Editors Blog

2014 April PAD Challenge: Day 26

Poetry is so much bigger than any one poet, genre of poetry, or school. It’s also bigger than any one blog or website. So I want to share a few of my favorite poetry resources before the month is over: The Academy of American Poets; Poetry Foundation; Best American Poetry blog; Coldfront; and Ron Silliman’s blog.

For today’s prompt, write a water poem. Life depends upon water, so there are any number of ways to write this prompt. A few thoughts that jump to mind include pollution, rising water levels, hurricanes, fracking, and more.


Free up your poetry with constraints!

Learn how putting constraints on your poetry through poetic forms, blank verse, and other tricks can actually free up your poetry writing skills and enhance your creativity in Writer’s Digest’s first ever Poetry Boot Camp. It will include a one-hour tutorial, personalized Q&A on a secure “attendees-only” message board, feedback on three original poems, and more. Click to continue.


Here’s my attempt at a Water Poem:


some people are pretty quick to anger
they spill over whenever they’re able
to point out any possible dangers
most of them get their news via cable

they spill over whenever they’re able
ready with a new complaint every day
most of them get their news via cable
which is where they learn the right things to say

ready with a new complaint every day
they stew like a full pot of hot water
and they forget all the right things to say
as the hot water gets even hotter

they stew like a full pot of hot water
to point out any possible dangers
as the hot water gets even hotter
some people soon boil in their anger


Today’s guest judge is…

Amy King

Amy King

Amy King

Of I Want to Make You Safe (Litmus Press), John Ashbery describes Amy King’s poems as bringing “abstractions to brilliant, jagged life, emerging into rather than out of the busyness of living.”

Safe was one of Boston Globe’s Best Poetry Books of 2011.

King teaches Creative Writing at SUNY Nassau Community College and works with VIDA: Women in Literary Arts.

Check her latest blog entries at Boston Review, Poetry Magazine and the Rumpus.


PYHO_Small_200x200Poem Your Heart Out

Poems, Prompts & Room to Add Your Own for the 2014 April PAD Challenge!

Words Dance Publishing is offering 20% off pre-orders for the Poem Your Heart Out anthology until May 1st! If you’d like to learn a bit more about our vision for the book, when it will be published, among other details.

Click to continue.


Robert Lee Brewer is Senior Content Editor of the Writer’s Digest Writing Community and author of Solving the World’s Problems. His book includes more than a few references to water. Learn more about Robert here: http://www.robertleebrewer.com/.


Drink up the following poetic posts:

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650 thoughts on “2014 April PAD Challenge: Day 26

  1. ianchandler


    like paint thrown on the canvas,
    the lake spits and overflows, foams and pirouettes
    as a ring of trees watches the symphony
    of synchronized bubble dance.

    unknown, it will be made into grassjuice,
    slivers of ice along the riverbed,
    and reversals of ebb in estuaries.

    down my albatross neck,
    spiraling through and throughout ravines of veins,
    it slips like lovemaking at night,
    early restlessness brought on by the tug
    of teeth and tickle.

    likeness of fern,
    smallness of bubble,
    it tracks itself downstream
    over gilded rocks and suckered twigs
    full of the ancients
    and headed, no doubt,
    to a dank sewage plant

    as if the entire world
    runs on a network of aqueducts.

  2. Angie5804

    A Water Terza Rima

    Salty, foamy waves roll on in with the tide
    Washing over rocks and crabs and tender toes
    Performing the peaceful melody worldwide

    The stream wanders hills and valleys as it flows
    Coursing over pebbles, bubbling all the way
    Playing sweetly as a song it does compose

    The mighty river dances its own ballet
    Fresh or brackish, it rolls on and on for miles
    Telling all to follow, follow far away

    The lake, pond, brook, marsh – they all have their own style
    They slake the thirst for beauty – they bring a smile

    Angie Bell

  3. eileenDmoeller

    Like The Empty Bucket

    We dream of water,
    like the cup set down to dry,
    we yearn to be filled,
    to listen as the spigot plays
    its musical notes on
    the cistern’s surface,
    a song that gurgles
    and tickles, sure as
    the coursing of blood
    in our ears, water
    linking everything
    together, springs
    and creeks, streams
    and rivers, all current
    driven and pushing
    out to the ocean,
    that briny embracing
    magnitude we ache
    to sit beside, wade
    into, float upon,

  4. seingraham


    Even the sun
    seems wary
    of shining
    too brightly
    on this tableaux.

    The slant of light
    on the lake
    disguises the merl
    of blackbirds
    Until they fill
    the sky overhead,
    their wings so many
    and so thick
    They block out day
    and for a long
    make dawn
    seem as night.

    The prisoner
    is being
    brought from
    his isolationist
    place by boat
    Crowds lining
    the shores,
    set up a roar
    when they
    see his slight figure,
    arise from the water,
    beside the dock.

    They begrudge
    him even these
    few hours when,
    shackled and
    he will appear
    in court…
    He is still
    too free
    for those
    in attendance.

    All they
    can think—
    and their thoughts
    fill the air
    with collective

    His baby girl is
    dead; her life
    stolen by this
    man, her father.
    He never raises
    his eyes and
    they are
    glad of it.
    They want
    his head, but
    will settle
    that his very
    will to live
    be broken.

  5. Andrea Z


    The canal is filling up today,
    after a long, harsh winter.
    Bystanders line the lift bridge
    in the middle of Spencerport
    to commemorate the occaision.
    looks of wonder turn to disgust
    as green slime comes up with the water,
    and objects suddenly appear,
    floating down the canal.
    A couch has been spotted in Spencerport,
    while an easy chair makes its way
    through the Village of Fairport.
    Perhaps the filling of the Canal
    isn’t that exciting.

  6. j.wessier101

    Gulf of Yen

    If I were with you now,
    the drowning gulf in my chest
    would trickle to a meandering mountain stream,
    a mere slip of longing I could live with.
    The elephant on my ribs,
    crushing breath and beat and bone,
    would leave to sojourn in some other dark Congo.
    Light would break through
    the blackouts I’ve culled from brown bottles.
    As it is, I breathe here,
    but my heart beats there.

  7. Aberdeen Lane

    a swan anomaly
    as moonbeams skip
    crinkled phosphorescent
    ripples, as clouds
    view themselves
    as distorted refractions
    fish blowing bubbles
    dicey joy

    I see her diamonds
    like a ring of power
    in the cunning undulation
    phantasmagorical whims
    float along in their canoes
    cautionary tales ignored
    heading for the waterfall

  8. IndiFox

    Documented Downfall

    Dear Amy,
    Oh I’M great by the way.
    Thanks for not asking.
    I know he’s your son,
    But I have feelings too!
    Chris x
    P.S. Lucas is fine

    Dear Amy,
    Haven’t heard from you.
    I guess you’re mad?
    The silent treatment,
    That’s just great..

    Dear Amy,
    Why haven’t you written?
    It’s been weeks.
    Don’t you care how Lucas is?

    Dear Amy,
    Lucas is playing in the water!
    You know that big lake?
    I haven’t checked on him in a while,
    I hope he’s okay!
    I’ve just been so worried about you Amy!
    You better check on him!
    Better hurry Amy!

  9. Nancy Posey

    Tennessee River

    Just a trickle
    back during the War,
    easy to ford in spots,

    now she’s wide
    in the haunches,
    covering old farms
    and cotton fields
    since they dammed
    her up, and no one
    thinks about what
    lies below

    except those catfish
    so big, rumors say,
    they could swallow
    a grown man
    if they chose

    mostly they hover,
    moving just enough
    to stay afloat,
    turning a round eye
    toward sunlight,
    at turtles,
    outboard motors,
    and bare toes.

  10. azkbc

    It’s Really Only Water
    Tuesday morning began like Monday. You bounced out of bed, grabbed teddy and ran down the hall. “Mommy?” you called and she answered, “Nursing Hunter”. You ran into the bedroom, then turned and went into their bathroom where Daddy was in the shower. You stood there for a few minutes watching Daddy then he stepped out and said, “Good morning, Connor.” You ran back and climbed up to share the bed with Mommy while she nursed Hunter then gave her a big hug and jumped down and ran around the room like an airplane. “Connor,” Daddy called to you drying himself with the big towel, “why don’t you go get a book and we can read it until Hunter is finished and Mommy can help you get dressed.” So you hurried down the hall to the family room where the big blue book bin sat and squatted down beside it to find a book. “Oh no!” you called, “Pee pee’s coming out!” Daddy ran down the hall to the family room and then Mommy and Hunter came down the hall. Mommy and Daddy looked at each other, “Did you take him to the potty?” they said at the same time. “No, I thought you did,” they said in unison. So Mommy set Hunter down in the family room and scooped you up and ran to the potty and Daddy grumbled and ran to the basement to get the carpet shampooer and brought it back upstairs and it began to make that noise which was so loud you couldn’t hear what Daddy was saying, though maybe that was a good thing. Daddy shampooed the carpet over and over until he decided all the pee pee was gone and then brought up the fan that’s as tall as you and turned it on and closed the family room door. Mommy had helped you get dressed and everyone went downstairs, just like every day.

  11. Shell

    By Shell Ochsner

    Upon the weight held atop shoulders of the weak,

    Pondering thoughts process as days become heavier and heavier.

    Only relief granted;


  12. Lori DeSanti

    Salt and Water

    Sea foam encroaches along the shoreline,
    handfuls of bone-white ocean clouds clinging
    to our legs. You scoop it into your palms at

    low tide, paint my face with it, it is salty and
    dries out my skin. It forms a barrier into the
    water, a wall between us, and all I want is the

    sea to lap against my feet and draw me back
    into the water. How much of me is salt? I am
    already made of water. We drag our legs into

    the tide, I wait for the hands of the undertow
    to grip at my ankles, pleading, calling me home.

  13. Amirae Garcia

    Lady In The Water – Amirae Garcia

    You will see her face in the water,
    the shimmering glimpse of the woman
    inside. The woman who does not cry
    when boys do not want her. The woman
    who commands the attention of every
    person in the room without even saying
    a word. She is stronger and kinder and much
    more patient than you. You see her and you love her.
    You want so much to dig inside yourself, to
    scratch away at any flaw that pulls you away
    from her, but I beg you to stop. You cannot
    do that. You cannot place a person so high.
    You do not know where she has been.
    You do not know how long it took her to
    get to you. She seems so far away, but if
    she found you once, she will find you again.
    She will find you. Let her. Let her.

  14. horselovernat

    Finding Wisdom in Water by Natalie Gasper

    Generation Y is a great one
    despite having no finite definition.
    I like to think that we are individuals
    who aren’t afraid to be different.

    Because of this, we see the world
    in ways that others don’t,
    and, at least for me, I think
    there is much to be learned
    still from nature.

    An avid lover of all things Disney,
    Pocahontas once made a great point:
    that you never step in
    the same river twice.

    Water is in constant motion,
    no part of the ocean ever stays the same
    just like no lake holds the same water
    year after year, not with all of the winds and tides.

    It can be the most peaceful sight
    or the most destructive force,
    bringing unparalleled beauty
    and untold horrors.

    When struggling with negative emotions,
    the answer to dealing with them comes from water.
    Allowing them to sit and stew does nothing.
    It is far better to let them flow through,
    for doesn’t flowing water erode even the largest rocks?

    It has always puzzled me that in a world
    made for humans (whether you believe in God
    or evolution, both or neither), that water
    makes up most of the planet.
    And we cannot survive underwater.

    Perhaps the earth knew that humans would be destructive,
    wreaking havoc in the blink of an eye, always selfish,
    and so it created a place to keep its secrets safe.
    A place that could take an eternity to claim as ours.
    Earth made the world into a place we still call a mystery.

    I wonder if all the secrets of the world
    aren’t hidden somewhere in the oceans.
    That the depths of the seas are home to ancient knowledge
    forgotten long ago, or to magical creatures
    we think exist solely in the minds of children.

    It’s for the best that water, source of life everywhere,
    an elusive mystery and beauty, remain so secretive.
    For until the day that humans can learn to listen to its waves,
    we will never appreciate all the truth it has to offer,
    all the lessons and wisdom water has to teach.

  15. Pengame30

    “A message from water to humans”

    You are made of me.
    Without me, survival is unfathomable.
    You taint me, by adding salts and sugars to my base.
    This, I don’t appreciate.
    You flush me, drain me,
    and tread upon me when it’s raining.
    What have I done to deserve such treatment?
    Give you life?
    Merge with oxygen in synergistic harmony,
    uplifting you to a heightened existence?
    I was created for you to drink me in my purest form,
    but instead you gargle me and spit me out,
    like a cell excreting waste.

    Written By: Sean Drew

  16. lionmother


    The rain pours
    over all and I
    begin to think
    of the water
    pooling on the

    Bringer of life
    We grow in it
    in the womb
    and use it to
    replenish our
    own liquid.

    It can be a helper
    or a monster
    bringing floods with
    deluging rains
    or swirling in waves
    as a tsunami

    Or it can be
    a mirrored surface
    where you can gaze
    and dream and feel

    We bathe in it
    and cleanse our
    skins and we wash
    our clothes in it
    water splashing in

    Water is everything
    to us and we are
    part of it
    We live in each other
    Needing and being needed

  17. Angela Kidd

    Deep Sea Wishes

    We went to the sea
    you and me.
    We went to drop petals
    letting go
    watching our pasts float away…

    We made wishes
    After all, we didn’t really know
    what we wanted.

    Then we sacrificed our legs
    slipping into the sea
    flipping our tails–
    Mermaids at last.

  18. Emma


    You are a droplet of rain.
    You feel the impact as you smack the surface
    Of the stream out back behind the yard,
    The one that’s almost all dried up.
    But you don’t see the ripples you cause.
    You are the first of many, the end
    Of this dizzying drought.
    You paint my world with green
    Water colours, gave me life
    When I felt I had nothing good left.
    In actual fact, 30% of you isn’t water,
    And it was your words that dragged me
    From the brink. I didn’t need
    Hydration – I needed hope.
    You are a droplet of rain
    Rippling out around you,
    Washing all those toxins away
    – but really,
    You are the might of the ocean
    Hiding in human skin.

  19. David Walker


    They say you need water,
    that you would die without
    it. But I would die faster
    without love. Those phone
    calls with my father about
    bowling or fishing or God,
    those nights without clothes
    laughing at shadows with
    you, the grip of my nephew’s
    hand around my pinky. My
    throat would dry up and my
    lungs would crisp if all I
    did was focus on the elements.

  20. Snow Write

    Water flowing over rocks
    Altering a quiet breeze
    Thoughts of nature overtake
    Every soul within its reach
    Rushing sounds felt all around
    Falling down to the lagoon
    Always moving, constant flow
    Landscape molded by the stream
    Lovely marvel of a view

  21. modscribery

    Day 26: Water poem

    “Over the Deep”

    ancient embodiment of chaos,
    filled the void.

    Were they churning,
    shrouding timeless mysteries,
    transparent yet impenetrable?

    Were they still and calm,
    undisturbed by the
    slightest reflection.

    Did they gently ripple
    as the wind hovered
    silently over their deeps?

    Or did they erupt
    as light plumbed their depths
    for the first time?

  22. JayGee2711


    The bridge sloped down
    like a roller coaster
    and our boat slid
    into the sea.

    We took to our paddles
    while the sea birds
    squabbled overhead.
    I’d worn my jacket
    and I was glad.

    We drank beer and
    ate fish stew from
    the iron pot
    with soft white bread.

    And when you asked me
    what I wanted
    I already knew.
    This, I said.

    I thought we were
    going home,
    but maybe we were
    already there.

    Julie Germain

  23. Jaywig

    Greek Wedding

    I expected to cry.
    Isn’t that what the mothers do?
    I expected lots of conversation.
    Instead the priest and chanter
    wove a spell, promised God
    these two would be fruitful.

    Outside, rice and sparkling red
    confetti rained upon the happy pair.
    The sky spat only slightly
    at photographers and family alike.

    Carried away on river current,
    they left us with nothing to do.
    I was told rain was a good omen.
    They ascended into honeymoon skies
    before the cold front brought showers,
    and a necessity for driving carefully.

    Jennie Fraine

  24. Mickie Lynn


    The essential ingredient
    for all of life as we know it.

    Water is a metabolite,
    a chemical that participates
    in chemical reactions.
    Sometimes it joins the orgy.
    It is a lover.

    Water is also a solvent,
    a place where said chemicals can react
    to become dissolved compounds.
    Acidic, alkaline, and all that falls in between
    to feed the tiny cells of life.
    Sometimes it hosts the party.
    It is an event planner.

    Water is a transporter
    of these compounds
    into and out of cells
    through vessels of blood,
    the veins
    the arteries,
    and through stems of cellulose,
    the phloem
    the xylem.
    Water is life on the move.
    Sometimes it drives the cab.
    It is the designated driver.

    Water has unusually high boiling and melting points
    so it works to protect enzyme activity
    that is sensitive to temperature.
    Water is a temperature buffer.
    Sometimes it keeps the bad at bay.
    It is a bouncer.

    Water is life.
    It has many occupations,
    many responsibilities,
    but water,
    Water is always the life of the party.

  25. Rolf Erickson

    Every Drop of Rain

    Every drop of rain
    is a messenger.
    It tells the story
    of the sea and
    the sky and of flying.

    Every drop of rain
    is an endless river.
    It runs from the sea
    to the mountains
    and returns home again.

    Every drop of rain
    is a broad ocean.
    Wild on the surface
    and softly grateful
    in its depth of silence.

