Waterline Poems | Examples

Water of the Bay

What is the water of the Bay?
Is it the water that gives life to others?
Is it more than that?

As I look from atop the mountain I see beauty in the bay. 
The water around her feet makes her seem like she is walking across the waterline. 
As she sings with no one around I hear beauty in her voice. 
If only she knew that she had beauty in voice, heart, and vision. 

At least I know the truth of her love as I can see the vision of perfection. 
Of course, my vision of perfection is when the person does not see themselves as more than humble. 
That is the concept of true beauty when they realize that the quality of being humble is beautiful. It is only one concept, but it is the most important.
It is Destiny as her voice sings it proudly!

S-O-S

Am I on an island launching bottles out to sea
beached at the waterline will someone rescue me
I'm drowning not waving as the boats go by
abandoned at high tide does anyone hear my cry
here am I sad to say writing messages in the sand
marooned a lonely castaway will somebody lend a hand
if I'm on an island will my ship come in
or has it run aground did it go down
with only thoughts of you to keep me alive
when will my ship ever arrive
here on an island sending signals from the shore
stranded high and dry will no one hear my call
found my freedom a big mistake I made
there's not another living soul around
loneliness the price I paid
and my tears are the only sound
if only my time I could rewind
but am I really on a deserted island
or is it only in my mind

Sea Of Tranquility

By day my dreams go drifting
of their own design
I find my mind wandering
down to the waterline
for a change of scene
let's you and me
go swimming in the sea
of tranquility
leave all cares behind
we'll sail away sometime soon
and bathe by the light of the moon

Horatio Nelson 1758-1805

Years ago I did so choose, to go on a Caribbean clipper ship cruise,
and, in addition to several other islands,
anchored off Nevis, northwest of Saint Kitts,
where, in the late 1780's, Nelson had lived,
and still bears traces of his presence today,
in various parts, pieces and bits.
When our windjammer Skipper informed us,
'Shopping here's good, snorkeling is bad,'
I avoided the former, sought out the latter,
and, as a matter of fact, a good time was had,
for no sooner had I ducked under,
two feet from the waterline,
in about one foot deep (shallow) water,
tho' visibility was, in inches, no more than nine,
I espied a white clay churchwarden pipe,
which I retrieved, broken, not whole,
with one third of the stem, and most of the tobacco-burned bowl.
1787, Nelson married the widow Fanny Nisbet on Nevis,
and, as the island he was about to depart,
'Desist smoking or else!'
Horatio may have heard her insist or impart,
and that which I found, I've a mind to say,
was his very last pipe, he'd reluctantly tossed overboard,
on that sunny day, when, as Captain of Boreas, he sailed away.

Am I drowning?

Another conversation within myself.
Another riddle within the spectrum of possibility.  
Wouldn't it be wise to search for someone in this
moment of desperation?

Fighting to wipe away these tears that wont keep.
Standing in the rains of despair.
The machine becomes obsolete.
How to find clarity?

Diluted fantasies?
I know somewhere my questions
cease transcending the mark that keeps them guessing.
A fallible facsimile that I'm doomed to repeat.

I only need speak it into existence,
with words that clip dirty wings.
So now no one walks alone.

Avoiding the idea that there is no escape.
Such a desperate moment. Actually, it's beautiful
in the way that I remember her smile.
Desperate when I recall the tears that ran down her face.

My head tilted to the side, trying to make sense of it all.
Trying not to feel at blame, while simultaneously trying to feel it all.
this moment cannot define me, us. I can only wade in this 
pool of raw emotion for so long.

Trying to find the pain from scars that have long been healed.
Such an ironic perfection. A momentary lapse of judgement as I let myself slip
under the waterline

Thank God, It's Friday

I'm on an island
marooned
a lonely castaway
beached at the waterline
launching bottles out to sea
abandoned
high and dry
my boat went down
it ran aground
but wait
what's that I see
can it be
a footprint in the sand
someone to lend a hand
my ship's come in
it's at the quay
no more sending signals
from the shore
the weekend's here
to rescue me

The Giver of Crumbs

The politicians and globalists plopped us in a teacup
feeding us the sugary crumbs of their lies
stuffing the lungs well below the waterline
to muffle screams for a peaceful existence.

Keep banging your tambourine boy
smoking that sweet government grass
wear your hippie t shirts
nobody is listening
war is a metal monkey-swinging from a money tree
war is a lemon squeezed from the misery of the masses

The machine is built to grind down our peace mountain
it is fueled by a never-ending supply of greed and sorrow

someday the cup will blister and crack
the masses will spill out 
eating the marrow
and drinking the blood of the giver of crumbs
and sorrow.

His waterline of humor

He floats just above the waterline of humor
I never know if he’s on the level or not,
peers over the edge, on the brink of absurd rumor.

Maybe human mirth has been squeezed out of him
while tilting at windmills; open hostility is his escape
whips out to a froth any sea of affection at his whim.

