Short Barges Poems

You know a cellphone discharges
Electric cars swamp like barges!
You can't make a case
For drivers who face
Assault a battery charges!...

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Our old canal is in decay
The water rank and brown
So different from its yesterday
When, with barges plying up and down,
Was the life blood of this market town.


One English Quintain...

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The wet snow becomes slush,
and turning into rain...
makes all the pines weep
as people in grief.
Long barges glide
like gondolas
in Venice,
but no song
is sung
today
to
love. 



Copyright 2010 by Andrew Crisci...

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A poem is a chance visitor
Who barges in unexpected
But when waiting for his arrival
He may not show up
A guest with no propriety

Feb.2.2023

Bite size Contest. No.60. Poetry Contest
Sponsor- Line Gauthier...

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Yes, my darling, she whispers real low,
tenderly egging him on in  the shadow
as on her ample and generous breasts
the lusty man greedily sucks and feasts.

Behind the door everything I overhear,
the sounds that the lovers make there;
blinded by wild rage the idiot barges in
and in a tryst I catch and startle them…

my unfaithful wife and our day-old baby boy!...

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She drank all the water in the first five seas.
She burped and tooted and started to wheeze.
The pirate ships began to toss and turn.
Driftwood came in by the hundreds to burn.

She released it all on a quick exhale.
The boats and barges ran up a strong gale.
The beaches were flooded, sunbathers were mad.
She climbed to the top of a lighthouse and lived out her sad....

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I’m the only one out here,
The benches all bare,
The sky full of clouds
And a chill in the air.

Yet it’s where I belong
Doing what I must do
And I’m lucky the river
Provides a great view.

Some joggers, some barges,
Some seagulls, some tugs – 
A scene likely met with
Some “no big deal” shrugs.

Though I’ve said this before
Many times in a poem
On my bench by the river
I’m happily home....

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Now what do I do with this love of mine?
It seems to have lost it's sparkle and shine.
I hope and keep praying, that he'll show me a sign,
That shows that he feels I've now paid for my crimes.
But here I sit waiting...wasting more than just time.
Playing house and pretending that everything's fine.
Until reality barges in, as I write line after line, 
And I see my poem come together...
It's my life that won't rhyme....

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The Ohio wipes its face every few miles.
A bend in the river
forgets the wharfs, the gravel silos
and power plants,
only occasional coal barges
push an industrial past before them.

Here cattails gather herons
into measured dominions.
The river gallops under placid waves,
fish-eyed currents dip and toggle
in the ripple.

It is possible to watch yourself
in this new bend in the stream,
possible to wash your face
anew also -


there to see your own rivering....

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