    Every drop of rain
    is an endless soul.
    Coming and returning
    and remembering
    everything that was.

    Every drop of rain
    is your own heart.
    It beats with the love
    of what you are and
    someday will become.

  26. Louise Findlay

    Title: The Water Ripples

    The water ripples, moving fast,
    A torrential rain.

    The water ripples, moving fast,
    Serene in complexion.

    The water ripples, moving fast,
    Immersed in it I am.

    The water ripples, moving fast,
    A sea of tranquil vibes.

    The water ripples, moving fast,
    The tide rushes in.

    The water ripples, moving fast,
    The water cycle ends.

  27. foodpoet

    Water on edge
    Blue sky churning waves
    No shore
    No sign

    Blue sky churning waves
    Searching for fragments
    No sign
    No pieces of memory

    Searching for fragments
    Holding hands
    No pieces of memory
    To bind the family

    Holding hands
    No shore
    To bind the family
    Water on edge 

    Megan McDonald

  28. PenConnor

    Pray for Rain (a quatern)

    As the rain falls, washing my face,
    I can breathe a little deeper,
    feel my shoulder tension release,
    imagine wings that might unfurl.

    I can ponder flights of fancy,
    as the rain falls, washing my face,
    feel my heart begin its mending,
    believe magic just might happen.

    Like the touch of fingers dancing,
    a massage delights my wet skin.
    As the rain falls, washing my face,
    I can face the world once again.

    Maybe it will rain tomorrow.
    I can hope the weather shifts.
    I will offer thankful whispers,
    as the rain falls, washing my face.

  29. C.

    Budnkk… budnkkk
    Huuuuuuu ha hooooooo
    Sweat dripping
    Ahckk ccckkkhmmm
    Huuuuu hooooooooo
    Salted forehead
    Hahuu hahooo
    I licked my lips
    Hahooo hahuuu
    God such thirst
    Budnkkk, budnkk
    Hoooo ha hooo ackghh
    Will I make it?
    Hee hooooo hee hoooo
    Just one more mile?
    Bum bummm. bum. Bum bum. bum
    Silky, smooth, wet
    Heeee hoooooo
    Water at the finish line.
    Clunk, clunk, sshowwishhh
    Passing wind, through me, go!
    Push harder now, GO!
    Deer eyed headlights
    A flash, a cry, darkness, light
    No single moment
    To waste.

  30. gmagrady


    I am sitting upon the infinite sand specks
    of the shore where the ocean rests
    peaceful, serene,
    and I want to be
    immersed in her beauty
    engulfed by her mystery
    experience her strength.

    So I close my eyes and dream
    of the crashing soul of her
    greatness and my heart

    a beat
    as a slight wave teases the silent
    tides, creeping toward the rocks
    beneath me and
    her moist touch brings intimate
    images within my dream.

    I open my eyes and see the moon
    peeking out from the blanket
    of clouds, radiating
    on to Earth’s pulsing pool of
    The water’s powerful hands suddenly
    ready to clap aloud in
    victorious rhythm.

    In awe, I ease upon my feet.
    I am entranced.
    With arms outstretched
    I welcome her
    tantalizing splashes
    upon my face
    and within an instant
    I’m hugging the waves—

    her tides are upon me.

  31. KiManou

    Flowing Religion

    Under the sea, eternity to sweet surrender

    Flattened Earth, sans valleys, sans mountains

    Brilliant sea creatures, swimming in melody

    Tangled in floral coral reefs, emersed blue-green

    Magic gems and swimming miracles, turquoise

    Water navigating me floating on a bouyant breeze


  32. barton smock

    -instances of man and boy-

    you haven’t touched your food.

    the soul has windows
    it doesn’t need.

    failure to thrive
    has come to mean
    the growing
    you do
    at night.

    when jailed
    I thought of nothing
    but my cell
    and I thought of my cell
    as a crib
    without a heaven.

    your mother’s dark hair
    is hard to swallow.

    I am secretly happy
    that you’ve taken
    an egg

    for each day of your life

    to a doll
    so doll
    can sleep.

    as your mother, I often follow
    a black
    ball of yarn

    into the lake
    of how
    you remember.

  33. PSC in CT

    mourning rain

    he wakes in morning to the rain
    tapping on roof tiles
    closes his eyes
    to better attend to the sound, a
    syncopated lilt, in sync
    with the wind’s
    recalling her laughter; he
    slips out of bed, strides to the slider,
    opens the door and
    steps outside
    closing his eyes
    to savor the mellow petrichor –
    smooth intermingled spring scents, a perfume
    reminiscent of her own sweet essence;
    he stands silent in the soaking rain
    eyes closed
    steeped in mourning


  34. EbenAt

    Uisce Beatha

    David Byrne and
    Norman Maclean,
    fine Scots lads if ever
    there were,
    both wrote beautifully
    of water.

    Favor Byrne’s message
    of transience, or
    Maclean’s timelessness;
    I feel both
    when I fish.

    Immersed waist deep
    in the shocking cold
    of Icicle Creek or
    the north fork of the
    Coeur D’Alene,
    the water holds me down,
    a river runs through me.

    A four count rhythm
    between ten and two,
    conducts a symphony of
    rushing water.

  35. ambermarie

    Trouble in the Outer Banks

    Thunderstorms are like nature’s heartbreaks, rare and bizarre…
    The world stops to take notice.

    My soul needed expression
    The chill went straight through me
    The desire for the warmth
    From the inside out
    I tried to put it in with the drugs and the sex, the passion of love
    But I needed the heat that was already there
    If I could just find it.

    The rain can’t put out this fire
    No storm at sea can wash us over with fear
    That ancient air comes rolling in off the water –
    Urging me to keep moving
    Like a gypsy searching for what I already found.
    Fleeting and soon lost I die
    Everything keeps changing, but every time it feels as though we were here before.

    Can’t get him off my mind
    Ever since the owl’s nest
    What is it about those birds and the full moon that calms me?
    The heat of the summer with voice like the savannah, sun rising
    I’m an artist and God shows me the way
    I go back to New York to phantoms and ghosts
    The pirates that took Roanoke haunt me with promises of love and peace and dreams
    But the next morning they leave me longing – with a listless body, ice inside my veins
    I never wanted to hurt again so I pretended I had no feelings and forgot how to cry.

  36. Blaise


    The blood of life
    pulses inside every word,
    poem or not,
    whether we bathe in it,
    drink it, or ignore it pointedly.
    Every hydrogen atom
    born from an exploding star –
    a tiger, ink, an oak leaf,
    your unborn baby.
    Use up or poison water
    and extinction calls.
    No combustion,
    no photosynthesis.
    Hog ponds, oil spills,
    chemical freight trains,
    No rhyme or meter,
    and no ink to print money.

  37. Yolee

    Post Cards from Caribbean Holidays
    July 16 2002

    The ship docked at 7a. By 7:29 we buried
    plans and toes in the sand. The wingspan
    of sight hovered above the Cayman waters
    for an genuine blue light special. There’s a quaint
    town named Hell. The ocean cozies up
    to its hemline. You should go.
    P.S. What topped snorkeling here?
    Pete and I got married. Teehee.

    April 23, 2005

    Morningstar, a church for sea birds
    coconut trees and bronze worshippers, is
    the beach where we settled in St. Thomas
    until time ran out of light.The water
    was like a serum for peace
    and lotion for bones.

  38. Funkomatic

    Marriage is a geography lesson
    Each person a nation and cartographer

    One must know the qualities differing
    Between the Beaufort and the Bering

    Town signs written in freckles
    Rivers pronounceable in sighs

    Our maps have become dense
    With the names of our places

    Fingertips over paper and ink
    Are a pale surrogate for your seas.

  39. Linda Hatton

    Filled with Tears When You’re Gone

    She thought it would be better
    to disintegrate into bubbles
    instead of spending eternity
    inside a box. Floating downstream,
    to slippery floor where visitors
    would dip tired feet, wade across
            to the
    gain sustenance from refreshment
    offered by cool ripples
    body would

    –Linda G Hatton
    (I hope the formatting works for me this time! I am also posting it on my blog.)

  40. Amy


    rinsing and
    submerging troubles
    in the bubbles, where she goes to
    be alone. She used to swim in
    a glass of wine but
    now she just

  41. lidywilks


    You’ve always healed
    my parched and flaked
    quarry, curing me with
    your purity. But then come
    the days when you turn away
    from me, leaving me in dry spells,
    feining after you for days.
    But no matter how I’m treated
    I remain unafraid. Even when
    you return by my side just
    to crush me underfoot,
    Flooding over me with your
    gushing strength. Because
    since time Immemorial,
    you’ve been an existence
    I can’t live without.

    by Lidy Wilks

  42. hojawile

    My Vent in Poetry Train Wreck

    $2.99 at best
    for twenty-four 16.9 oz….
    or have they cut back the portion in these too?
    I haven’t checked recently.
    Less is more, sure…
    Less clutter, more space.
    But less of this,
    and more wrinkles, more pain, more befuddled brain.
    If I draw from tap, I might be drinking rust.
    Somehow they’ve got the best of us.
    The big con game putting us to shame.
    And then the e-mails came.
    Now you dare not drink if in your car it’s turned to an ice cube and thawed,
    or warmed to the temperature of comforting broth.
    Thus saith the e-mail.
    Plastic pollutes! Plastic kills! But it’s only worthy of noting
    if it contained one particular clear unscented, unflavored liquid.
    Thus saith the e-mail.
    Sodas and teas and other treacheries in bottles and cans
    are just fine, understand?
    Somehow they don’t pile up and wreck the land,
    suffer the shame of the packaged-food papparrazzi
    sending their scandalous photos viral.
    No! Food on a plate might have come from a crate,
    but here’s what I ate today!
    I know you’ll care! I just had to share!
    I really think it’s quite great!
    The glamour, the glitz, the thrill of it.
    Not open at all for debate.
    We’ll poison ourselves with sugar and salt,
    spend our end in hospital vaults.
    Now there’s a popular trend!
    Our dying word in this magnificent mirage?
    From raspy throat and too weak to applaud?

  43. jsmadge

    At the Paper Mill

    The point at which slurry turns
    To paper mystifies. Right to left unreading,
    This pulp river flows to paper, silent
    As water crashes through
    And under to disappear beneath.
    And this paper rolls on
    Only to be cut, deckle-edge,
    By rampant jets of yet-again water.

    Jo Steigerwald

  44. aphotic soul

    by Paul Andrew Ryan

    Liquid pours off the skin,
    Salted as if from the ocean,
    Soaked in sweat,
    So no one notices the tears,
    Days of repetitious cycles,
    Ceaselessly recycling over and again,
    Silently I wish to be watered,
    For my dried up inspiration to be saturated,
    Rather than stagnate in this deserted desert,
    All I want and all I need,
    Is another unique mind like me,
    But I fear the world has gone dry,
    And I’ll be left alone ’til I die,
    Feeling incredibly dumb,
    For thinking someone might come.

  45. Mark Conroy

    “Mother’s Milk”

    Sweat, tears, and ice
    Flowing from a warm suck
    Of Mother’s milk at our beginning

    Blood, piss, and spit
    Our essence is a sac
    Held together inside until released

    We drink it in
    We cry it out in fear
    And dive in to relieve

    I am a drop
    You are a pond
    We all float on the
    The raging rivers and tides of life.

    Mark Conroy

  46. mbramucci

    I Puddle
    By: Michelle Bramucci

    A still pond;
    Cold, silent, belly
    Next a trickle;
    Spine like rain chimes
    Showers beating;
    Dance with my pounding heart
    Standing in the downpour
    Despite foreboding thunder.
    I puddle;
    Knees are weak
    Silent splashing;
    Warm, wet, rushing
    Undulating in the wake of every drop
    A still pond;
    Cold. Silent.
    Waiting for the next storm.

  47. FaerieTalePoet


    The first time
    I went whale watching
    I spent the entire trip
    in the bathroom,
    bent over the toilet
    as waves crashed
    against the side
    of the ship.

    Dana A. Campbell

  48. ToniBee3

    “Rambling Rainwater”

    Something saw fit for Sage and Sandalwood to be seamed
    Endlessly in enthused and easy exchange, almost like
    Rambling rainwater resting in long intermittent
    Exhales— an unexpected encounter
    Needless to say, that never nears
    Discomfort or disappointment.
    In fact, it’s ideal… this here
    Perky poetry is steadily
    Interconnecting me
    Thankfully to

    1. Nanamaxtwo

      Water and Booze

      Booze, like water, flows
      downward, lifting the flotsam
      of the day to sea.

      Words, like booze, flow
      down the throat speaking danger
      to the heart below.

      Water, like booze and
      words, responds to force that goads
      across beds and fear.

  49. Deri

    Swimming Lessons

    When I was nine I almost drowned
    in the Atlantic ocean
    during a beach party
    no long after moving to Florida.
    I was excited for new friends
    and new possibilities
    and knew nothing about the ocean
    or the properties of sand bars
    or that new friends are hard to make.
    I was the dark, curly haired girl
    with the hand-me-down swimsuit
    mismatched in every way
    to their blond, name brand privilege.
    I was awed when all swam out
    almost to the horizon it seemed
    and stood up, the water barely to their knees
    and I thought I could make it
    when they called to me, laughing.
    The waves laughed too,
    pushing me down, to the side,
    as if in on the joke,
    that I could ever stand next to them.
    An older woman pulled me up
    after my third salt-water swallow,
    pulled me to shore, where the other parents
    shook their heads, apologized, chided their children,
    but the damage was done.
    When it comes to the ocean
    and friends, I stay close to shore
    and rarely look at horizons anymore.

  50. Karen H. Phillips

    Day 26

    Write a water poem.


    Whose brilliant, sparkling idea
    to fill clear plastic bottles with the wet jewel
    known as water?

    Even the Brita and Pur filters
    need recycling, but they’re less landfill
    invasive than insidious containers

    wrapped around the earth’s
    circumference. And while I’m at it,
    whose dark roast mind conceived

    Keurig, pods piling in the garbage
    of convenience, so that warm beverage
    drinkers can pop them in?

    I’m still filtering my own water,
    brewing in my Bunn, which doesn’t make
    me better, just lessens my waste.

    We’re such a hypocritical society.
    Just emptied three different boxes
    from Papa John”s.

  51. PatsC

    Weeping Water

    The ridiculous apology,
    I’m sorry you feel that way,
    Such words show no remorse,
    The inflicted pain marginalized,
    The wronged once again wronged.
    The scraping of the heart.

    The art of concelment,
    The cloaking of emotions,
    Blink away the pain,
    Strength through composure,
    Closet away the soul,
    Shed not one public tear.

  52. Zeenie


    I think of rivers every night before I fall asleep,
    dream of the flow of their spine,
    the arch of their back –
    of soaking them up with my eyes
    and letting the clarity run out my veins.

    I am the water-woman, mermaid-sponge on land.
    I bring the answers, absorb the worries,
    fill the bathtubs, blow the bubbles.
    Hold the children.

    In my dreams, I am always here.
    There is no running away, no dirt-knees, no blood.
    I am flower field, orchard mast, lake volcano.
    I am riptide with waterfall wings.

    Under my eyelids, there is a fleet of sailboats.
    They circle around themselves
    like spinning constellations,
    waiting for the day I wake up
    and send them to sea.

  53. jclass527

    (based off of the poem ‘The Rime of the Ancient Mariner’ by Samuel Coleridge)

    “The Ancient Mariner’s Thoughts While Alone at Sea”

    Sometimes I believe the albatross taunted the sailors
    with its ability to fly away from it troubles into the open sea. When
    its corpse was hung around my neck all I could hear were
    lucky stars in the night sky dying, begging for people
    to stop romanticizing its death. Seventy five percent of
    the world’s covered in water and even this doesn’t promise
    that my shipmate’s thirst will be quenched. These leaden bones
    are weighing me down. In the middle this painted ocean
    I stop to look at the rolling waves and wonder what ever happened
    to make them so angry, crashing unto the splintering hull
    like a toddler thoughtlessly spills his milk and cries . Even though
    I’m all alone on this ship and the world is blanketed in a
    shadow, I can still hear the ocean pounding at the ship,
    crying , screaming, angry at the stars for giving up their
    light and leaving the world in darkness.

    -Jessenia Class

  54. SestinaNia


    There is nothing new
    under the sun—absolutely
    nothing, no atom, no
    sound, no thought—
    the sun itself is older
    than we can fathom,
    so they say.
    This tree I stand under
    did not appear this morning,
    and even if it
    had, it is still a tree,
    and trees are not
    Our every fiber, dust,
    they say, to dust,
    has been hurling through
    the universe forever.

    No, we are not new—we
    are old, tattered
    and covered in the dirt
    of years and memories.
    So we long for rain,
    for the snow, for the tide,
    to come and cover us.
    For if we cannot be
    new, maybe we can at least
    be washed clean.

  55. PowerUnit

    She skirts the walls
    Unsure of the slippage
    Forced sprints through awning gaps, alley doors
    The paved rivers
    A feathery dress, bouncy and flirty
    Worn with a wet cat attitude
    And a newsless morning aptitude

  56. Michael Wells

    Discovering Water

    I’ve lived my whole life in the interior
    Not exactly a shut-in—

    but void of a larger world. Without
    correlation, stump without the tree.

    Some years ago I traveled to San Francisco
    and saw the Pacific Ocean for the first time.

    Water to me had been tap, pond, lake or river.
    Like myself all water I knew was isolated.

