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Most of April I spent, my mind totally switched off from poems, reading nor writing them, and wondered what if poems are penned no more. Pondering over, this poem was born.
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What possibly might well happen
If poems are no longer penned?
Would all water bodies go dry?
Rivers flow reverse to mountains
And all Earth’s greenery get gray?
Would oceans go under Earth’s belly?
No, nothing that sort would happen.
Yet, who’d the rain fairies exhort
To come and play strange water sports?
How else heavenly damsels descend down
To bathe free from their gossamer garments?
To venture all over the sky,
Who’d imagine hills would wear wings of wind?
How’d blades of grass shed tears of dew?
No, everything may move as ere
And still seem less than fair.
If poets no more poems were to pen,
What at its worse might well happen?
Things more serious than imagine we can…
Earth, getting dull with shades of gray
Might well seem more so from that day.
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Musings | 04.05.2026 | ocean/sea, poems, rain, river, free verse
Rain, rain, laugh and spray
Send a hurricane today
~ Watch the island sway
A confirmed landlubber is my friend Pete
At water sports my friend Pete can't compete
Once he tried on some skis
Almost drowned in the sea
Going rafting? ~ Batten down Pete's aisle seat
My pet fish walks too slow
In fact it does not walk at all
It does not walk on water or walls
It will not skydive or mountain climb
I suspect it of criminal malfeasance
Fishy activity like swimming is suspicious
Open and shut gills prove the point
Fish have no hands or feet
So guilty as charged
Is fishing a misdemeanor?
Are fish involved in water sports?
They don't drink beer or smoke
They hide in oceans
Fish lips make kissing noises
Pretending to tell you secrets
Have they forgotten English?
Why are goldfish orange?
Why not yellow or gold?
(Hence the name)
Is there something I'm missing?
Is something wrong with fishing?
Fish never look you in the eyes
Theirs are situated oddly on the sides
Heads bobbing left to right
Do goldfish cry?
One lap around the bowl and they forget
Your name and there's a distant memory
What kind of friend is that?
I can't pet my fish for many reasons
One of them being it is already pet
There are rules lest you forget
Why do goldfish die?
I feed them all my M&Ms
They melt in the mouth
Not in the water
If they are such good friends
Why do we flush them down the toilet?
Ian trains at the National Water Sports Centre,
In Nottingham ‘cos he lives in Stoke-on-Trent,
And is a para-canoeist with many sports prior:
Powerlifting, handcycling and shooting’s tent.
Born in 1972 on the 25th of January’s month,
In 1992 Ian suffered a bad sporting accident,
Which restricted him to a wheelchair’s moth,
And he later got a motor condition divergent.
In 2014 at the ICF World Champs. in Moscow,
Ian won the silver medal in the K1 200 metres,
Then in 2015 at the ECA Euros in Czech’s sow,
Ian won a gold medal, again in the K1 200m.
So in Rio 2016 at the Summer Paralympics,
He smashed his personal best to win a bronze,
In the 200m which he completed in 51.22secs:
“Not disappointed. I’m very happy to win bronze.”
As the storm clouds gather over the sun
A tiny opening lets through beams of light
Still a swirling dark mass like a sea undone
Resting behind are beams of sunlight
Rain is needed and the clouds a delight
They offer protection from the noon's heat
Cover from summer's full sun which is bright
Maybe tonight will be a cooler treat
Despite dark clouds, there's hope for new days
Maybe sunlight for an afternoon tromp
Or some time for water sports and play
An evening filled with much romp and stomp
Dark clouds can be at sometimes aboding
But after the storm life is acclimating
Written: June 30, 2014
Inspired by: Elly Wouterse's Contest
Contest: Encore
SENIORS OLYMPICS
Images of fearsomely fit youth everywhere,
healthy people, all bronzed, featured
by the second, on screens and public spaces :
fit and flash, but always young, Olympians.
I protest, for we seniors are just as sporty;
we recycle daily, suffer running noses;
fallen archery’s no problem at all - well, it is -
as we routinely wrestle with living.
Best not to even mention water sports.
Weightlifting self out of armchair is hourly,
when diving for the loo, as is rowing back
from much too easily expressed criticism.
We ping pong daily with potions and pills.
Sailing close to the wind, shooting mouth off,
leads to embarrassed synchronized grinning.
Annoy us and you will get a right kayaking.
Much of our lives consists of sundry hurdles;
shops are like a cross-country marathon,
or a steeplechase broken into relays,
bench to leaned-on wall, to bench again.
And, we’ve all done pent- and heptathlon,
with the dec- coming in to (or out of) focus,
we need not discus these ageist Olympics,
I have hammered my point enough ....
Alan McAlpine Douglas
A butterfly.
A bumblebee.
Is the signs of spring.
As the flowers bloom, birds, chirp, and sing.
No more winter cold blustery wind.
The temperatures from cold to warm start to blend.
The days are longer and the nights are short.
It’s time for all kinds of water sports.
There is bright, delightful colors on flowers, and the trees.
It is a pleasure and a heavenly sight to see.
So many people washing and waxing their cars.
At night time so many children looking in night sky wishing upon a star.
There is sounds of screams and laughter.
To this spring season I give thanks to my God, my Master.
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