Tributary Poems | Examples

Fog and Water

Fog over the inlet
until water and air waltz together.
colds ears muffled by the dank air.
Grebes and Coots colonize this tributary.
The ocean is close
you can feel the tidal pull of it
the immensity of it,
even through the thick haze
it seems to tug at my small boat.
I hear now, the distant screaking
of coastal gulls.
Trawling fingers in the dark water
mellifluent coils pluck and pull.
Later, sitting in the cabin
I wonder why I did not push
further out from the estuary
advancing towards
the deep sound of the breakers.
I yawn, sup some hot tea from a mug,
smile,
comfortable,
that's the reason -
way too comfortable.

Lamb To The Slaughter

Gentle tributary
of a hill-born river
suburban lake caressed
acres of fertile land -
paddy rich, growing fields

Schools of fish raced at depths
water-birds, herons, egrets,
warblers, mynas, pipits,
swallows, shikra, barbets, owls
Bowl that held varied lives

The surrounding city
rapidly scales cloud- heights, as
skilled strategists, land grabbers,
investors, policymakers,
now take her on a ride

The silenced birds, once family
to the lively-living lake,
their provider, now watch
from a mile, her being led
like a lamb to the slaughter

chemical sewers, toxic algae
rotting froth, foam, fumes engulf
volatile, fire-prone, wasted,
water body stands scrapped
A stilled lake, beyond repair

A Shallow Creek to Nowhere

In flood the creek is still a walk over.
 A listless washing of the land,
a hesitant flow, never meant to be a tributary,
 or delta of anything at all.

The opaque water meanders 
through sunken banks
then after a few miles, seeps into a
 wallow of bottomland.

It recently has been given a name,
a new housing development
built beside its muddy channel
has named it ‘Silver Water Creek’.

What’s left of Silver Water Creek
scrawls an epilogue in the mud.
A leaf beached on a pebble
mimics a lilliputian wreck,
and that is where
my imagination tragically drowns.


~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
A recent edit

Backyard Sunshine Poem 3010 In Shades Of Pink And Green

Mom, Happy Thanksgiving 
Wishing You Were Here
A Tree Grows In The 18th Spot
With The 18th Tear That I Shed 
I Stop On 18th Street
To Sing A Song 
That Is 18 Minutes Long
18 Memories Come To My Head Out Of Nowhere
Then I Turn 18 Again
And I Rename MySelf Benjamin Button
When Some Stranger Named Paul,
Who Dwells In A Hard Castle On Avenue 19,
Plays A Nostalgic Tune Of Glorius Therapeutic Effervescence,
I Will Be At Your Burial Site With Flowers ?? For You
I Will Treasure The Memories In Tributary Showers For You
Without You Here, I Will Always Be Alone
Still Searching For Replacements But Failing Instantaneously 
My Love And Appreciation For You Has No Expiration Date And Will AllWays Be A HolyDay EveryDay In Every Way More And More Each Day In Every Phase Like A Metaphorical Phase That Confuses Me With Similes, HowEver, I Still Find A Way Via Ginseng Vibes Of SunShine Inspiration Thanks Wholly To You......
I Miss You And Love You, M.O.M. (Mother Of Marty) Like The Purification Of Simplicity's Kindred Spirit In Its Maternal Essence 
Keep Resting Easy........Love Infinity........

Special Deliveries

From the deepest reservoirs of the heart,
There resides the source of our soul's river.
From the beginning, from the very start,
There is the issuing out of a river flow,
Without this, we would cease to grow.

Sometimes releasing a myriad of issues,
Or just a few, revealing things old and new,
Heavenly mysteries that we never knew.

Without ceasing, occasionally gushing,
Often with force like white water rapids.
It is continually rushing to and fro.

It ceases not its navigation through
Its faithful ever-ready conduits,
Continually cleansing and healing
Along its elongated passage.

So, let the river flow.
Make room for its overflow.
Let every tributary join its force
As their waters congeal to reach the
Awaiting open sea. Let there be no dams,
Delays, or detours.  Let the river determine
Its own course. Read carefully what the river is saying
And embrace those 'Special Deliveries' from the heart.

Hot October

Hot, is October

It is early, but the petrol station is open
and since it is already hot, I buy two big bottles of cold water.
The heat, this morning is ominous holds no promise 
of summer and fun, more like the door of hell has been left open, I hear the screams of those who are burning forever (one would think the body would be impervious to pain when burning forever)
I don´t want to go in yet sit on a cold stone bench drink water and dream of swimming naked in the lake of love.
Of course, the lake has gone as has its tributary, the river running from the hazy mountain.
Suddenly it hits me over the head, the voice which says,
you are 85,  how the hell did you manage this?
I don't, nothing, I did.
The news is not helpful either, saying the heatwave and only the English go out in the midday sun (Noel Coward)
I drink some cold water pretend it is from a spring concealed in my imagination, of an oasis and palm trees I think would it not be good if I invented a pill that made me younger and younger till I disappeared unborn.

Forest Glade

         Twig twists intersect then spread victory
         Receptors sprout cat waving paws
         Fold fruit bowl foliage, branch tributary 
         Lump eye timber columns support

 
         Steer me clear of thatch caged cluster
         Cheerleader twirling ribbons sizzle
         Shifted to soft focus forest, fairy dusted
         In drifting dandelion seed celestial 
         
         
          Thrown down overlap of toasty tobacco
          Crinkle constant joke cracked faces 
          Humour grants razor slim grasses tackle
          Unused nests during seasons' phases
          
   
          Basket interweave splice strap sun poke
          Probes timid shade a radiating halo
          Lathered limbs in blossom shampoo soak
          Crown me neath ghostly citrine glow

 
          Sombre trots towards her restful rotunda 
          Floating pollen fluff Snugglepot ego
          Fingers spring flags of woodland wonder 
          Grip ant gazette trail to safe gazebo





             6th March
             Exists in the middle

Shallow Creek To Nowhere

In flood the creek is still a walk over.
    A limp washing of the land,
a hesitant flow, never meant to be a tributary,
    or delta of anything at all.