    The Pacific opened my eyes wide. It stretched
    from here to the sky. In late afternoon

    it would hold the sun aloft and become
    an artist’s palette upon which

    the most magnificent colors would collide
    with blue hues.

    It was when I crossed the sandy beach
    to where the tide rolled in, and dipped my toes

    into the cold of the Pacific, saw the white
    ripple tide and felt it’s pull, that I realized

    what water really was. How this ocean
    mingled with the next ocean and the next

    until all of them were one body
    touching each continent— then,
    and only then did I know water.

  57. DanielR

    Cypress and Tupelo canopies
    smother murky swamp waters
    guarding hidden secrets lurking
    just beneath the black froth
    protected by watchful eyes
    the mysteries of darkness
    will remain for all eternity
    below the surface ripples

    Daniel Roessler

  58. bookworm0341

    “Cool Clear Water”

    Cool, clear water,
    like a woman,
    can be
    calm and collected
    one minute
    then an all consuming monsoon,
    as she drags under
    everything in her path,
    anything in her way.

    Cool, clear water,
    like a woman,
    can divulge tiny trickles-
    drops of information,
    or flood the entire Sahara
    while she goes into descriptive detail-
    A dam breaking,
    letting loose

    Cool, clear water
    is a complex woman.
    I am she.

    April 26, 2014
    Jennifer M. Terry

  59. ASperryConnors

    (My ‘stream’ of conscious has split this poem in half. First read the left side, then span the river to read both, then go back and read only the right bank of thought…kinda of a wild ride! Have fun.)


    Water ball she circles the sun
    Water blue as windows
    Water oceans grey as a dove
    Water dew of plenty

    Water waves a crooked white line
    Water small as tears drop
    Water shallow voices align
    Water tall at Cliffs Chords

    Water creek beneath the floorboards
    Water flow like blue wine
    Water rush with marching boots
    Water tow the anchor

    Water soft a swale of whisper
    Water hard as diamonds
    Water break an aching jaw
    Water Bard goes boasting

    Water babies surf the coastline
    Water survive the strands
    Water elixir honeyed hive
    Water alive with stars

    Water leap the Gates of Norgren
    Water gush or Indian Falls
    Water winter in her cold eyes
    Water hush impressive

    Water breach dark branches reaching
    Water fall downcasted
    Water listless in the waiting
    Water stall God damned

    1. ASperryConnors

      Opps…formatting did not translate. There was a river of space that ran through. So if you read the first two words all the way down then all, then go back to read the end of each sentence you’ll find the magic.

  60. robinamelia

    For the Salamander Crossing Guards

    You sleep with your flashlights and your reflective vests
    always ready for that first rainy warm night in spring
    when the amphibian alert goes out.
    The salamanders have received their marching orders
    from thawing earth, and begun their parade
    down pathways to vernal ponds
    where they were born
    where mature males form congresses
    to impress the ladies.

    I’ve lived here twenty years
    and always miss the migration
    but how I admire the faithful who feel the call
    of warm moist air and trundle out
    to gently help along the spotted, the blue,
    the Jefferson salamanders, and even
    an occasional frog.

    Robin Amelia Morris

  61. DanielR

    No ordinary rains can cure
    this drought that has left
    my soul a barren desert
    unfertile soil not good for planting
    or reaping or sowing
    only Living Waters can renew
    what lies beneath the surface
    and if only one mustard seed
    were rooted, then maybe that
    would be enough for
    something good to grow.

    Daniel Roessler

  62. J.lynn Sheridan

    “Just like family”

    A hundred yards from my back porch,
    in any direction the bottle spins, wherever
    the neck points a man on foot will bump
    into the river or one of fifty-seven lakes
    connected by meandering channels
    heaving with fungi and lily pads.

    Every season, tourists straight off the train
    loose their minds and collide with this
    stockpile of aquatic recreation for the whole clan.
    Come on up, the billboards shout And come
    on up, they do, to play—

    In winter, daring snowmobilers crash through
    blue ice head first, shocking their blood, skin
    matching ice Gawkers plead for rescue and
    we all cry Not another one, please God, not another.

    In spring, teens, too fragile to drink and walk
    on water trick chance in a hyper-brave shot at
    fishing in bare feet, bare bum, bare brain. Mothers
    warn against this game and fathers shame the child
    who now must sleep in a bunk bed built for one.

    In autumn, the lazy and naive rest too hard and
    sleep too hard and drink too hard and hunt too hard
    for a girl or a trout or a duck while tossing a kiss or
    a leech or a hook or a phone into the lake laughing

    at Grammy on the porch who keeps flinging life
    preservers hoping the wise will grab one and
    pull her under.

  63. TuLife

    By: Tuere Aisha

    I watch you watching her. I feel invisible.
    Am I an optical illusion or a pool of water
    why you look through me like I’m divisible,
    past me straight to her?

    As I watch you watching her, I can’t help but watch her too.
    I see why you don’t see me when she’s around.
    She’s like a water lily, soothing to you –
    beautiful, healing with no stir or sound.

    Delicate, soft, pink and feminine,
    her gestures are fluid, her demeanor cool.
    Her lips are a cistern of refreshing medicine.
    I’m not her. I must be a fool

    to think you wouldn’t see through me,
    float past me. I don’t sit on shallow
    waters like your lily. I’m not light and airy
    like her pretty pink petals. I know

    I have lots to offer, filled with life like the sea.
    But diving deep is not your thing.
    I remain like still waters, life surging within me,
    but what sits on top of me is your water lily.

  64. Shennon

    The grinding pull of a train along its tracks
    A mournful whistle, indicating its proximity
    Rumblings of an approaching thunderstorm
    Soft pats of raindrops against the baked earth
    Freshly brewed coffee
    Hot homemade apple pie
    The perfect combinations of scent and sound.


  65. Shennon

    It hist the ground with a phenomenal crash
    Dust recoils from the intensity of its impact
    A young girl shields her eyes, glancing toward the sky
    For though the rain is desperately needed
    That single first refreshing raindrop
    Signifies the beginning of monsoon season.


  66. Anvanya


    So, we all know that’s a lie, right folks?
    Even I can recall rainstorms in the ’50s
    that flooded Virginia Avenue from side to side,
    water up to the bottom step of our front porch.
    I’m sure that was the year Daddy drove us to see
    the Los Angeles River in full flood
    – and everyone living or working along the cement ditch,
    from Bandini Boulevard to the port of Long Beach,
    was on flood alert for several days. Conversely,
    the San Gabriel River has not seen a flood in
    for the best part of a century. Look for what used to
    be Wilson Creek, flowing south from Altadena to
    San Marino: if there are waters underground,
    they are safely trapped by the pavement, and Lacey
    Park has neither pool nor fountain. Really,
    it’s difficult to credit that the City of the Angels
    was established so many miles inland, on a river.

    In these latter years, rainstorms tend to show up
    in fits and starts. I’ve always credited the plein aire
    school of painting’s masterful clouds to the fact
    that storms travel very slowly over the L A Basin.
    But that was long ago, when the state was Golden
    and overflowing with land for farming and
    ranching and orchards.

    While you just can’t beat an afternoon breeze
    in the backyard most of the year, I hear
    something’s upset the climate of my favorite state.
    Remember the weather cell that dumped rain,
    snow, and sleet on a newly constructed high school?
    Later there were floods in the upper L A River Channel
    that took out all the tree-filled islands one winter.
    Remember how that actress landed the Space Shuttle
    in the pristine River just a few years ago? Now the
    islands are back, with plenty of trees and bushes.
    This last winter and spring has brought rain storms,
    lightening, thunder, frosty mornings.
    It just could be that L A denizens will have to learn
    to drive in the rain.

  67. lethejerome


    Richelieu, you bastard you
    Had to take over my language before it was
    even created and keep it safe in that bend
    in the Seine
    Had to take over my country before it was
    even imposed on the fleeing the fleeting
    the misnamed the able with prophecies of fire
    Had to make yourself a character in my childhood
    morning cartoons, eternal evil set
    against the surprise of Aramis seen in water
    Had to do it in robes, taking on grace
    letting God step aside
    in high heels
    Had to make yourself river and force
    me to find myself by following blue lines
    running down from the St. Lawrence and everything that mattered,
    Champlain remarking I had gone too far,
    drawing, but only me
    with a foot always ready to trace a new path
    among the rapids and the eels and that long narrow strand
    of walkable dirt you thought to offer
    along with the keys
    to every place I’ve left in era

    Jérôme Melançon

  68. julie e.


    Bless my soul and soak my bones
    please heal my inner storm,
    in sunlight soothe and warm till i
    can take a pleasing form.

    Bless my soul and soak my bones
    till all of color’s bleached
    from bright of pain to weathered grey
    the hues by healing leached.

    Bless me Lord and soak my bones
    in grace’s deepest lake
    my wounded heart can be at rest
    immersed in your embrace.

  69. Mustang Sal

    Water Works

    Rain washes down, then rises up.
    It’s been the same since time began.
    Drink your fill, then refill your cup.
    God’s primitive recycle plan.

    It’s been the same since time began.
    Katrina’s storm was Eden’s dew.
    God’s primitive recycle plan.
    Noah’s flood rains on us anew.

    Katrina’s storm was Eden’s dew.
    There’s no new water on the shore.
    Noah’s flood rains on us anew.
    Every drop’s been dropped before.

    There’s no new water on the shore.
    Still or bubbling, salty or free.
    Every drop’s been dropped before.
    We need it so – our eau-de-vie.

    Still or bubbling, salty or free.
    Rain washes down, then rises up.
    We need it so – our eau-de-vie.
    Drink your fill, then refill your cup.

  70. Heidi


    I have heard that angels
    marvel when men sweat.

    This water seeps out from
    their skin, like a fog mist.

    These messengers compare
    it to rivulets

    trickling down slick foreheads
    a shining rain fog.

    I heard that angels with
    whirring wings hover near

    a sweating man, amazed
    that water seeps out

    of their humble clay forms,
    a bottled lake, walking

    the earth, a miracle.
    All angels stand awed.

    Heidi R. de Contreras

  71. jean

    A single drop of water coalesced within a cloud.
    The speck of dust that was his heart awoke.
    “I am real! I bring life!” he sang out clear and loud.
    He thrilled at his appearance as he spoke.

    His weight was quite sufficient to instigate the fall –
    Dripping, rolling, slipping, trickling, tumbling —
    The tiny thing quite understood the mission; thus, he called,
    “I shall quench the earth!” – not so humbly.

    How marvelous – prismatic! – his potential!
    His power and his purpose not to muddle,
    “For I am to all Life a true essential.”
    Then, PLOP! He simply merged into a puddle.

    “Oh, woe is me! I am too like the others.
    Where do I end? Where is my uniqueness?”
    The water gurgled graciously, “Our brother –
    There is no shame in lowliness or meekness.

    “Together, we will flow onto the ocean.
    Together, we can carve out cliff and beach.
    How wonderful! Your presence starts our motion.
    We’ll work as one — our destiny to reach!”

    The little drop never missed autonomy
    Once he understood the greater scheme
    That all of us might profit from this homily,
    For this existence is not what it seems.

    Each circumstance and every new relation
    Allows each kind of future to be questioned.
    The beauty of the oneness of Creation
    Is both unlikely and completely destined.

  72. Debbie


    Abandoned in wait
    Unknown so scared
    Hold strong within
    Please open the gate.

    Imagining what if
    Love were abound
    Inside felt good
    And hurt did lift.

    Hope avoids weak
    Out there among
    Being part of it all
    Yearning to speak.

    The emotional rain
    Ran down her cheek
    Once meant forever
    Now never again.

  73. acele


    It is the last straw

    Which finally pushes me out
    of the space I’ve been occupying,

    Just occupying
    like duck sauce packets that get tossed away


    This sack of water has potential energy
    which can
    Instantaneously to transform into kinetic energy.

    It can jump from an airplane.
    It can flow like a river
    of living waters.
    It can follow you.

    And that means changing location
    exploring my geography
    asking for directions.

    And that means
    admitting I am lost
    without you.

    © A. Cele

  74. alana sherman

    Day 26 Water Poem

    Sudden Waterfalls

    Sudden waterfalls
    and rills
    in Springtime
    down the hills

    Summer comes
    the sun is high
    and every
    hasty creek
    goes dry

    Then in October
    once again
    like leaves
    brooks rumble
    in the rain

    Winter nights
    the cold wind
    and changes streams
    to angels wings

    Sprinkle spray
    splatter and spume
    flow on
    flow on
    and find a home.


  75. skanet

    Fire in the water
    Water in the deep
    Fire in my master
    Where secrets lie in keep

    Secrets in the darkness
    Darkness in the vale
    Secrets of my lover
    Who never lets me drown

    Never gone completely
    Completely washed away
    Never left unwatched for
    The secrets that we say

    Beneath the ocean glory
    I lie in wait for sleep
    The silence of my sirens
    Give me peace to sink as deep

    The water in my lungs
    And the presence of her grace
    The fire that devours
    And the smile on my face

  76. Kit Cooley

    Out of the Bottle

    Flowing water, sacred to life,
    creating and destroying,
    pooling and rushing,
    so precious to every creature,
    the plants praise you,
    their green hands raised
    to catch the rain.

    Deluge pouring, sky to earth,
    roots upturned, a sea of mud
    breaks the bones of all
    in the path. Take and give
    are always joined. Respect
    the force of nature is the lesson,
    not always learned.

    ~ Kit Cooley

  77. sdwc8181


    His palette includes the deepest blues
    The mind fails to describe
    Wide brushstrokes of aquamarine with sand and coral mixed in
    Tickle the imagination
    Inspire movement on the water
    Sails billow and flap in the steady breeze
    The sun showers diamonds on the surface
    He beckons us who hesitate
    “Come out to play!”

  78. Gabrielle Freeman

    by Gabrielle Freeman

    The human body is 60% water.
    Cry me a river.
    It is often recommended that humans drink 64oz. of water per day.
    Alice cried herself a pool and floated right through the keyhole searching for the white rabbit.
    71% of the earth is covered in water.
    My mother kept a Mason jar for our tears next to the vitamins in the high cabinet.
    Your face flooded with tears.
    Your eyes are limpid pools. I drown in them.
    On shore, there is a mouse, a duck, a dodo. They cannot get dry, and the sea is high and counting.
    I feel your pull.
    It is all very confusing.
    Tears always make me think of Alice and jars.
    And things that make me small.
    I want you to wash over me like the tide.
    I want to drink you in.

    Let me know what you think!

  79. De Jackson


    We gasp, grasp at
    straws, hold our bated
    breath for one last sip
    of something sweeter.

    We are saved, staved by
    the sky a marbled
    sigh, waiting.


  80. GirlGriot

    have been
    swimming my days,
    life on the water.
    did I
    never know?
    Instead, I walk,
    spend my days dreaming
    of the shore.
    In my next life —
    yes, in my next life …

  81. Mokosh28

    Preparing the Body

    Even during drought they wash
    their dead. More than ritual, the sluice
    of scarce water wakes the skin. Breaks
    through the river’s surface into the reflection
    of flesh. Hands chaffed and smooth

    dip cloth the color of cloud into clay,
    the last caught rain. Keening, they lift
    limbs, part folds, humanness wrung
    back into earth. Ignoring thirst
    for the sake of this journey.

    Joanne M. Clarkson

  82. Azma


    You can be contained
    You can break free
    You swoosh and splash and gush with glee
    You take such forms
    You show such hues
    Yet you are made with but three molecules
    You erupt from the earth
    You can fall from the sky
    You stay on the surface or show up when we cry
    You can relieve
    You can devastate
    You give us reasons to love and to hate

    -Azma Sheikh

  83. sharon4

    Self Portrait: as a Raincloud

    There are distances, and there are distances:
    —stretches where a forest feathers beneath you
    pine towers and cypress groves,
    the unflagging sunlight at your back

    and you let down the small spell of
    drops, enough to silver the tips of branches,
    enough to give hope to the drowsy underbrush
    that life that can grow from the underfoot, from the shadows

    —stretches you skim over, oblivious, their barren dunes
    apportioned, sculpted by the wind’s fierce play,
    and there light is a menace, a pitch too keening, a blare
    that sounds alarms in the human heart, but you

    have work to do and barometric pressure goading
    you into free fall, sprinkle, shower, torrent. How
    to control the billowing mass, the condensation
    of a lifetime, building up? It is not sorrow nor anger,

    but a need for release and a hold on the memories
    of joy. Sweet scuttling and constant, constant changes.
    Where but for the sky you serve, the sky you feel your way
    through, horizonless, blue streams everywhere

    and flocks of geese aloft and calling out their lonely hymn.

    Sharon Fagan McDermott

  84. Reynard

    i lay on the dock
    that stretches out into the lake
    i can hear the water crashing
    into the wood beneath me
    i stare at the sky
    watching stars play games
    of the gods
    and i know this is where i want to be
    for the rest of my life
    later on
    we talk about that night
    our first together
    and he tells me he was going to kill me
    until he saw me
    out on that dock at peace
    he knew he had found a kindred soul
    that i would stay forever
    without joining the water below
    we lay in bed together
    watching the aquarium
    thinking about how now i sleep with
    the fishes
    and i know this is where i want to be
    for the rest of my life

  85. drwasy

    On Scattering Your Ashes at Milepost 33

    The sun burns a hole
    through blue sky, waves churn
    grey-cold, a wintry coffin.
    By the time we gather one mile
    past the ramp, the sky mirrors sea.

    The wind lifts
    sifts you fine
    between our fingers—
    you want to leave.