It is a carefully crafted facade, and he plays it like a master
like a tenantless temple looking for souls to save
or a gypsy staring at his crystal bowl for any disaster.

He could caress with flattery, or bite with harsh insight,
uses silence as his weapon to control dialogue
but turns on a smile a reassuring crescent in the night.

Awareness hums between us - he’s a magician
plucking out a dove of intimacy from his sleeve,
then he’s gone like a shadow running from the sun.



@jjote022924

Unseaworthy

Unseaworthy

I creak like an old ferry 
coming in to meet the wharf
mindful of less agile passengers

but like a wayward skiff
my thoughts soon override the pier
bounce against its rails, veer off

impatient with each lurch and bump
engines churn, make the waters flounce
I want to glide, admire my wake

I’m taking longer at drydock 
and can’t maintain this tight routine
too many layers patch my hull 

beneath the waterline, barnacles itch
and I can feel those worms at work 
I’m eager for an obscure berth.

A Place Not Meant To Be: 01

#1:  A Day Begins

 Sand grains station elevated for want
in the cool starless relics spell of dark
a sun behold horizon that dews haunt
favoring a virgin's touch settled spark
illuminate sprawl hope echoes a night
prejudge ripens new to the golden day
freedom speculate oddly slept by light
as shadiness telltale spots dead astray
undulating surge flowing wetness stir
uneasy granules settle in hair strands
surf push nonsensical ashore transfer
waterline mind a sun aloof shift sands
a shoreline of lying seashells mumble
amidst the noisy sand castles crumble

Chased By the Fire

“Chased by the Fire” 

the story 

bald faced
is in front of us
all around the world, brutal 
bridges are being burned 

we watch with disbelief,
some of us seem to remember
familiar passages written, though 
our experiences are quite unfamiliar

real time we escape 
into our fragile dreams,
hallucinating through 
perfumed smoke screens

we are comfortably 
uncomfortable
ringing the bells 
of our own chapters

writing our ethereal 
burnt candy interpetations,
while others survive, baptised 
in their harsh oceans 

treading acrid smoke 
across the water
swept away by 
terrible rips in time

avoiding fins 
heads above
the waterline, deeper 
than a tide line

waving not sinking

Lahaina 
visciously devoured 
by the monster,
totally gone

children 
looking for rainbows,
the church on the beach,
lost, looks on 

(LadyLabyrinth / 2023)






“A third of the earth was burned up, 
a third of the trees were burned up, 
and all the green grass was burned up.”

Four Cafes

    The four cafes, bordering the canal, sat eerily still this January night.  So often they seemed to blend together but on occasion any one of them could become a little more rowdy, and tactfully competitive - making the view a little more interesting.  I would watch from my apartment window as their personalities were expressed through music, each displaying their own version of laughter and unique aromas defining their menus and all, oh! so heavenly.  I watched with envy as couples danced and caroused on the festooned decks that laced the water’s edge and I’d sway to the rhythmic pulses rippling in the water's reflection. 
   But on this evening, I watched as each sat in silence.  The haze of fog had settled just above the canal’s waterline, slowly drifting in rhyme to its flow, deepening the stillness.  I was filled with a sense of sadness.  Each empty cafe appeared to be waiting for someone... a friend maybe, possibly a lover?  But no one came. It was an emptiness I knew well.   

loneliness lingers
in an ominous silence,
still waters quiver

Prime Turkey

A curious thing,
seven pounds of primero prime rib
materialized in my freezer.

Mouth-teasing saliva reached a high-waterline
just below upraised quizzical eyebrows.

I thanked the beefy butcher
who had dumped out the frozen turkey
in order to make room
for this massive joint of protein perfection.

Did I mistake reality again?
Did the meds confuse my mind’s eye?
I had to check.

Opening the white door
I saw the lumpy turkey still there
and not a hint of delicious steak.

I just hope the turkey ate it.

The Magnetic

"The Magnetic" 

Scarlet
pulls you covert in
now undercover
no need for 
stilettos

the undertow 
flows upwards
raising stakes 
and ropes
for a second coming

off-red lets go
indigo glows 
above the waterline 
diamonds sharp 
watch us, and we 

we are read 

the magnetic 
electric
draws us home

(LadyLabyrinth / 2022)


“Undertow” (Spooky Remix) /Lush
https://youtu.be/SfDhwQAov2E

Complexity and Perspective

In nature’s pool, away from the moon
jellyfish, those rose tinted wonders
of illuminated buoyancy, my ankles avoid
the terror of tentacles where a perfect
CocoCay day, would not be, to be stung.

In nature’s pool, absorbing the sun’s zeal
and sighting seagulls above the waterline.
I see, with my itty body immersed in manifold
drops - the sea and sky glide overhead
in camouflaged wings of turquoise. Oh God!

Complexity and perspective, latitude and
longitude - yes, God is that specific - shows
up where we are. This poet’s grappling
with weak words. Oh God! Your glory
swims all around, flies over me…I jump with joy.


9/23/2022

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