The opaque water slides through low,
then after a few miles, seeps into a
    wallow of bottomland.

It recently has been given a name,
a new housing development
built beside its muddy banks
   is called, ‘Silver Water Creek’.

    I think of my bookshelf,
Mark Twain’s, ‘Life on the Mississippi’, 
then a trip here being taken to nowhere,
   my own disappearing.

Inlet

Fog slow-dances over the inlet
until water and air waltz together.
My ears are muffled 
in the dawn mizzle.

Grebes and Coots colonize this tributary,
gulls just visit, as I do.

A person could row out to the ocean from here,
but the thick haze might take a soul
or lose a body
then it would be caught between two worlds.

Later sitting on the cabin porch,
mind wondering why
the skiff did not head out to the coastal waves
at least as far as any swimmer might go,

but the answer is clear;
keeping this ageing body safe,
that’s all that matters now.

Boggy Brook

In flood the stream is still a walk over.
 A limp washing of the land,
a hesitant flow, never meant to be a tributary,
 or delta of anything much at all.
Here and there, the no name trickle 
turns into only a turgid sludge.

The opaque water slides through 
low, and unremarkable,
then after a mile or less,  it muddily seeps 
into a dank wallow of bottomland.

It recently has been given a name,
a new housing development
is being built beside its indefinite banks,
it is now named:  Sweet Water Creek.
Such is the lie
of the land around here.

A Carrot Cake Tributary Visit

the fence is now made of rust
the patio now has a see through floor
the grass is now a mirror for the aging sun
the trees are now all skeletons in the unfortunate name of abandonment

the clothesline is still surprisingly intact
the clothespins are now weather worn and practically useless
the swing set is now a long lost distant cousin of the aforementioned fence
the doghouse where slacker used to chill is now a bathroom source for many a bird

a rabbit hops in here where life once was
she stares at me inquisitively 
i wonder if miss bunny has a poem in her head or a quiet opinion
well, i share with her the anecdote that i intentionally elongate

Shopping Cart

The Shopping Cart

Upon my veritable throne I survey
subjects of sundry colors,
cans and jars, packets and bags
arrayed in reverent order before me.
I am appointed, by natural virtue
captain of this mighty ship
past denizens of the white-tiled, polished sea
steered through (a)isles by two sturdy hands.
Before me lies, in mangled letters,
a royal sanction, listing treasures from far and wide
my trained eyes decipher the cryptic codes
rendered in smudged ink,
and by my direction, mine alone
we cruise past other ships, on their missions,
seeking loot to plunder off soaring towers
like panels painted in the same color.
When at last, our voyage concludes,
our ship, weary but worthy
languidly does sail over to the fine,
bespectacled statue behind a glowing screen.
Our treasures they measure with 
that beeping baton, when at last,
in the name of the King, we are charged
royal customs, each one of us a tributary.
And off we go, onto terra firma
where I shall become a child again,
and my subjects, most ungraciously packed
into suffocating little plastic bags.

Dated - 29th October 2021

Chilly and Dark

A faultless tributary lowered in frigid water.
There is no exact development profound inside.
The chaotic life above is evaporating blunter.
Inside, the eternal silence is deafening, sighed.

The lake, in every case near the hustle of life. 
How might it be so still when all is livid strife? 
The cold water surrounded my heart and mind. 
I'm left confused by the quiet feel of grind. 

Isn't it time for peace? To wrest silence. 
I was overwhelmed by serenity and tieless.
I bid farewell to the source of my disturbing. 
It's despairing yet still hopeless standing.

 After a flood and a lifetime, it rowed. 
A town lost in the appalling cloud.

Written: October 16, 2021

Final Tribute

      Final Tribute
(for the Last Caesar)


Give the annual percentile amount
of your iron-copper gathering
The yearly brow liquidity
is required by the silver arm of vexation
Hemoglobin promissory is handed
to the seated image stamped on the penny
Spinal rein acquiescence,
bent will to the usury yield is mandatory
Because the last Caesar said make it so

The coins are jingo collected,
earmarked primarily for a military preference
Give ad infinitum;
blood, sweat and tears
is the required sum
Profess fiscal fealty to the feudal lord
of a monetary divided land
Take a sharecropper stand,
a servile oath of stained cloth submission

What is the scarlet vow protection condition? 

Pay the final tribute
with the parting of your farthing soul

Give with mint-scented breath,
(a legion air of pleb compliance)
the placid portion of patriotic cuckold 

Pocket pawns ask only for golden liberty,
to debt pursue life, love and happiness
	
With deep tributary lender lament,
the last Caesar said belay that request


09-14-21

The Source

On the outer edge of Kemble
there’s a stone upon the green
where a spring becomes a trickle in a pond.

It seeps and then it flows
under bridges as a stream
towards the narrowboats of Lechlade and beyond.

There is peace and so much beauty
from The Isis* to The Thames
winding dreams around the spires along its course.

It flows on through The Tideway
'til its journey finally ends
at The North Sea many miles from its source.


* The Isis is an alternative name given to the River Thames from its source in the Cotswolds until it is joined by The Thame (a Thames tributary) at Dorchester in Oxfordshire - after which it is more generally referred to as The Thames.

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