    With hands lent-like
    we walk our paths,
    salt spray on our cheeks
    hearts to burst,
    we scatter

    But I cannot let go.
    I have memories.
    I have regrets.
    I have needs.

    Remember? We walked into sky
    coral colored, sure of the night
    and the next, yet I wondered
    while I crushed morphine
    in the marble mortar
    whether you regretted going
    the extra mile for science.

    I pick up a wave-worn stone.
    I am not sure why I favor
    forgotten detritus from
    God’s great tumbler: the cracked
    scallop, the lusterless
    oyster, the conch which
    sounds a half-sea.

    When we leave milepost 33
    the sun burns holes again.
    The light pains us
    and pains us still

  86. bethwk

    May the Waters All Run Free
    by Elizabeth Weaver-Kreider

    Remember your waters, children,
    remember your waters.
    Cherish the waters you come from.
    Cherish the waters you belong to.

    Listen, every day, for the flow,
    the whoosh and shush
    of the waters that run
    in the rivers in your body.
    Gather the waters that fall,
    that run in streams down your roof.
    Sprinkle them on the earth
    and the thirsty green world
    like a baptism, like a blessing.
    Stand in the rain with your hands outstretched
    and your face turned toward the sky.
    Soak it in like a plant.

    Find your rivers, your creeks.
    Know them and speak to them.
    Become a watcher of rivers,
    a guardian of flow.
    Tend them by your observation.
    Let every river you cross
    receive your attention, your benediction.
    Remember your waters, children.
    Remember your waters.
    Immerse yourself in lakes and oceans.
    Let water hold you, raise you.
    Let water buoy you up.
    Give over your control
    to the arms of mother ocean.
    Wander the borderlands
    between the solid earth and water.
    Learn the names and voices
    of the ones who live there,
    in the spaces between.
    Walk back in your memories
    to your very first waters,
    the rivers and lakes of your childhood,
    the ponds and the puddles and creeks.
    Then walk further back and remember
    the water you came from,
    the amniotic sea where you were formed,
    where you took shape.

    Remember your waters, children.
    Remember your waters.
    May the waters all run free.
    May the waters all run clean.

  87. Rosemary Nissen-Wade

    Doing the Usual

    At the quiet end
    of an autumn afternoon
    the rain comes down
    softly and steadily.

    I open a Shiraz,
    make some conversation with the cats,
    fetch my cardigan
    and check the TV program.

    It’s almost as if you’re still here.
    I half-expect, any minute,
    that you’ll call from the bedroom
    or walk from your office
    to share the wine, the TV, the cats….

    This morning at my market stall
    I put my clients in touch
    with their dear dead.
    Invariably I’m moved to tears
    by the depth of love
    the dead have for the living,
    and my clients cry too.

    I was you today at the market,
    doing the rounds of the other stalls early.
    But I didn’t get your abundant
    bundles of fresh veggies —
    not for only one.

    It’s BBQ chicken tonight,
    to save cooking.
    The cats will demand their share.
    I’ll give them less than they ask
    (not as soft as you were)….

    A nice night to be in,
    as rain and evening arrive together.
    Like a blanket, darkness
    wraps us round.

  88. gmagrady

    The Great Conflagration

    “Dear God! Send down your tears from high!
    Relinquish the anguish of ashes and smoke!”
    But embers incite, ignite as they fly.
    The suffering plead, “Dear God! We invoke

    They scream and scamper, to bridges ahead
    through gravel and muck with children in tow;
    they swelter though sheltered by sandy, wet beds
    and stand so helpless, knee-deep in shallow

    The smoldering city, plumb to the lake,
    did burn through two consecutive nights.
    The rain, it came, the fire did break;
    Chicago mourned its victims of plight.

    They organized and capitalized,
    spent more than what they realized,
    romanticized when criticized,
    “the windy city” was re-


  89. mzanemcclellan

    Castaway Dream
    It started with a trickle,
    and then it wouldn’t stop.
    All night long I heard it,
    drip drop, drip drop.
    I didn’t want to get up
    to see just what it was,
    I rolled over, went to sleep,
    my reason … just because.
    In the morning when I woke
    it was fairly plain to me,
    whatever had been leaking
    had leaked an entire sea.
    I was adrift at its center,
    no land on the horizon.
    With a bedpost and a sheet
    I made a sailbed surprisin’.
    I was amazed myself
    as the sail began to fill.
    I was headed somewhere,
    I couldn’t steer without a till’.
    The wind began to gust,
    I made twenty knots or more,
    and soon upon my four poster,
    I sailed in sight of shore.
    I waded through the shallows,
    fell to my knees on the beach.
    Then I watched my Serta Sleeper
    as it drifted out of reach.
    I stayed on the sand awhile
    wondering where now to go.
    I was utterly alone,
    no Man Friday like Crusoe.
    I slowly ambled inland
    determined to find some help
    there was no food to be found
    but coconuts and kelp.
    As night fell I was exhausted,
    my makeshift bed I was atop.
    As I let my eyes close I heard,
    drip drop, drip drop…

    ~ M. Zane McClellan

  90. P.A. Beyer

    My Universal Appeal

    I owe my soul to a drop of rain
    An asteroid and some DNA that melded
    Together at the bottom of the ocean floor

    And from that glop rose from the sea
    A single celled Achaea, and from that thingamajigger
    Came you and me, and as of today, a whole lot more

    So let’s not argue about healthy treats, or whether I put down
    The toilet seat or what do we have in the fridge to eat or
    If I love you more or less than I loved you the day before

    Cause in the end it’s all the same, we’re just gonna wash up down the
    Drain, no memory that we walked & talked & flew airplanes except for
    That satellite we sent into space, the one with the golden record on the door

  91. shethra77

    Water, Water

    Once, water was everywhere inside
    because the rug was water
    or the floor was water
    and generally both full of

    Water was everywhere outside
    because the grass was water
    and it had those crocodiles, and often
    alligators and piranhas too.
    Scary water is the best.

    Imaginary water is good for everywhere
    because really, swimming was hard then,
    (even now I’m more of a drowner)
    and sailing on wood floor oceans
    or green grass seas
    is better for breathing.

  92. cobanionsmith

    Probably Why I Didn’t Learn to Swim Until I Was 30

    When I was finally big-girl enough,
    I walked across the pasture to fish in the stock tank
    alone. Over time, that man-made emptiness
    had mysteriously filled with rain and runoff,
    green largemouth bass, red eared turtles,
    yellow-bellied crappie, and black water moccasins.
    Mama insisted I stand on the mound of dirt piled up
    years before when the watering hole was dug, long since
    covered with bahiagrass, black-eyed Susans,
    Indian paintbrushes, and pink buttercups, so she could
    keep an eye on me from the living room.
    The crest a good 10 yards from the water, I could
    barely cast my line far enough for the red and white bobber
    to clear the bank or the hook baited with a shiny white
    grub worm dug from the yard to float suspended in water
    rather than sit at the muddy bottom.
    But even with that limited freedom and the dangers
    of mounds of swarming fire ants, poisonous snakes
    gliding across the pond, snapping turtles’ heads
    eerily breaking then silently sliding below the surface,
    or even falling in and drowning, the murky depths
    filled with who-knew-what else kept me there
    casting again and again most warm afternoons,
    each failure teaching me precision in my aim
    and purpose in my execution
    toward something almost unfathomable,
    to catch or be caught.

    (c) Courtney O’Banion Smith

  93. pcm

    Varada Mudra

    I trace the trickle of a tear
    that falls along your cheek
    from the corner of your golden eyes,
    around the mouth that doesn’t speak.

    It falls to earth just past your chin
    and lands below like dew.
    Settling upon a buttercup,
    it starts to glow anew.

    Within this glistening droplet
    gleams compassion for mankind
    as celestial love into
    every heart a way shall find.

  94. shellcook

    The Wisdom of Water

    Moonbeam reflections float
    shimmering back to me
    on gossamer ribbons
    flowing like liquid silver
    through every crevice,
    admittance unrestricted.

    You rule my days without ever lifting a hand.
    My body craves your magic bullet
    spreading new life to old cells
    with a single swallow of your cool essence,
    you give life.

    Without you, this world is an arrid waste,
    waiting for the touch of a cool oasis
    on parched and broken lips.
    We are each other, you and I,
    locked in this eternal search
    for everlasting life.

    We flow together,
    hydrogen and oxygen,
    in this endless dance
    of beingness,
    we call life.

    I am that,
    I am.

  95. Clark Buffington

    The Waters of Life

    At times you drown in the waters of life
    Overwhelmed by the depths and the currents
    Deep dark water with no bottom or light
    No matter the fight you are pushed and pulled
    As the unstoppable tides have their way

    Don’t yield to the dark waters of life’s troubles
    Remember the joyous spring that is love
    Softly bubbling all around you in those days
    Crisp and refreshing it heals all of the grief
    As the forgiving waters wash away pain

  96. RuthieShev

    I had trouble with this one but snce I had a granddaughters First Holy Communion today, I drew on the Holy Water used for my inspiration.

    Holy Water of Life

    As a Catholic Christian I believe
    Two important symbols are water and bread
    Starting with Baptism when we receive
    The blessed water of life splashed upon our head.
    The very first miracle Our Lord performed
    At his devoted Mother’s request
    Was to take water and have it transformed
    Into the best wine to serve the wedding guests
    Every Easter as we renew our vowels in sync
    With all as Holy Water is sprinkled around
    We remind ourselves of the life giving drink
    In which the Holy Spirit is found.
    First Communion, Weddings and other events
    That seems to make us whole
    Use blessed water as glue that cements
    Our heart and our very soul
    A simple thing like the sign of the Cross
    With water that is blessed
    Reminds how Jesus life was lost
    To give us Heaven’s best.

  97. Clark Buffington

    Trout water

    Healthy and alive
    Burbling over mossy rock
    Clear and clean
    Roiling down the hills
    Cold and crisp
    Teeming with life
    Wild and free

  98. Margie Fuston

    Reasons I Can’t Stay with You

    Because water cupped
    in palms only lasts an instant.
    Because ice cracks
    when it hits warm water.
    Because snow only stays
    pure in the wilderness.

  99. carolecole66

    Memento Mori

    We crest the Skyway Bridge heading north. All
    of Tampa Bay spreads out before us, emerald,
    aquamarine, sea foam green in streaks and patches;
    tides wash around the mangroves in a constant
    conversation between land and water. From the top
    of the bridge, in the distance and small, the iconic grandeur
    of the Don Cesar seems incidental, diminished
    as it is by the vastness of the sea. The world
    is water, and from the top of the bridge, I can’t
    help but see the bodies: the Greyhound bus,
    the seven cars, the 35 dead, far below me
    shimmering beneath the surface, their faces
    distorted by the waves, their eyes wide in terror
    and in grief. Two lengths of the old bridge remain,
    memorials to the dead, and now old fishermen
    line the rails. They meditate on what might be below
    them deep in the murky water while overhead, cars streak by,
    each driver staring straight ahead, clutching tightly to the wheel.


  100. lionetravail

    “Titanic’s Hazard”
    by David M. Hoenig

    How sharper than a serpent’s tooth
    it is to raise a thankless child?
    The fact, that young must leave, is truth-
    how sharper than a serpent’s tooth
    is calved off ice chunk? Which, uncouth,
    can float, uncaring, ship-reviled!
    How sharper than a serpent’s tooth
    it is to raise a thankless child!

  101. MaryAnn1067

    Economic Engine

    wishing for a river to
    carry her to that distant
    place, free of encumbrances,

    where bird calls echo across
    the water, framed thickly
    by landscapes of trees and

    mountains, this economic
    engine pulsing past towns
    thrumming with industry, vein

    of lifeblood bearing goods
    for barter, sale, constantly
    moving forward, roar of

    the water a beating heart, all
    in unison while she slows,
    stops, and listens

  102. miaokuancha

    April 26, 2014

    Prompt: Water

    If the time has come
    To burst into leaf,
    Even a frigid rain
    Will transform the bare twigs
    Into a resurrection of green.

  103. Brian Slusher

    AT SEA

    The air is water, fluidly cooling
    my skin as I shadow an older man
    slowly traversing the block this
    spring morning. His ancient head
    is the likeness of a Roman bust,
    clean-shaven, cheeks sunken from
    the burdens of Empire or the press
    to sell cars, capacitors, real estate.
    His spare frame listing right,
    a brigantine that’s seen better days,
    never looking back, left hand clutching
    either a cudgel or walking stick,
    he seems unstoppable until he
    anchors before the Dublin Bays
    and Rouge Royales about to bloom
    in a neighbor’s yard. Perhaps he’s never
    noticed the roses before or they
    remind him of the flowers he’s
    never sent or the wreath that will
    soon float upon his coffin’s lid
    but whatever the cause he’s briefly
    at sea, heedless he’s breathing with me
    the molecules Caesar last exhaled

  104. CLShaffer

    Easter Elegy by C. Lynn Shaffer

    “Nearly 100 African migrants hoping to escape crushing poverty met a grisly end in the desert . . . dying of thirst under the baking sun . . . including . . . 52 children and 33 women . . . .”
    Krista Larson and Rukmini Callimachi, Associated Press

    I watch my daughter
    slip an egg into colored water,
    wait for the dye to take hold
    and think about the ribs of Jesus,

    of the ribs of fallen children
    wasting into the landscape.
    One woman’s hand lay across
    her son’s eyes as if to keep him
    at least from the sight of her
    becoming a skeleton.

    Tonight my child’s body
    will stretch the length of a tub
    nearly full. The water
    will wash the pastels
    from the whorls of her fingertips,
    float her hair around her,
    and she will smile. She’s smiling now.

    How can there be bodies
    sprawled across the desert
    as out of place as ships anchored in sand?
    The woman’s hand on her boy’s face.
    I have my anger but she,
    having so little,
    food and then water scarce as kindness,
    how could she imagine being saved,
    wishing only for something
    simple as a few drops to wet his lips,
    a few for herself
    so her tongue could speak his name,
    ease their leaving the world and each other.

    1. Brian Slusher

      Perhaps your recognition of their suffering is some consolation for their spirits. The washing away of the dye was an especially poignant image.

  105. lionetravail

    “Water’s Two-Faced Child”
    by David M. Hoenig

    One need only swim to know destructive power of water,
    when carried along by the slosh of irresistible wave.
    Now imagine: a critically warm spot, where it can force
    its way into the air, rising, inviting a strong wind
    to blow and replace what has climbed. A chimney-draw
    develops, as air rushes inwards in heedless charge.

    But heat in the sea continues to seethe- no charge!-
    and into the already-humid air boils yet more water.
    Meanwhile, just as a child might draw,
    a column of warm fog begins rising in steady wave
    towards the stars. Back at ocean, the wind
    continues to whip inward with increasing force,

    into the void the rising air leaves. The spout can force
    its way only so high, before its heavenward charge
    reaches apogee at the tropopause, where wind
    from below continues to feed the rise of water-
    air mix. Hitting its ceiling, it spreads out, a wave-
    front of cloud, as though the clear sky around can draw

    it outwards like a cloth. By now, its performance will draw
    meteorologists like moths to a flame with the force
    of dreadful excitement! Down at the sea, there is no wave
    active, save that driven by nascent storm. Electric charge
    separates at cloud’s periphery, where cooling air weeps water
    back to the ocean through the raging torrent of wind.

    The whole shebang starts doing the Coriolis twist, and wind
    now whips around the center spout, until the draw
    is less than the shear. The last of the air, heavy with water,
    flies eagerly up, spending its last thrust of force
    like the Light Brigade’s fateful charge.
    Now the storm can see, with a brand new Eye at wave

    level. The newborn hurricane doesn’t stop to wave
    at orbital cameras frantically tracking its lethal wind
    front. Not even remotely, or in any sense, in charge
    of its own awesome power, it cannot draw
    inspiration like the chasers and seekers seem to force
    upon themselves, to witness this dancing daughter of the water.

    Helios’ best force, unequally absorbed by equatorial water,
    is not quenched in wave, but rather inspires the hurricane’s wind
    to periodically re-draw the map of Earth’s heat; a life-affirming, solemn charge.

  106. BDP

    “Artesian Well”

    Sink to your knees, dip a hand to the pool,
    your palm of water is a prophecy:
    without you blue still flows. Each March, though cool,
    forsythia bursts sun. The willows sweep

    the farmland near the pond—their leaves bud first.
    You hold the sweetness to your mouth, a time
    when less was comfort—find those days, your thirst
    again, by taking one small sip. Sublime,

    that taste of something always running deep,
    source known yet mystery with its own terms.
    Self-worth and forced ambitions made you cheap
    as meadow strewn with stone. Stack them in cairns.

    Reminders. You’ve come back to change, to start
    where only you have set your trail. Drink thanks, depart.

    –Barb Peters

  107. Scott Jacobson


    The rain caught us napping
    so crashed the car,
    wet the bed,
    and eroded my feelings
    toward mountains.
    I wanted to kiss you,
    but an iceberg
    ruptured the hull
    of my lip. We can go
    with the flow of the river
    till we get beaten up by the rocks.
    But thank you for not
    boiling us in your ocean.
    We will come back
    for a future visit
    when we are all done
    being clouds.

  108. susanjer

    For the Women Who Row Eight to a Boat
    After Edward Hirsch

    Today I want to say something heroic
    for the women who row eight to a boat
    who become one body that strides

    atop the water with strokes synchronized
    to the call of the coxswain who steers
    their hearts and muscles toward the goal.

