took her there most days
They rowed out to his small yacht
They sat and drank take away lattes
She just cried a lot….
She was so full of sadness
Tormented by relentless fear
So very troubled
Her mind clouded and unclear
She liked it on the river
It gave momentary relief
Life seemed a little clearer
Though be it only brief
She saw them in the distance
Hoped they would come her way
Unbelievably without deviation
They were there without delay
Swimming underneath the small yacht
In water so clear and blue
So close they were touchable
He cuddled her and said,
“This is just for you”
The dolphins swam away….again without deviation
A direct path into the open water
She knew in her heart those majestic creatures
Had sought her…
The emotions they evoked in her
Mere words cannot describe
With heart and mind now smiling
She sipped her latte
And just cried….
In every life, a storm arises
along with sad and glad surprises.
Whether or not of our making,
storms can stress our souls to breaking.
Storms can arise from our inside,
caused by the hurts we hoard and hide,
or they may break forth on the outside,
inflicting pain as if to chide.
In a small boat, one stormy night
fast slept our Lord, the source of light.
Skilled sailors rowed with all their might
As hope failed in their futile fight.
And as the boat with water filled
the sailors knew they would be killed.
They roused their Lord with voices shrill
and He bade hearts and storm, “Be still.”
The storms of life can make you jitter
toss you around in frenzied flitter.
You choose to be brave or bitter
or let the storms make you glitter.
When storms arise, where can you turn,
as fear’s fierce winds your feelings churn.
Jesus the Lord who stilled the storm
can bring peace, your life reform.
beauties
unruffled
on a steamy day
float in boats rowed by their beaus
white silken hands folding their fans at sunset
AFTER THE PARTY
We had a wild beach party,
Far into the night.
The beer was flowing freely,
Then, as it was getting light,
I found an old wine bottle,
Half buried in the sand.
And in it was a message,
Penned in a shaking hand,
“I’m marooned on a tropical island
At the following address.
Please someone come and rescue me.
From a lady in distress.”
Being rather worse for wear,
My brain in a bit of a mess,
I went and hired a rowing boat
And set off for the address.
It took me all of three weeks
To reach my destination.
(It’s hard without a sat-nav,
To pin-point the location.)
And there she stood, wearing fig-leaves
And nothing else at all.
I rescued her and rowed back home.
Now I can’t wait for the fall.
I drank my coffee
Then jumped in the cup
To see the cool views
From inside, looking up
I imagined rowed teeth
Flanking a tongue
Pink and juicy like
Gooey bubblegum
And fronted by lips
Both lined and puckered
Smacking themselves
Like plump bloodsuckers
But fortunately
That was all made up
Except for the part
Where I jumped in the cup
The cup didn’t grow
Instead I turned teeny
The size of a tack
Like a lamped genie
I did see bright sky
Without a rainbow
That was suddenly
Dimmed by a shadow
But there was real fear
When I was picked up
For someone was going
To fill up the cup
I wanted to scream
But hadn’t a voice
So small in that cup
Of black Taster’s Choice
How could I survive
In a caffeine sea
I was to drown from
Curiosity
But then remembered
Though remained unseen
We had no more coffee
In cans nor as beans
I rejoiced with glee
But then in a blink
Was poured down a drain
And looked up from the sink
Which may seem hopeless
But it was part two
Of the next task that
I was going to do
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