|Best Poems About / On RIVER
My Own Future
This is that river,
Who has given me culture.
This is that river,
Who is not able to move further.
See this river in the eyes
Of the moon my dear and
Say something in the words
Of the clouds and the deer.
The river knows what type
Of man I am and hence
Shows me waves and stones,
That are there years together.
Whether I am loving or hating
Is a different matter, my dear.
But I am with the river and
The river is with me
Contrary to my own future.
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' The River's Arms... '
I Rushed Into The Rivers Arms
It Carried Me Away
Within Its Strong, Swift Current
Amid Foam and Sunlit Spray
It Wetly Glossed My Skin
and Dipping Me
Close Down To The Riverbed
Deep and Wild and Murky
At First, Its Cold Nature
Shocked and Intimidated
Until I Learned Its Flow
Every Splash Upon My Flesh
Was Playful and Caressive
Every Plunge and Every Pull
Held Me Curiously and Possessive
My Body Buoyed and Bounced
Floating On Smooth Liquid
Every Sprinkle Was Sparkling
Each Velvet-Lapping, Vivid
Where Dreams Un-Drowned Had Mixed
With Waves Rimming Oer and Spilt
Rippled and Spinned Around Rocks That Skipped
Were Danced Down Into Silken-Silt
I Kept Rising By Riverside
Thru Every Dunk and Every Dive
Every Surge Felt So Alive
Every Soak So Synchronized
Like A Saturday Baptism
My Saturated Soul, Glistened
An Enraptured, Reborn Vision
I Let The River Steer
So Symbolic and So Sure
It Carries To Something Greater
Ill Find Out Just What Later
River Long and River Wide
My River Song On Riverside
Traveling On The River Tides
Rivers Arms Is One Sweet Ride
It Is Not A Pot Of Gold
But A Jade River That Flows
At The End Of A Rainbow
(Every Forest Creature Knows)
Now Sitting On Riverbank
Watching This Swishing Water-Tank
Dont Know How I Didnt Sank
But I Do Know Who To Thank!
River Long, Oh River Ride
My River Song
Traveling On Your River Tides
Rivers Arms Was Open Wide
I Rushed Into The Rivers Arms and
Written & ©: 7/13/10
By: The MoonBee
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No One Steps Twice On The River Of Life...
it is not the rage of this river.
when i was a child, as mother says,
i keep my finger inside my mouth
sucked by my throat, to keep hunger away
beside the bank of this river
i am the spectator
and the river believes in the magic
of my innocence
it flows always in a distant
it is not the rage of the river,
it is i, the grown up man who goes swimming
in the river and feel
the joys of its cool waters
always moving on towards
it is the swimming with a friend
with a lover and then with a wife
and then my silence,
what we do not have we force to forget
it is the bathing in the river
the rinsing and the cleansing of the waters
it is not the rage of this river
and then we become too weak to be in this river
the river moves on and on
towards the deepest sea looking for the
i wait by the bank of this river
many things have been missed
the more important ones
the one that gives the posterity of
it is denied of me because of this river
that gives me nothing
all the while i was the leaf that fell off from
on the side of this river
and i floated because i have nothing to do
because i can do nothing about
the flow of the river
i become the dead leaf that the air
tossed and bumped on boulders
till i sink
deep down the river
that i shall pass only once.
RIC S. BASTASA
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The rock was very old. It had lived in the river for many years, and its belly had become as smooth as that of the water that held it. It had traveled down the river, and had seen many things, had learned much. Each year it would go a certain length, and when winter came, it would become covered with darkness, and then would sleep. The ice would cover the river like a blanket, and the rock would feel at once like falling, like sleeping. Then it would only dream of the past year, and would remember what had happened. In this way the rock could learn, it could remember, and make a part of the
past year its own.
Within it the rock had many things. It had the green of the trees, the bear's sweet tongue, the scales of the fish, each of them a rainbowed mirror of the earth above. The rock saw all of these things, and many more, and had become each thing that it had seen, carried them within itself, until it was many things, this small rock.
It had started out a large mother rock, perhaps the mother of all rocks, but it could not stand to think that it was alone, that it was only this one great thing. It could hear, every day, more and more, different voices talking, different voices than its own. Some of them wanted to be in another place, perhaps on another side of the rock, some of the voices talked only of stretching, perhaps even of stretching to the point of accidentally breaking off. But these voices knew that to stretch was to crack, and eventually fall off into who knew what.
But when the rock was one great thing, it knew that it was still apart, that it was, or perhaps could be, different. It knew
it in its rock self, and could not know what it knew now, it was still too young at the time.
Then it only knew that it heard other voices within and without its great rock self. It knew of the river, and would look down. It knew of the wind, could hear its different voices. It knew of the rain, and that it fed the river, it knew that there were others besides itself. It knew of these few things.
Now it was very old, and had seen and become many things. The lichen had talked with it, had joined it, and made the rock its home. The leaves that fell and died in the river told it their stories of the winds and insects, and the rock had become them all, the many snow-covered winters, many summers, the many different springs and
It had become the stream that had become the river that had been swallowed by the great salt sea. It had fallen deeply asleep beneath the great depths, had been carried by the mother tides, until finally, within itself, it felt many little voices, and the rock
then remembered its beginnings.
These voices knew that they were not alone. Some wanted to be on the other side of another small voice, some wanted very badly to stretch, and the old rock heard them all, many small, frightened voices, all afraid of cracking, falling off into who knew what.
But these small voices all knew that they were not alone, and at the same time that they were different.
Then one day the rock felt a little pain in its smooth side, felt a little as if it were, perhaps, dying. It felt a small, very small, perhaps, crack. It hurt, but the rock was not afraid, it loved its small voices.
The rock felt within itself, and remembered, for it had slept and dreamt for many winters. It remembered itself, and knew that it
was still the great mother rock, who knew that to fall, even apart, was to go on to see and to become many different things. Then as the rock lay on the sand, deep beneath the great sea, it felt at home, knowing that even though it would be different, it was not alone.
All that is above
Also is below
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