    They could be a long-legged pond skater,
    or a fish flying over the surface of the water
    or a brace of birds headed toward an atoll.

    In this sport no substitute spells a winded
    teammate, no time out is taken to bandage
    blistering hands or rub a blazing back muscle.

    Only when the race is over can a rower
    let mercy intervene. That is why I say:
    The body is a sailing vessel whose only anchor

    is love. We are rowing towards a lagoon
    where the water is pure enough to drink
    and where someone we love will bandage

    our hands and rub aromatic lotions on our
    skin. There is a coxswain who wants for
    us what we say we want most in the world.

    We have to tell our bodies, our spirits,
    that courage is something to practice.
    The root of the word courage is cor, Latin

    for heart. We are on the crew and the fist
    of our heart is an oar in dangerous water
    as we row toward that lagoon.

    1. susanjer

      This poem is based on today’s prompt and an exercise called The Element of Surprise by Sarah Cortez in Wingbeats: Exercises & Practice in Poetry.

      I could not figure out how to retain italics when pasting the text. The seven lines of text after the colon are intended to be in italics.


          1. Brian Slusher

            Total fail…just look up HTML codes and you’ll be able to do italics and bold on this blog.

    2. Rosemary Nissen-Wade

      I think this is a marvellous, brilliant poem! It works even without the italics, but I can see that it would be even better with them.To (perhaps) clarify what Brian said: type (without the spaces) before what you want in italics and (also without the spaces) at the end of the italic section.

      1. Rosemary Nissen-Wade

        OK, putting spaces in didn’t stop me producing italics instead of telling you how! I am going to try it again, putting dots where the spaces were. To create italics, you should type the following but without the dots: to open the italics, type .. and to close them type ..

  109. Cin5456

    Fluid Dynamics

    I found a blue universe reflected
    in your eyes sparkling warm
    tides wash me adrift I succumb
    your whirlpool energy
    pulsar throbbing near
    your whirling center pulled
    by irresistible gravity in you –
    you soulful center I become
    the blue shining
    Maldives sea welcomed in
    the universe of you
    Drawn by your dynamics
    I nova bright
    uncontained by form
    I overflow
    from your simple smile

    Cynthia Page

  110. Sharon Ann

    A Refined Thirst

    “I say,” I said, “Water, please.”
    The waiter turned his head.
    Tray aloft, tie and tails,
    he turned and then was off.
    He returned just then, smile in place,
    setting before me a beautiful, crystal glass
    chiseled to reflect the colors of light
    thrown by windows around the room.
    The drop draped pitcher leaned
    toward the glass, clink of ice, rush of sound,
    iced water in my glass.
    “I say,” I said, “Nicely done.”
    A bow, a smile, a quick pirouette.
    I sat alone, thirst quenched, refreshed.

  111. Sara McNulty

    How We Use Water

    Coworker cups his hand
    to your ear, says, beware.
    You are in hot water.
    Emergency! This woman
    has taken an overdose
    of pills. Quick, get her into
    a cold shower. When water boils,
    it is time to put the pasta in.
    When cubes tinkle the side
    of a tall glass, it is time for ice tea
    to be poured. Do not turn on
    the waterworks; things are not
    as hopeless as you fear, dear,
    and soon it will all just be
    water under the bridge.

  112. Natasa Bozic Grojic

    The prompt worked so well for me that I wrote three poems today, a personal record

    The Floods

    The floods changed everything.
    They weakened our willpower.
    They erased our memory.
    They watered us down.
    They entered our homes and left their
    invisible fingertips everywhere.
    We woke up the next day believing
    we knew who we were,
    but the landscape had changed overnight,
    things were not where we had placed them.
    Our field was gone and the river
    had taken over.
    Our world was there but
    it didn’t belong to us.

    The Scandal

    I never knew you had it in you, girl.
    You always looked so calm and controlled.
    A modest little thing, a virgin river,
    home to lazy snakes.
    People were talking, but I
    don’t believe in gossip.
    I had to see it for myself, how you
    broke the dams and flooded the fields and
    left us stranded on a hill.

    Water into Wine

    It was a warm summer evening
    we were having dinner
    there were a lot of people at our table.
    We all listened to you,
    though you didn’t speak much.
    You were handsome, in an ordinary way.
    Later I couldn’t recall your face,
    though I tried.
    I couldn’t even describe you.
    An ordinary face, though handsome.
    We were drinking your wine and it was good.
    I had never tasted better wine in my life.
    I was so happy that I could just sit there and
    look at you.
    I knew you would eventually have to go.
    I couldn’t expect you to just
    stay with us forever.
    That would be selfish.
    It was strange to see how sorry you were to leave.
    You said you’d had such a great time with us,
    and I could see you meant it.
    You never lie.
    You said our stories were interesting
    and we were lucky because
    time passed so slowly in our world.
    Our year, you said, would be
    just a second in Heaven.
    You couldn’t promise that you’d visit
    any time soon.
    But you left the wine.
    You could always make more, you said,
    hadn’t I read the story?
    Do come again.
    Nights are getting warmer and
    we can sit outside.
    We will slow the time for you and
    let you have some rest.

  113. LCaramanna

    When Clouds Cry

    Tears of a cloud,
    in an Adirondack Mountain lake,
    tears of joy from a cloud,
    cry me a river
    that begins as a stream
    in a lofty place Mt. Marcy touches the sky,
    a river of rapids and waterfalls,
    racing course through a state of natural beauty
    river of life,
    river of transportation,
    river of pleasures,
    from Keene to Palisades,
    river surviving a rush to the sea
    where the tears of a cloud mingle with salt of the Atlantic,
    and the tide ebbs – Mahicantuck –
    “river that flows both ways.”
    Lake Tear of the Clouds
    sources a stream
    that gathers its water, its power, its majesty
    destined to become
    the mighty Hudson River.
    Lorraine Caramanna

  114. DanielAri

    “Cause and effect”

    “If you get too near
    the waves will wet you.
    When exposed to air
    wet skin gets gluey.”
    Father’s pedantic

    due to my complaints.
    “But the sticky salt
    and my soggy shoes.”
    Oy, gavalt. I said
    don’t get wet.” Water,

    doesn’t just invite,
    though. The ocean greets
    me every time, wets
    me, lets me go, and
    knows I’ll return, too.

    Always the low hiss,
    the tow and release.


  115. CathyBlogs

    Walking over Wordsworth

    At Westminster we walk
    over the dead and caress
    their marble memories.
    You’re here but not here;
    you can’t even look at us
    as we contemplate
    the poets in this corner
    Who gave us nobler loves and nobler cares
    including you. You’ve lost
    your pen, too, and really?
    You’re buried in Grasmere,
    and somehow this chapel
    feels as empty as your
    chiseled eyes.

    Late in the afternoon
    we walk across
    Westminster Bridge;
    a low and saffron sun shines
    and the memory of ten thousand
    sunsets balance on the waves
    of the Thames. We stop to
    watch the boats below
    beside a man who
    points to the water and says,
    The river glideth at his own sweet will
    then strolls away into the crowd,
    lost to us in the light.

    by Cathy Dee writing at http://www.CathyBlogs.com

  116. PressOn


    You came to us fresh out of school,
    unbounded by the mildest rule;
    it seems that you will not be topped
    or even stopped.

    I like your chutzpah, brash and bold;
    talents like yours turn dross to gold,
    but when it comes to dating my daughter,
    hold your water.

  117. DCR1986

    The Thought of Hydration

    Like water,
    do I require or desire you to
    leave me spick-and-span,
    replenish my soul,
    and recycle my youth?

    Before asking consent
    to build a bridge over trouble,
    should I wait by the riverside
    holding my own water?

    Or should I, like water,
    run, then ripple through the green letting everything flow—
    leaving you to sit still to drown in your own tears?

    Or like water, shall I let your heart freeze me over for you
    to steady stream by me?
    Or like water, should I fall
    deeply in a bucket for you to catch?

    Or like, water should I spill over and allow sun to boil or spoil me?
    Or like water, shall I forever naturally resource your living?

    —Danielle C. Robinson

  118. Kendall A. Bell

    Golden drought

    From the capital city all the way
    down to sunny San Diego, we are
    thirsting. Our bodies swelter and
    our grasses are a sickly yellow
    stretch of sadness. Montague and
    Cupertino could run out by the end
    of the summer – entire towns parched
    without a solution. Restaurants are
    withholding water, asking people
    to save the last drops in our
    reservoirs. Willits has 100 days left.
    People walk around trying to visualize
    rain, lug fifteen gallon jugs to their
    cars. Buoys rest on dried out water
    beds and we get more and more thirsty.
    The boat docks are empty at Holiday
    Harbor. We are driving our boats away
    on trailers and heading for high water,
    any water. We are left with numbers –
    seventeen percent capacity, 100 feet
    below normal level. Irrigation pipes
    are empty and hope is dwindling.

  119. feywriter

    “Stranded and Soaked”

    Skin dripping
    Washed ashore
    Cold and alone
    Salt burns in my scratches
    I shiver
    I’d give my watch
    For a pack of matches

    Leaves dripping
    Water into gaping mouth
    Desperate for fresh water
    No way to boil
    the sea
    I’d give my jacket
    For a pack of matches

    Sky dripping
    Find shelter
    Dark and dreary
    A musty cave
    Of bats
    I’d give my glasses
    For a pack of matches

    Arrow dripping
    With poison
    A warning shot
    No way to
    fight back
    I’d give my shoes
    for a pack of matches

    Sanity dripping
    A plane flies
    No way to
    I’d give my left hand
    for a pack of matches

    by Mary W. Jensen

  120. Hannah

    One Early Summer Night Last Year

    I perch atop the utmost peak in the country part of this place,
    the water falling is a steady downpour – torrential really;
    it streams down this street as a paved river reflecting the sky,
    the sky illuminates entirely by persistent pulses of lightning.
    God – like a little kid, is playing with the light switch upstairs –
    on – off – on – off – on – off … a rumble of thunderous laughter…
    rain tap dances rigorously on the metal roof of the car;
    I sit alone on the highest hill in the city parked in the dark –
    light – dark – light – dark…thinking about time and swiftness.

    Copyright © Hannah Gosselin 2014

  121. MichaelMcMonigle


    Water side
    Praise the pressure –
    Filter to refresh.
    Adopt the cry
    Of infant fear
    And ease acceptance.
    Closed eyes
    Allow the purity
    Flow gentle as God.
    Open to see
    The hands, the holy,
    Holding, comforting,
    Leading the way
    Into the clear
    Oasis of everlasting.

  122. tunesmiff

    (c) G. Smith
    The falls roar and pour;
    The eddies whirl, swirl, and twirl;
    The channels run deep

  123. CristinaMRNorcross

    Bathed in You

    Your gaze cascades
    over my skin like water.
    I live inside the tide –
    the give and sway –
    the push and pull –
    your full moon gravity.

    As weightless as water bugs,
    we float –
    suspended in time –
    eyes turned upward
    to an aquamarine sky.

    Hand in hand –
    fish glide beneath us –
    drawn to this island of you and me.

    I come up for air,
    letting the rush of sound
    awaken ears –
    skin bathed in sudden oxygen.

    I look to you.
    “Cover me again in water,”
    I say.
    “Envelop me
    in the deepest, darkest blue.”

    Cristina M. R. Norcross
    Copyright 2014

  124. jacq

    My Obsession by Jacqualine A Hart

    What is this incessant need to repeat?
    They’re clean, I’m sure, the first time around.
    Yet, the waters flow as soap and hand meet
    to once again, repeat and repeat. Bound
    by this compulsion, magically three.
    Free then to move on, as if it never
    happened, so many times, when I had glee
    and you, my haven, filled me moreover
    with love and security, dismissing
    my inner demons, no anxiety.
    But, broke promises, I’m reminiscing.
    Let’s not forget, the notoriety.
    Of this obsessive need to wash my hands,
    as you did of me — now I understand.

  125. Patricia A. Hawkenson

    Patricia A. Hawkenson’s Day 26 Water poem


    It slips playfully
    through my fingers
    like silver threads
    drawing a woven
    water trail behind us.

    But perhaps the fish cry.

    Do the lines above them
    fade before
    they can gather
    their friends
    and hopscotch
    or double Dutch
    to shore?

  126. randinha


    Here no river flows.
    It trickles, dammed
    by ranks of matryoshki
    hoarding their generations.

    In me the eggs nest one
    inside the other,
    yet here no chambers open,
    here the river slows.

    I stand in the ranks
    and hold the flood
    and hold my children
    and hoard my blood.

  127. beale.alexis

    “Ocean Blues”

    I’m at the world edge
    Dipping my toes in
    One by one.
    Gooseflesh rises up from my calf
    To my thigh. I’m waist deep
    And still sinking.
    I won’t stop until my oxygen tank
    Is on E because fifty feed under
    the sea is where I belong.

  128. mshall

    Double, double toil and trouble
    Fire burn and cauldron bubble
    Three old witches one prophesy
    Of a future yet to be

    A modern age of wonder,
    Yet beware, global warming will tear us asunder.
    You must assess the risks,
    Sayeth the majority of scientists.

    Yet the market bull is super human,
    To be foiled by no man born of woman.
    Profits! To a brighter, more modern day!
    Cry the witches of Wall Street

    Till Birnam Wood the Dunsinane hill,
    The good life will take its fill
    And scientists have yet to create
    A forest that can perambulate.

  129. tunesmiff

    G, Smith
    What ya gonna do when the well runs dry, Mama?
    What ya gonna do when the well runs dry, Paw?
    What ya gonna do when the well runs dry?
    Can’t sit on the porch and cry, cry, cry;
    What ya gonna do?
    What ya gonna do?

    What ya gonna do when the rain comes down, Mama?
    What ya gonna do when the the rain comes down, Paw?
    What ya gonna do when the rain comes come down?
    Can’t pack it all up and head into town,
    What ya gonna do?
    What ya gonna do?

    What ya gonna do when the river rises, Mama?
    What ya gonna do when the river rises, Paw?
    What ya gonna do when the river rises?
    Ya know this life is full of surprises.
    What ya gonna do?
    What ya gonna do?

  130. Bartholomew Barker

    Water and Wine

    All that lives
    In my frig
    Is water and wine

    When storms steal
    My electricity
    I lose nothing

    When guests visit
    They have their choice
    Of red and clear

    When asked I tell them
    About droughts and thermal mass
    I am simply living

    Just the essentials
    For life
    And poetry

    1. tunesmiff

      Actually, assuming “hail” is a one syllable word (which is NOT a safe assumption down he-yar in Dixie (i.e. – “hay-yell”), resubmit as:

      Fog, rain, hail, snow, ice;
      Vapor, liquid, solid states.
      Weather is water.

      Thank y’all…

      : )

  131. lionetravail

    “Objects In Mirrors Of The Soul May Be Closer Than They Appear”
    by David M. Hoenig

    Her eyes remain those limpid pools
    which I, a one-time king of fools,
    had dived into in age gone by.
    No dock nearby to throw a tie,
    I risked, then, drowning in those jewels.

    I learned more there than in the schools
    which taught me fundamental rules.
    And now, though she expects to die,
    her eyes remain such limpid pools.

    We sit together as the tools
    of health impart a med which cools
    the fever boiling in her eye.
    I fear her death may be nearby:
    the mirrors of her soul show ghouls.
    And still, her eyes are limpid pools.

  132. Kevin D Young


    From these plains
    we bear this drum-
    song: in love there
    is water. Water when
    the eyes cry in wonder
    or in weeping, water
    when a man and woman
    mingle, each one’s water
    wetting the other, water
    when a child rushes from
    its mother to the world,
    water carrying blood
    from the heart to the head
    so fire is cooled before it
    burns, water as it beads
    upon the skin when the sun
    is hot or when one’s worry
    is so great it breaks from its
    sticky prison seeking lovers,
    water from the mouths of babes
    and ancient women full of family,
    water pressed upon the lips
    of old men when in beds of dry
    grass they depend upon old women,
    water rained upon the heads of all
    departed, buried in the dust but not
    denied this memory, this blessing.
    From these plains we bear this drum-song, the song
    we bear is true: We are dust and to dust
    we shall return, but in between is water.

  133. RebekahJ

    For this one, I tried to observe some constraints that I understand are used in some Chinese formal poetry: use only monosyllabic words, combined in groups of two or three, and use primarily nouns, verbs, and adjectives (with as few prepositions, articles, and conjunctions as possible).

    In the Cave Rivers of Guangxi

    Bat waste, black
    Coats rock walls
    Feeds small cells
    Curled ferns
    Jade moss

    Pale worms crawl
    Shrimp snap
    Blind fish swims
    Clear pink fins

    While peaks soar
    Deep in earth
    Swift stream flows
    Dark life teems

    Kimberly Gladman Jackson

  134. elledoubleyoo

    late and busy today! I’ll see if I can throw another one in later.


    We made-believe we were mermaids,
    criss-crossing our ankles into tails,

    butterfly kicking from one side of the pool
    to the other. I wished to be more like you,

    who seem to be part fish, golden skin glinting
    iridescent and hair chlorine-green, like a nixie’s.

    But mortals and fairies don’t mix, we discover
    when later, you tip my raft. and I sink, all the weight

    of earth dragging me downward. This is what
    it’s like to drown, I think, until the strong hands

    of your father pull me out. I cry into a towel
    as the sun dries our skin; you sit silent,

    elementally unable to understand
    my need to be firmly grounded.

  135. grcran

    Verbal Study: Watering Earth and Humans

    water on the Earth: water in a human
    ooze: perspire
    pour: pump
    flood: osmose
    seep: lachrymate
    splash: urinate
    boil: dehydrate
    effervesce: salivate
    gush: bleed

    By gpr crane
    (not sure this is a poem… but maybe sort of an “analogy poem”, considering the colons???)

  136. diedre Knight

    Tragic Magic

    Torrential rain had ceased that day
    in a strangely strangled way;
    Suspended before they’d fully spilled,
    Full-bellied clouds at length began to slip
    from the summits and sprawl
    across the valley below,
    Obscuring the sky and setting forth
    spotted green meadows of floating frogs,
    protesting in strident croaks
    that rivaled a deafening roar that summoned
    the kids to stare in wonder with caution aside
    as the allure of the Arroyo, transformed, pulled.
    Wading in; waist deep, as the murky water gushed;
    collecting souvenirs between its swollen banks.
    A rusted oven door; their magic carpet ride
    to locations undiscovered, horizons yet to find
    on a carefree childhood voyage where dreams
    were chased in a current too swift,
    and too deep to swim.

    diedre Knight

  137. MyPoeticHeart

    A Drip to the Ocean

    When I was a young girl around seven
    I called my older brother a ‘drip’
    That term was our slang in early 1960’s
    For nerd, twerp, etc.


    His reply was to me:
    “a drip is a drop, a drop is water,
    Water is beautiful.


    Our family moved to the Florida Keys soon after
    I fell in love at age eight with the sunrises
    The sunsets and the ocean and all its beauty
    By age nine my Dad taught us how to scuba dive
    I made it to twenty-five feet below the surface


    A water world existed between the ground
    And the bottom of the sea
    I learned a lot about sea creatures and reefs
    By age ten, I knew what real love is
    I learned respect and trust
    What to touch and what not to touch


    I know that fire coral is named properly
    I touched it once and by age eleven
    Discovered that ammonia has many uses
    Touch fire coral you go back to the boat
    Dad opens a bottle of that ammonia
    Hand in a basin the sting is gone.

    The lesson learned is
    A drip is a drop
    A drop is water
    Water is beautiful…

    Oceans, rivers, creeks, brooks and waterfalls
    On a boat, snorkeling, fishing, scuba diving
    Tears, drinking water, tea, coffee,
    Bathing a newly born baby…

    *Memories of Water*

  138. Liliuokalani

    Empowered by Groundwater

    In April, our front yard ferns form fists in the turf,
    their brown boot leather knuckles punching
    past grubs and cocoons cradled in quilts made of roots.
    They splay pinnate palms among the violets
    initiating secret hand shakes with the weeds.

  139. SuziBwritin


    The wind was quiet for once
    the snow had stopped falling
    the sand was golden in the sun
    and the mounds of snow
    hugged where the coastline waves
    tried to eat them up

    Most folks with sense
    don’t go to the beach in winter
    but there we were, two of us
    old fogies in parkas
    half-lying, sitting in the dunes
    looking down a deserted stretch of sand
    not Bermuda or Hawaii or even Mexico
    but Racine, Wisconsin!

    And it was enough to quell that aching
    yearning burning in my soul
    that comes from living here
    in a land-locked state
    to see the endless blue sky
    over a fake ocean missing only
    the ocean’s taste of
    potato chips on my lips

  140. Jane Shlensky


    Golden, he is, and sculpted
    like Greek statuary, pedestalled
    by the pool, above the populace
    below, above the shouting children,
    above the teenaged girls
    in bright bikinis and parents
    ignoring pleas of “Look at me!”
    He sits inscrutable in dark glasses,
    Gatorade by his side, scanning
    the water’s surface for miscreants,
    overzealous divers, runners,
    and struggling new swimmers,
    his whistle at the ready,
    a bronzed water god to inspire us.

    Each hour, he descends
    to stretch and take a dip,
    his muscles shining, rolling wet,
    his trunks clinging just so,
    a female counter-part aloft.
    He dives and glides end to end
    on one breath, all the sun-bathers
    holding their breaths in sympathy,
    and even the old men looking on
    nod and smile, imagining
    themselves once works of art.
    The girls swoon in his wake,
    their mothers grow alert and still,
    while the old ladies moan
    appreciatively, as they might
    about a creamy dessert,
    then close their eyes and smile.

  141. Jane Shlensky

    Blood Tide

    Our blood marks phases of the moon,
    an inner howling surging
    when silver disk is full, and soon,
    we follow tidal urging.

    We know the muscle of the tides,
    as flood and ebb continue.
    We know this push and pull abides
    in every human venue.

    So rip tide, undertow, and love
    can still upend our thinking.
    We’re tracked by moonbeams from above
    that guide our hearts to linking.

    We feel the currents roll and move;
    the tides that dance within us
    erode our barriers to love,
    then gently smooth and bend us.

  142. k_weber

    Fair Enough

    Fill me up
    at the clown’s mouth
    until this shot
    breaks my balloon
    and you find the prize
    is on the inside

    Throw another
    ball at my red target
    and aim for the middle
    where the alarms sound
    then I fall and struggle
    to swim my clothed self

    in your glass of water

    — k weber

    1. Linda Goin

      What have you done. Fair enough? “prize/is on the inside”? I’m not sure I get the last few lines, but I like how they sound, especially the slant rhymes, the guttural sound in struggle, and the almost smothering way that “clothed self” takes to pronounce aloud.

      1. k_weber

        i like the idea of sometimes tripping readers on phrases. so easy for me to use and reuse the word “myself” but to throw “clothed” in-between those syllables can be a bit of a wordy landmine.

        and i completely understand how anyone would get a bit lost in this poem and especially the ending. i was trying to do two things at once in this piece and that can be a bit tricky. trying to state the obvious but mask it behind metaphors or other wordplay is something i enjoy trying in poems but it can be difficult to keep the momentum. this poem could have very easily been outright sleazy but that’s not a route i wanted to go here :]

        i love the feedback! thank you!

        1. Linda Goin

          I was reading an anthology last night, and the crib notes actually described things like “Model A” (the old car) and a few other things that I knew about, but realized that someone younger than me might not know about. Very disorienting…anyway…I thought I knew about the fair games, but wasn’t positive. I’m all for poems that sound great and still make no sense to me. I’m all about oblique! hahaha! Saw the comments below, so I’ll continue…

    2. grcran

      I liked it, a clever way to poem the water prompt! Maybe Linda has not seen these 2 features at a county fair, or even a gradeschool fair… the one has a squirt gun which is used by the contestant to fill a balloon til it bursts, then win the prize inside the balloon… the other involves a person (usually a teacher or principal, wearing regular clothing) sitting suspended over a trough of water, the contestant throws a softball at a target and when it hits properly, it drops the person into the water…

      1. Linda Goin

        I was vaguely familiar of the games, but wasn’t positive…I had a difficult time visualizing them, especially the water dunk. See above ^^^. Thanks for the help!

  143. Jane Shlensky


    Right away, I liked the way
    the waves curled into flimsy fists,
    a fluff of foam, like a lacy glove
    on hands blue as the sky above.
    Then ocean’s fingers spread on sand
    smoothing the beach like a gentle hand–
    the way the moon sliced through the mists,
    the way surf surged then backed away.

    I sat and watched the waves unfold
    again, again like stories told
    forever by a mother’s voice
    respecting wonder, hope, and choice.
    So every child must love a beach
    along a sea where marvels lie,
    the water’s rush, a lullaby.
    Just so, the frail and aging reach
    toward the pull of waves and sky
    longing for one last surge and roar,
    beneath a moon, along a shore.

  144. cmjones

    Then there is the matter of aquatic

    interventions. There is also the spread
    of infective systems of order. In the lungs
    there is a broken microwave from your mother.
    I’m sorry but I don’t have ethical concerns. I write
    criticism for myself. Habit
    pulls you down or do you slip? The public
    lacks sufficient fencing and they eat
    reading your likeness falling off a
    cliff at hundreds of gallons per second.

  145. Alpha1


    tucked somewhere deep
    within the galaxy
    a planet exists
    much like our earth
    a distant cousin
    maybe an evil twin
    discovered orbiting a red sphere
    looking much like our sun
    spiraling in the zone of
    inhabitable stars where
    rivers are bound
    to flow

  146. Patricia A. Hawkenson

    Patricia A. Hawkenson’s Day 26 Water poem


    She was bored
    watching her boat
    float quietly on the water,
    her fingers curling
    the only ripples,
    where she alone
    had the power
    to send it spinning.

    flooded her thoughts
    with sticks
    till one came
    crashing down,
    and her tiny boat
    took a chance
    and escaped over
    the berm.

    The boat
    would’ve looked back,
    but that would’ve meant
    it cared.

  147. nmbell


    The Irish claim whiskey is the water of life
    Indeed that is their name for whiskey in the native tongue
    Uische beatha

    Those of us who live in a dry land
    Know water itself is life
    If the rivers ceased to flow
    And the rain hid in the sky

    There would be no fields of golden wheat
    Or cornflower blue flax and daffodil yellow canola
    Water, clear and cool, is more priceless than gold

    Though as much as water can nurture
    It is also a powerful instrument of destruction
    Rain swollen rivers overflow and engulf
    Everything in its path
    The sea gathers her fury
    And huge waves surf up the estuaries

    Water can change the face of the earth
    And the course of our lives
    The peaceful mirror of still water
    Reflecting the turbulent nature beneath

    Nancy Bell 2014

  148. Pat Walsh

    Water Children
    by Patrick J. Walsh

    Peering through the shallows
    pursuing the riddle of new life
    curious daylight seeks the depth
    of murk and dusk

    Somewhere deeper below
    there sits a clutch of eggs
    nearly invisible in an indentation
    hollowed from the lake bed floor

    Irked by the prying inquiry of day
    a mid-sized bluegill
    skips the length of trench in anger
    flashing silver and yellow and blue

    But for the tiny billowing ripple
    the surface of the pond is still
    it betrays no secrets
    in the warmth of the afternoon sun

  149. utsabfly

    Summer Fun

    Little feet traipsing
    Upon the soggy green
    Blades of grass between their toes
    Muddy earthworms, unseen
    Bouncy, pouncy, springing forth
    In the summer heat
    Water oscillating
    From garden hose stream
    Laughter unrestrained
    Children’s spirits set agleam

    ©E.D. Allee
    April, 2014

  150. dandelionwine

    Thirsty Girl

    My second day
    on the job yields
    high field sun,
    dirt wedged
    under fingernails,
    heat creeping
    across bare neck,
    blisters biting,
    rows and rows
    hoed and more
    to go. We stop.
    He pulls a gallon
    jug from the dusty
    old Dodge, gulps,
    hands it to me.
    Even as I swallow
    I know this is
    the satiating drink
    against which all
    others will be
    gauged. He grins
    as I wipe my chin.

    Sara Ramsdell

  151. beachanny

    Thank You Note

    Thanks be to earth for this shower
    Thank you engineers for more hot water
    Thank you dear Lord for an hour
    Underneath this running water

    Thank you builders for inside plumbing
    Thank you plumbers for toilets flushing
    Thanks to sponges and loufas for this good scrub
    Thank you again my Lord for spas, bathtubs

    I say this prayer everyday
    To earlier times some long to stray
    But even in a TARDIS with Dr. Who
    I’d want conveniences, wouldn’t you?

  152. jean2dubois

    THE 1930’s REVISITED
    by Jean Dubois

    sat by the window day by day
    watching our topsoil blow away
    no rain no water came our way
    sat by the window day by day
    watched the wind whisk our lives away
    our option: fold our hands and pray
    sat by the window day by day
    watching our topsoil blow away

  153. cmjones


    I have needs. If only the push for
    boots was not sponsored by the sand blaster’s
    union. We have a collective mobility in not knowing
    what to do with our hostels and inns on land.
    Lunch will be memorialized without the use
    of human hands in which there is a legitimate
    educational interest. Vacant lots. The ocean
    was in no position to beg for money. It smashed
    its own humility to bits like the first layer of cloud
    I chipped away from the sky with a wood chipper
    but there was another dialectic on a woman’s cheek –
    she was wiping it off with a tumble of kleenex and she
    held a load of graphite in her teeth. Sex on a napkin.
    Signs as her eyes moved across the eyes seated
    across from the patterned low-carb horizon
    wet with technology from the latest
    meteorological twist. You could smell the sound
    you make when you smack your lips into the sky.
    A furnace of malted apricot. The maple’s froth engine
    diverting a train from its low growl outside a shack
    on a clear day. The mountain far off tapering south.
    We snatched the headwind in a vial so our neighbor
    would stop spying on us. Head resting on
    elbow the continent licked itself clean. The drought is
    at our feet stroking itself in contradiction to modern
    social and economic structures like the synthetically
    created whale swallowing whole tires or the exposed
    hermaphrodite severing tree limbs in a thunderstorm,
    tempting lightning.

  154. Emma Hine

    ‘We Are 70% Water’

    Let your life spill over like a waterfall,
    Not giving trickle by trickle,
    Teetering on the edge,
    Waiting to fall.

    Let your dreams cascade like a torrent,
    Not rippling in stagnant pools,
    Just waiting to be filled
    by rain, heaven sent.

    Let your actions speak loud as a storm,
    Not gently splashing puddles,
    Washing muddy feet,
    Like the norm.

    Be amazing, be special, be it all,
    Live by your dreams,
    Live by example,
    Be a waterfall.

  155. Bruce Niedt

    Today’s NaPoWriMo prompt is to write a “curtal sonnet”.


    Perhaps it was the summer I was four –
    a rogue wave swallowed me – one of my aunts
    was there to pluck me out. “You’ll live,” she frowned.

    Since then, big water’s something I endure,
    but never love. Can I swim? Not a chance,
    nor do I sail – I’d rather stay aground.

    Don’t pity me my dry life – I’m content
    away from lake and ocean, pond and sound.
    But if there’s some wet, desperate circumstance,
    if some great flood falls from the firmament,
    I’m drowned.

  156. cmjones

    Prompt #26

    running through a field’s fingers

    coated with people

    considering the side-effects of

    hygiene and wind – I’m surely

    always on the move

    after a storm, snow placing her

    just to make sure she’s still,

    the composition of the word for

    earthly coordinates and a satellite

    would-be poet on a lunch break

    voice inviting multiple(s)

    sorta unholy, hyphenated, strong

    hands running through water

    my frantic eyes deciphering path

    beneath snow on which I bear

    dialing a number no longer

    recognized by moisture,

    money, or my family’s position

    in such a way as to prevent fear

    entering whatever is good

    or whatever is art

    being of violence

    nation-wide, all over with snipers

    their thirst making it interesting

  157. Linda Goin

    That Color I Cannot Name

    I. I want to thank poets for reflecting
    so thoroughly on that color I can’t name,
    because it permeates everything now,
    especially that intrinsic hue found
    in large bodies of water.

    II. Water reflects skies and also mirrors
    dissolved impurities. So inappropriate
    for the narcissist that one such property
    sounds like “see you too.”

    III. When I touch water, it doesn’t touch back.
    It swallows. My fingers become the tinge
    of whatever drink I dip my hand into.
    If I’m in deep, I become the undertone.

    IV. We are salt and water, not fresh water.
    We (as in the royal-toned we) never season
    our tears with pepper, especially in poetry.

    V. When I bend to anoint my mother’s feet
    with doctor-prescribed petroleum-based oils,
    my skin stops touching her skin. Even hot
    water cannot penetrate this pigmentation.

    VI. The harder I dive, the more I absorb.

          1. Linda Goin

            Tom, unfortunately, I do. I write feverishly for two months — April and November (most years), and that’s it. This time, however, I feel a pull that I haven’t felt before, so I’ve made plans to keep writing with a poet friend. Plus, there’s Facebook. And, there’s prompts here every Wednesday, too.

    1. k_weber

      oh the rhythm of this is splendid.

      “My fingers become the tinge
      of whatever drink I dip my hand into.
      If I’m in deep, I become the undertone.”

      um… wow! water and body in colors and hues and tones and i don’t think i can find the right word for the colors or the the adjectives i want to use to describe how these images just leap out of the lake.


  158. James Von Hendy

    Kings River, Sequoia National Forest

    The roaring river rages over rock,
    Tumbling torrents tearing toward the sea,
    Yet here, high above the hammered hills,

    Green, the glacial ice melt glints and glows.
    Sunlight shimmers, shifting the shape of stone.
    Lithographic, those light-laved layers lean,

    Water worn walls that once themselves were wet,
    The river’s rock, etched, eroded, and erased,
    Granite ground, grain by gritty grain, and gone,

    The roaring river raging over rock.

    1. k_weber

      your alliteration works so nicely in capturing the sounds of nature. you’ve managed to create an audio-visual experience without any of us having to sit through a powerpoint presentation or “seeing” or “hearing” the experience in the poem. impressive!

    1. k_weber

      this is chilling. reminds me of those absolutely frightening moments in life where we feel completely alone and are going through a trauma or just very dark time. you’ve done a fine job writing about terrifying and isolating experience.

  159. flood

    Darjeeling Passages

    Wednesday morning
    rolled in
    on webbed feet and
    she was tired of
    being 60% ocean.
    She was impatient with
    the Dead Sea Scrolls.
    She was weary of
    the Spanish Armada.
    She had grown exhausted of
    the Bikini Atoll.
    She was completely done with
    the Marianas Trench.
    She just wanted
    some hot tea.

  160. intheshadowofthesoul

    Become a Waterfall
    Lydia Flores

    A soft current flows
    underneath the bone
    rivers go home by waterfalls
    and the blood keeps us going
    into the pulse of your little heart.
    The gardens they see the light
    because rain falls in love with them
    even when time plays hard to get but
    in the end the roses and tulips wed the dirt.
    The clouds get heavy of bearing the weight
    setting free their hidden dreams in rain and
    I want to do the same. Fall I want to fall like rain
    wherever I land, to soak the worlds thirsty hearts.
    My love like the ocean rippling out and roaring with weight
    a white rush at your feet, be my beach and I’ll never stop
    kissing your sand. I’ll take on your sins and bring you back.
    Let me pull you in, a tide of heart and let yourself drown in me.
    We are water, we are just blood a body of rivers and hearts of
    the ocean beating with troughs and crests. What are you
    afraid of? Your secrets underneath the bone? but even with
    life’s sea shells and shipwrecks you are full of so much more.
    You are a monsoon and those heaving backyards will embrace
    you wholey so give your all and wed the drought because this
    world needs more blooming. flow, calm rippling out and streaming
    or rage a war and give the ships something to ride. Be all you are
    and love wholey because what are we but water?
    an ocean of love under our little bones.

  161. AleathiaD

    Not Much More to Lose

    He taps his fingers
    on the table
    to the rhythmic
    of a guitar.

    The water
    in the glass
    its own

    concentric circles
    a reaction
    to his energy
    pushed forward
    through elements.

    Aleathia Drehmer 2014
    April 26 Water

  162. Ashley Marie Egan

    Rivers Bend
    by Ashley Marie Egan

    They say water is meant to mend
    so float me down to the rivers bend
    where the water is sure to flow
    over my skin until I glow.
    Only then can all my scars
    be as beautiful as fallen stars.
    So float me down to the rivers bend,
    and let my tragedies come to an end.

  163. Emily Cooper

    Phoning It Home

    If you find yourself
    wandering and delirious
    in New Mexico

    approaching the landfill
    near the town of Alamogordo

    and you rue your judgment

    because that imagined oasis
    on second glance
    is not as such

    maybe you were right
    the first time.

    No it’s not water
    (which only
    comes in bottles anyway)

    but a truckload
    of Atari’s abandoned

    “E.T. The Extra-Terrestrial”
    video game from 1983

    of which the company
    was forced to dispose
    during that year’s
    “video game crash”

    after having spent millions
    to get the rights from Spielberg.

    Those who actually played it
    would remember it

    as one of the worst titles
    of all time

    but you could finagle
    a few dollars from nostalgic gamers
    with “ironic” collections

    of terrible vintage stuff.

    A desperate venture
    to be sure

    but a bit more moral
    than going into meth.

  164. GarrinJost

    Not to villify it, the drowning
    With being up to our ears in it
    The way it laps at our ear drums
    And sings thunder right to our brain
    We’ll find the words
    To catch that rumble
    we’ll steal the crown of death
    From its hands and
    Eat of the fruit of the highest branch.

    You’ll meet yourself, one day
    He or she will not meet you, though.
    The floor will begin to grow and swell
    The movements of the ceiling fan
    Of the other fixtures, clock and
    Lame television
    Will cease and hearken silence
    And a color, red blur or blue wash
    Will climb centipedes up your calves
    Thighs, genitals, soft stomach,
    Nipples, armpits, shoulders, the neck nape,
    Lobes, eardrums, eyes, brow,
    Hair and scalp
    And you will know
    That you have become yourself
    And you are nowhere to be found.

  165. laurora

    The Abject

    Humans are fluid,
    we’re liquid,
    we’re water, more than anything

    We’re born before we’re ready to be
    to save the lives of our mothers
    who can then spend years taking care of us

    We depend on our mothers,
    when we’re ready they teach us who we are,
    they teach us language and symbols

    Do they teach us right and wrong?
    Do they teach us what is acceptable and what is not?
    Do they teach us what the abject is? Is it they who teach us to be disgusted by it?

    We are fluids but deny it
    We are liquid formed in solid shapes
    We live inside of this

    and when we die,
    it’s all that is left of us

    and that frightens us

    Should we be scared of it?
    Should we fear death?
    Why, no, not directly

    Because when we’re dead, we’re dead,
    we’re free of worry, we’re dead fluids and water
    ready to evaporate and let the thicker material rot

    We are not our bodies
    but we don’t have to be disgusted by them

    I don’t know if our mothers teach us to be so,
    or if she doesn’t, and that’s the problem,

    But it’s what we are
    Who we are is our minds,
    depending on water

    At death, our mind becomes the abject
    Until then, our bodies are the abject,
    even if we claim it’s the liquids inside of us

    But what do we know anyway…
    Everything is theories and wonderment
    Our mothers are our miracles and
    when we die, everything is gone, everything is abject

  166. LeighSpencer

    Cold Water

    The first time we took him to the beach
    it was San Diego in winter

    Dipped his chubby baby toes in the surf
    and he jerked them up and away
    so hard and fast
    his knees ended up in his tiny nose

    Not a fan of cold water then
    but times change

    Myriad of partially full cups
    scattered in every room

    My particular boy
    has a narrow range
    of acceptable water temperature

    Three ice cubes
    is just right

    Four is too many

    And if it touches his lips
    it better be cold

  167. Jerry Walraven

    I am tired of water,
    of sodden socks
    and wrinkled skin,
    of vision blurred
    and horizons shorted.
    The world has closed in on itself,
    turning “Open” signs
    to sighs
    as store keepers stand in
    streaky windows
    staring at
    store keepers across the way.
    And imagine
    what wet
    smiles would look like
    were they ever to appear.

  168. Mr. Take The Lead

    Let the Past Drown
    Daniel R. Simmons
    So you’re finally free and happily living from your past, that unhealthy relationship, those bad habits, that terrible work environment.
    But your past is trying to chase you down and pull you back to the people, things and habits that had you bound.
    Since your mind and spirit has been from from the guilt and turmoil of your past, people are trying to drag you right back to a convicted, depressed and angry state by constantly bringing up your past or holding you to it.
    That alcohol bottle may be calling you back; those pack of cigarettes, that abusive or unsaved boyfriend/girlfriend may be calling you back, that terrible job may want you back or those porn sites may be calling; all with the intentions to get you back in bondage again.
    However, you have no need to worry, because all of the things that have been chasing from your past, trying to pull you back God will drown in His sea of forgetfulness.
    If you are free stay free, never going back to your unhealthy past. Leave everything behind and walk forward towards your great healthy, fulfilling future. For God will drown the voices of those who say;” Oh you’ll be back, or Your always going to be like that”
    Keep moving forward with your eyes straight ahead and let your past, drown behind you.
    Let the beautiful waters of your future overtake your ugly past

  169. LizMac


    Ashes to ashes, dust to dust;
    No burial beneath the clod,
    But a washing clean and dissolving
    As tears rush to merge with the flood.

    Yet with that watery dissolution
    What remains to those on the shore?
    Will pearls, sea-changed, currents carry,
    Or leaden weights sink to oblivion’s floor?

    Will the lake’s lady receive the hurled weapon
    Or those petals scatter in despair
    What will become of love’s final message
    When I am no longer there?

      1. LizMac

        Thanks, James. I think I’m starting to get poemed-out so these last couple or so are beginning to wilt. ;-) Very glad, then, that you found out something good in this one. Thanks for taking the time to look!

  170. laurora


    I’m drowning in poison;
    poison that is in my own blood,
    poison that replaces the water in my body

    I am drowning in myself;
    I am not my body, but my mind
    and it is my mind which is the poison

    But my mind is so polluted with poison
    that it’s spreading throughout my body,
    into my veins and into my every pore

    I am thirsty for water, for liquid pure and cleansing
    but all the positivity that enters my mind
    becomes infected by poison and transformed at once

    because the poison is so poisonous
    and so contagious
    and negativity tends to surmount positivity;

    poison, I have experienced, infects all that is pure.
    I am derived of positivity, of water, of purity
    I am at an end

    My body is infected by my mind,
    water can’t save me
    I am drowning in anything now, in everything, in deadly poison

    Water can’t save me anymore

  171. James Rodgers

    More Water

    I really should drink
    more water.
    Nobody has gotten
    an ill-conceived tattoo,
    drunk dialed an ex,
    or had a bad one night stand
    from drinking too much water.
    No one has called up a friend,
    all fuzzy-headed and cotton-mouthed,
    mid-day on a Sunday, and asked,
    “Dude, what did I do last night?
    I drank way too much water!”
    Nobody’s been pulled over
    for driving
    under the influence of water.
    No one has been arrested
    for public water intoxication.
    Nobody has awoke
    next to a person
    they’ve never met before,
    to find out they got married
    at a drive through chapel
    due to water.
    No one has ever had family
    and friends together
    in their living room
    for an intervention, saying,
    “Man, you’ve got
    a serious water problem.”
    I get it.
    Logically, it makes sense,
    but beer
    just tastes so good.

  172. poetrycurator

    Here is my Water Poem for day 26


    Drink pure spring water
    An energizing tonic
    Comes from Zephyrhills

    By Denise Fletcher Copyright © 2014

  173. jasonlmartin

    A Complaint Letter to Water

    Dear Water,
    I have lived at 260 Bluegrass Avenue for seven years,
    and with each of those winters, you have dependably
    flooded my backyard, making it utterly uninhabitable.
    The worst damage you have done is to our basement.
    like, the first year, we caught you red-handed, your
    carelessness, your devious, calculating efforts harmed
    my photos, my wife’s valuable cats-dressed-as-humans
    poster collection, and my daughter’s precious collection
    of plush porcupines. In springtime, we wear galoshes
    in the yard because the winter flooding leaved a pool
    of mud, sticks, and leaves, washed down from the hill
    at the end of our yard. I am hereby formally reporting
    your criminal actions against my property to, well, uh…

    no one, I suppose. Ain’t that convenient for you, H2O.
    Signed, Mr. I-better-not-send-this-to-the-cops-or they-will-take-me-off-to-the-crazy-house.

    1. k_weber

      Wow. I never would have thought to write about water this way, yet I have also been the victim of several basement floods and a few other moments of water damage through the years. I think it was time someone wrote this letter! :] Great poem and very cool use of the water theme!

  174. briehuling

    Day 26

    Erase my brain and I’d lose
    the wrens fucking outside
    the saloon window when
    you practice tree pose,
    the sweet little boner
    that comes on with a gentle smile.

    Tear out the magnolias
    which keep on trying in the
    window-box outside the kitchen
    and the pollinating beetles
    black faces would grown so long
    my own wrinkled mask
    might start to bud again.

    Wipe out the wood ducks
    in the murky pond down
    the road who scream
    family- baby—time- now!
    and you might have to inject
    all my organs with hope
    all over again.

    By Brie Huling

  175. break_of_day

    I feel the return
    of summer
    pending in spring’s hot afternoons
    in the sweaty T-shirts
    and the parched throat
    that makes
    the most delicious dream

  176. Ravyne

    Waiting for the Rain

    After the door shuts and the footsteps die,
    I rehearse the words I wanted to say.
    I tumble them around and around in my mind.
    Juggle them. Rewrite them to perfection.
    But I won’t see you again.

    Perhaps it is better this way.

    Those nights we spent entwined in moonlit silk,
    our hearts beating wildly, kisses so soft
    a mere feather could have tasted my lips,
    how could such passion be sustained?
    Surely we would have burnt out
    like two candles beckoned by one flame.

    And those days by the beach,
    when you playfully teased the ocean,
    your skirt lifted high,
    the waves bathing your thighs in sea foam,
    like the bubbles from your nightly baths.
    I still want to lick the saltiness away,
    but we’ve both been battered and beaten
    against the shore to the point of loneliness.

    We used to be like rain drops,
    splashing into the same pool,
    spreading ourselves out to the world.
    We explored the City in all its splendor,
    gathering other rain drops as we went along.
    We were fluid and irresistible – two crazy gals.
    But attractions cannot last during droughts.

    Your highs became lows, crashes so hard,
    the forceful blows struck even me.
    I would have shared your pain,
    sat in vigil until the rain began again.
    I watched your beauty fade into a grey mass,
    thunder clouds so fierce I was sure to get wet.
    But you couldn’t wait it out,
    your tears dried upon your ashen face.
    I didn’t want us to end like this,
    our love pounded into the ground.

    As the door shuts and the footsteps die,
    rain beats against the window panes,
    begging to be let in.

    © 2014 Lori Carlson

  177. Ravyne


    I close my eyes to hear the rain, not wishing to see
    I want to know what it feels like to BE rain
    To know the sensation of falling
    Without care of direction or landing
    To be fluid — To be a part of each splash
    One of multitudes of drops reaching the same puddle
    To spread out with the other droplets
    And become something greater than myself

    © 2014 Lori Carlson

  178. jojo1127

    To the End of the Earth

    To be desired so much
    just a drop of could quench a thirst
    to be admired for everlasting beauty
    to be loved endlessly
    that flows
    with ripples
    of peacefulness
    that glistens and glow
    a plenitude of supply and support
    no matter how shallow
    or deep
    or amplitude
    to be respected
    and glorified
    my essence
    will be of importance to all livelihood
    that’s how I want to be loved by you
    that’s my wish
    to the end of the earth
    to the endless flow of the waters.

  179. Janet Rice Carnahan



    No matter how it comes and goes,
    It still feels good on my toes
    Gushing in or going out
    It remains refreshing all throughout

    Water speaks softly to a poet
    Boldly to lovers who want to know it
    It is true to what I think
    Time for water now . . .

    I need a drink!

    1. k_weber

      This has a fun feel to it and I really like the visual trickling of the word “water” as it spills into the main stanzas. This is very reminiscent of a Shel Silverstein poem with it’s playfulness to the eyes and ears and the little punchline at the end that adds kind of a slight adult humor as well. This looks like it was really fun to write!

      1. Janet Rice Carnahan

        Thank you for the kind comment, k_weber! Good to know the trickling came through! I really didn’t know where it would end up once the idea, pardon the expression, spouted! :) Yes, it was fun to see where it would run to! Thanks again!

  180. rebrog

    The Outrage

    Happened so fast we didn’t realize
    as we trod the hot sand
    towards showers and cocktails,
    burdened by deckchairs and baskets,
    sun drunk, weary with leisure
    and the sound of waves beating
    the cliffs of Praia Marinha.

    Naomi stepped onto the beach
    and was, dragged, vacuumed, back
    by the undertow, Jan flung herself in
    swam, thrashed, grabbed her daughter,
    the two of them rolling flotsam,
    no up, no down, only the violent,
    sea-grip, sucking, deafening,

    they were drowning,
    until just as suddenly the sea churned back,
    released them in chest-high water
    to cough and gag, wade out, fast as they could,
    grab their bags, hurry from the waters edge
    turn, when it felt safe,
    to watch Naomi’s float-ring,
    almost invisible now.

    They reached us, shivering and tearful
    told their story over and over and still
    they couldn’t make us understand,
    this became the outrage
    not the oblivious sea
    but the fact that death held them
    and not one of us noticed.

    rebrog PAD 4/26

  181. Domino

    Clouds oppress the sky, falling down to earth.
    Wildly leaves twist, scatter, writhe in the wind.
    Animals seek cover, suspiciously
    eye the sky, hover near shelter uneasy.
    Drops come, fat and almost angry in their
    vehemence. The rain pounds, filling gutters,
    pouring from roofs, washing the sins of spring.

    Diana Terrill Clark

  182. PKP

    So many beautiful poems – am not in a time or place where I can read or comment for more than an instant – having said that a special bow to Walt – who is pouring poems – lovely liquid lyrics … all … this one’s for you kiddo – Bravo! Back later (I hope to read and comment).

  183. Janet Rice Carnahan


    My heart simply knows one thing to reach
    Bringing it a deeply truthful peaceful feeling
    To see, smell and feel the beauty of a beach
    Always creates and generate possibilities of healing

    Waves are completely mesmerizing to my eyes
    Whether pounding surf, gentle ripples or the occasional big set
    It is the comfort of the ebb and flow rhythm, I realize
    Not to mention the joy of going in and getting wet

    I cherished riding high on waves back in the day
    Keeping me afloat when life tried to weigh me down
    Just floating in between each set, feeling the water sway
    Before going home, winding my way back through town

    Since then many things shifted and changed with highs and lows of daily strife
    Yet the call to be close to water remains with me now and will throughout my life

  184. uneven steven


    Black ice
    in its obscurity
    just waiting
    for you to cross her
    and you don’t even know it –
    hang tight
    always on the edge
    or over
    its layered self
    all gravity and melt water
    weighting her down
    to destruction
    yet what would she ever be
    without them

  185. Janet Rice Carnahan


    Depth of reflection
    A call to be still, to know
    Pond gazing below

    Barefoot on a beach
    Grounds us in nature’s beauty
    Walking home in love

    Rocks by flowing streams
    Bring us a fluid healing
    Letting go an art

    Waterfalls help move
    By cleansing souls with motion
    Releasing it all

    Deep sapphire lake
    Ripples out the flow of life
    Sit still and listen

  186. Janet Rice Carnahan


    Sapphire hues catching in the sunlight, dancing bright against the sky
    Sitting out in nature among lush green trees and stream rocks, listening
    Fluid motion tumbling over the high cliffs, creating moving tapestries of water
    Liquid light shimmering, bouncing its way downward ready to pool itself into life

    Healing energy of a waterfall carries the strife of life away, sending it out to be purified
    It soothes the soul, reminding us of the art of letting go, no need to carry the heaviness of life
    The depth of water shows us the way to a deeper meaning and purpose here
    Sapphire hues catching in the sunlight, dancing bright against the sky

    The mind carries such tension and the body holds it tight within itself
    Water is natures loving reminder to let go to the flow and release for peace
    Surrendering to the beauty and gentleness of nature allows us to be free
    Sitting out in nature among lush green trees and stream rocks, listening

    Just tuning into the harmonious sounds in nature, allows us time to get calm
    It is found in the breeze of the tress, the crunch when walking in the forest
    Letting go to our senses, just taking in the easy motion of our natural world
    Fluid motion tumbling over the high cliffs, creating moving tapestries of water

    Illumination occurs in a multitude of ways as we interact with the elements
    Sunrises, sunsets, sun light appearing in and out of the sway of branches
    Mountains and valleys sustaining the brilliance of wildflowers, fragrances all their own
    Liquid light shimmering, bouncing its way downward ready to pool itself into life

  187. geetakshi

    Failed Sepia

    Shades of grey collide and expand
    into clouds embedded within a sky;
    a deep blue wave with tiny wisps
    of white, a dirty blue,
    sounds despicable save for its monotone,
    admirable only for existing;
    alive it sings its tunes
    of soulless pain,
    solitudes left behind
    on sandy shores
    littered with stones
    of colours old and new,
    and pages decomposed
    into strands of sepia
    the bright sun relinquishes
    its power to deep blue voids
    to preserve it from melting
    the fragile words,
    homeless now;
    their only preserve,
    a grain of watery sand.

    © Geetakshi Arora
    April 26, 2014

  188. novacatmando


    He missed her blooming-– 
    no longer the blush of impatiens
    the impossibly soft layers of a rose
    or the fertile power of orchids.
    She is firmed, of magnolias
    or oleander desiccating around cacti,
    parched to a trickle
    from the wealthy water lines of her youth.

  189. Joseph Harker

    Showering Together

    I fear the intersection of love and voodoo.
    When you bite loose the dead skin on my lip
    and swallow it down, I know the depths of you.
    There are so many places I could drown.
    But love lives in the bite. Sympathetic magic
    tastes of our blood rinsing each other’s mouths.
    We freshen up after our sacraments, phallic
    with every nerve awake. I pray against disaster,
    kneeling before you in the pure jazz of steam.
    The bathtub grows warm. The definition of spell:
    your sin scalding loose onto me, to claim.
    I am speechless with the white spray, lashing
    pink tile. Religion is: to drink each other in.
    Love is the same, spilled with joyful imprecision.

    1. Janet Rice Carnahan

      You bathed your words in such delicious passion, Joseph, another showering of your amazing talent! Truly a wonderful intimate poem and I loved it!

  190. dextrousdigits

    Drip system, sprinklers, hose,
    watering can, spritzers
    all provide holy, blessings
    from my hands
    to my garden farm
    which come back to my hands
    with blessings to my body.

  191. dextrousdigits

    Rivers of Tears

    It was a chilly morning
    the recently adopted stray kitten
    jumped up next to her,
    then climbed up into her lap.

    She curled up and purred softly, vibrating gently.
    Unexpectedly, tears began to flow
    sprinkling down on the surprised cat.
    Bootsie’s deep brown eyes looked up
    and held hers connecting her
    to every stray, rescued cat and dog
    that had jumped, curled up, purred and slept in her lap.
    Many buried buried tenderly in her back yard.

    She remembered each endearing quality
    the tiny 5 pound white Persian that snored so loud it would vibrate the house.
    The indoor Tabby, who saw himself as a Tiger
    and nightly around 1am found a stray sock on the floor
    captured it in his teeth and roared loudly,
    then paraded around with his prey held high.
    Yummy the Shih Tzu who would stand at the french windows
    when ever she left or came back in her car, watching waiting.

    The tears flowed into a stream, a river
    that transported her back through each beloved pet
    Amber, Lobo, Shadow, Max and many more,
    knowing she would soon be seeing them again.

  192. Jacqueline Hallenbeck


    They pour out of you like water
    but with me it’s Hide and Seek
    like mischievous sons or daughters.
    Crave no oceans, just a creek.

    They are playing Hide and Seek.
    Yes! My river has run dry.
    Crave no oceans, just a creek.
    Shall I sing them lullabies?

    Yes! My river has run dry.
    They’re mischievous sons and daughters.
    Shall I sing them lullabies?
    They pour out of you like water.

    1. James Von Hendy

      Writing is like that, isn’t it? I like the mischievousness you achieve in this poem about having no poems in you.

      On the other hand, when I see so many others here pour out multiple poems day after day, it does make one wonder about one’s own stream. At least a little.

  193. Grey_Ay

    What Are We?

    What are we, but water
    intersecting with air
    a vessel for the falling rain
    fluid through the storm.

    We are the mediation
    of two tyrants of this Earth
    where else such forces coexist
    but in the human form.

    -A. Ault-

  194. James Von Hendy

    Inspired by some of the lovely triolets I’ve seen from so many of you on other days, I thought I’d give it a try at last. Thank you all for your poems and inspirations all this month. We’re closing in. . . .

    Blue Tang

    They came from blue as dark as night,
    The blue of water drinking light,
    A solemn line of beauty bright,
    They came from blue. As dark as night,
    They flowed from darkness into sight.
    They came. From blue as dark as night,
    The blue of water. Drinking light.

      1. Janet Rice Carnahan

        Sweet poem, James. Loved the flow and dance of the words. Anything with blue, flow and light already says yes and how you put them together is stunning.

    1. James Von Hendy

      Whoops. It’s only now I realize I made a 7-line “triolet light”. Here’s the whole thing:

      Blue Tang

      They came from blue as dark as night,
      The blue of water drinking light,
      A solemn line of beauty bright,
      They came from blue. As dark as night,
      They flowed from darkness into sight,
      A liquid line of graceful flight.
      They came. From blue as dark as night,
      The blue of water. Drinking light.

  195. Walt Wojtanik


    Oh, mighty waters poured
    to honor and revere,
    cool and heal restless souls.
    Bring life; create anew and reconcile hearts.

    Strong spirits, fiery and arousing,
    seal their fates, cement broken resolves,
    ignite, protect and purify
    Hear the cries of your children enslaved.

    Wine is the bridge, it is good unification,
    libations poured to bond relations,
    creating comradry between every man, woman and spirit.
    Hear it in the lamentation, in sorrowful celebration.

    This carries much weight. Realize that to pour
    libations awakens the past; the initial step.
    Actions and works are rituals to bond your past
    to the present; your communion.

    Ancestors,you have given much for which we thank you.
    Continue to support us.
    Stability us, and clarify our spirit,
    cleansing us and protection us. We honor you.

    The purity of water takes you to your deserved rest!
    We are all blessed in the pouring of libations.

    *** “A libation is a ritual pouring of a liquid as an offering to a god or spirit or in memory of those who have died. It was common in many religions of antiquity and continues to be offered in various cultures today.”

  196. dixonlm2

    Water quenches my thirst,
    It gives me a great burst.

    Of energy and renewed life,
    And removes my inner strife.

    From my body, soul and mind,
    Offered by a hand that’s kind.

    Give me a drink of water, please.
    So I can proceed with a bit of ease.


  197. barbara_y

    Water Dragons

    With conquered oceans deepening, green water dragons hide
    in chopped Pacific trenches, anti-Himalayas,
    trick the orbit course of dry land definitions.
    They do rise in summer latitudes, to briefly ride
    the superficial hurricanes, dragon mallards, spraying
    raindrop green, wing-leather spread sedition.

    Where dry minds leave their compass rose hard-locked
    on padded ease, dragons ease the planet soul,
    sail blue synapses, sparks of dreams. Playing,
    great water bees, fill its sapphire pockets
    with their jade enormous whole.

  198. jakkels

    Waters of Life

    The mist in the morning on a cold autumn day

    Is the breath of the Earth made visiable this way 

    The Water of Life from uncountable green throats 

    It mingles with the vapor from animals and Man 

    And all contribute to the vast invisible dam 

    Floating over deserts and hills and works of Man  

    Then, when some Celestial trumpet calls 

    The sluices open up and water falls 

    Water to green the Earth and fill rivers to the brink   

    Water to create cool pools where animals drink 

    But when Man with selfish plan cuts down forests of life 

    He shifts the balance of the dam of the Waters of Life 

    Build cities cut forests and balance be damned 

    But the Earth will decide how the balance is planned.

  199. Clae


    I am water you are flame
    I bring life while you give pain
    you consume all when uncontained
    without me your flicker wanes

    You are water I am flame
    you destroy but I create
    I cleanse what you can only clean
    without me you have no steam

    We are water we are fire
    together we become inspired
    liquid boils above the heat
    transformation is complete

    We are water we are fire
    together we keep earth entire
    sun evaporation rain
    throughout all time we remain

    T. S. Gray

  200. De Jackson

    Saturation Point

    Are we not made of more
    than these liquid places –
    blood and sweat and tears
    and ink? I am spilling my
    -self in galleons and gall
    -ons, longing for something
    solid on the other side of
    this dark moon sinking.

    All my brightest scars are
    sea-shaped, waved along
    my angles like fissures
    formed of crinkled salt;
    they score my skin like
    lace. Dry your hands and
    trace their edges, braille
    your way back to shore.


  201. Clae


    I am water you are flame
    I bring life while you give pain
    you consume all when uncontained
    without me your flicker wanes

    You are water I am flame
    you destroy but I create
    I cleanse what you can only clean
    without me you have no steam

    We are water we are fire
    together we become inspired
    liquid boils above the heat
    evaporation is complete

    We are water we are fire
    together we keep earth entire
    sun evaporation rain
    throughout all time we remain

    T. S. Gray

  202. elishevasmom


    “Mythological Entities
    for a thousand, Alex.”

    “The answer is,
    ‘While often joyful spirited
    like a water sprite,
    this being can be volatile,
    insulted and easily hurt.’”

    “What is a muse?”

    “That is correct.
    You control the board.”

    Ellen Evans

  203. WritingisPainting

    I am

    I pelt down on your windowpanes
    peering at you queer things,

    I go down your throat
    giving you energy to keep going on,

    I hit the shores in anger
    and cause destruction as I vent it out,

    I sneak around your feet
    and rejoice as you laugh with me,

    I chill you to the bones,
    and you scream at me for existing,

    I then refuse to share myself with you
    as your parched mouth cries for me,

    I put out that fire you started
    may it be out there or inside you,

    I can kill you in one go
    or help you live ahead,

    I am expensive yet free
    gold-worthy, yet worthless,

    You love me in the summer
    you hate me in the winters,

    I rise as steam in the air
    I fall as rain, I flow in the sea
    I freeze myself in glacier sheets
    this is all I’ll ever be.

  204. WritingisPainting

    Everywhere you turn

    I am where you sit
    for hours
    about life’s little paths,

    I am where you stand
    and breathe in
    the freedom otherwise
    never felt,

    I am where you laugh
    and enjoy that vacation
    a place of harmony
    and no starvation,

    I am where your blood flows
    and your heart thumps
    in anticipation or
    is sent out of your system,

    I am where you come
    looking for a silent companion
    as you face the harsh waters
    of life’s occasional trials,

    I am where you
    search for the depth
    of your soul by
    looking into mine,

    I am where your
    tears come from
    and the one to
    wash it away,

    I am where you
    gasp for air as you
    end your journey with your
    final wishes drowning with me,

    I am where you live,
    where you work,
    where you ache,
    where you comfort,

    by giving you happiness
    or increasing your concern
    you’ll find me
    everywhere you turn.

  205. candy

    Ocean Dreams

    Water lures us to her side
    with the music of unknown worlds
    We rush to her call as a child
    to it’s mother’s voice
    Her tides tug at our souls
    Her anger floods our
    hopes and dreams
    We wade through her cool embrace
    We float upon her fluid body
    We come to worship, prostrate,
    on prayer rugs spread upon
    her warm sandy breast

  206. PKP

    Violin Concerto

    I sat in thundered
    silence pulse
    pounding on
    the couch as
    music shook
    the walls to
    closed my
    I sat in thundered
    silence against my
    father feeling the
    heat radiating
    as he shook his
    raven hair eyes
    closed in ectasy
    transported as was
    I by the startled
    mystic vision of
    a single shimmered
    tear tracking down
    his flushed cheek
    and knew now it
    was true the
    world was water
    waiting for the
    right notes to

    1. k_weber

      it’s not often that you see “epiglottis” in a poem :] this is such an emotive piece. all the right physical descriptions of a response to beautiful music are in place with your careful, succinct lines. i enjoyed reading this because i felt the reactions to the music and i wasn’t even there.

    1. k_weber

      Tracy – The way you controlled each line really had me going… I was envisioning a woman going into labor and then doctors/nurses/assistants/family “scrambl[ing] around” to attend to the birth. The twist in those last two lines had me laughing heartily and wickedly. Excellent poem that shows you can really do a 180 and completely dumbfound readers by changing assumptions and expectations and throwing something at them that is completely unusual, comedic and/or inappropriate :] Two thumbs up and I an scurrying out of the hot tub right now! – kristi

  207. emmaisan0wl

    The River

    nudge me to the edge, right to the edge. watch my toes hang over the water. hold my wrists. push me off the bridge. pull me back. “I saved your life.” your lips on my neck, your fingers around my wrists, your demons at my throat.


    you left bruises, so many cold bruises. nudge me right to the edge. you left bruises in the shape of boats and clouds and continents. you left bruises in the shape of battering rams. push me off the bridge. you left bruises the colour of storms. you left bruises the colour of the rushing water beneath our feet. pull me back. you left bruises the colour of your eyes when you’re tired. pull me back.


    you bit your name into my neck, you bit your demons into my throat. “I saved your life.” watch my toes hang over the water. watch my beating heart in your hands. turn away, start walking. bite your tongue. hear the soft sound of a body fall. keep walking.


    keep walking. tread bruises along my collarbones, tread rushing water all across the floors. keep walking. tread bite marks around my wrists. push me off the bridge. don’t think about the splash, don’t think about my heart in your hands. push me off the bridge. think about storms, boats, clouds, continents. think about your demons. push me off the bridge.


    pull me back. you saved my life. pull me back, pull me back, pull me back.

  208. Walt Wojtanik


    Here I stand watching the tide go out.
    There is no doubt your memory lives here, and I’m
    So all alone and blue just dreaming dreams of you,
    you linger in each moment that haunts my mind.

    I watched your ship as it sailed out to sea
    the gentle waves complicit in your departure.
    Taking all my dreams and taking all of me,
    leaving nothing but this shell of a man, unsure.

    The sighing of the waves
    sound like the sighs of you,
    The wailing of the wind
    fills my sails alone.
    The tears in my eyes burn
    and I yearn for on more look,
    Pleading, “My love, return”,
    a happy ending to our book.

    Why, oh, why must I go on like this?
    I hunger for your kiss, your breath of love.
    Shall I just be a lonely stranger on the shore?
    Darling, how I miss my angel from above.

    Why, oh, why must I go on like this?
    Return to me in bliss, and share our love again.
    Shall I just be a lonely stranger on the shore?
    Or truly a man in love to share his heart again.

    **The italicized lines are the original lyrics written by Mr. Acker Bilk for his composition “Stranger on the Shore”

    1. PKP

      Hi there … this comment may not have reached you… was just floating out there…
      so here it is again …

      So many beautiful poems – am not in a time or place where I can read or comment for more than an instant – having said that a special bow to Walt – who is pouring poems – lovely liquid lyrics … all … this one’s for you kiddo – Bravo! Back later (I hope to read and comment).

      1. Walt Wojtanik

        It is much appreciated Pearl! I found your message earlier but was unable to reply. Robert has offered some great prompts this month and has been inspiring. It has been a great month. I’m feeling my old self this April Thank you.

  209. Erynn

    This is one I wrote a few years ago. It’s one of my favorites!

    “The Mermaid”

    Do you see her bathing there
    The maiden with ivory skin
    See her comb her auburn hair
    And groom her scaly fin

    This maiden is one of fairy tales
    A creature that shouldn’t exist
    But there you see her shining scales
    As she bathes among the mist

    Mermaid, mermaid, with eyes of gold
    Lend your voice to me
    For many a sailor’s heart you hold
    Out in the deep blue sea

  210. WritingisPainting

    Acrostic poem:

    Waves swirling and dancing in the moonlight,
    Arid wilderness craving for it,
    Tranquillity in it is dispersed seldom,
    Enraging ambience rises from it occasionally,
    Reaching out to this parched world.

  211. taylor graham


    From way up there, the river
    is a silver blade hanging between cliffs,
    cutting and slicing; aftertaste of iron,
    a chill tingle in the throat, even in summer.
    Another way to tell it: Raw
    blood is water, and she sealed hers in a box
    and left it on the kitchen sink;
    walked past the brink to a quiet pool
    of disappearances.
    Your dog led you there;
    a dog could smell that water
    from a quarter mile away. Through thicket,
    down game-trails to that puddle.
    You cursed him for showing you
    where the deer drink.
    In your pack, a box of freeze-
    dried preconceptions. Just add water.
    But on the puddle’s muddy hem,
    her footprint, as if the relic of a saint.
    A little farther, her dress;
    she left it boxed between boulders.
    At the bottom of that canyon she walked
    the river in spate,
    as you might leave your canteen,
    hike the dry-bone hills and come back
    dust. Parch of faith,
    water of life. Does this make
    either of you a saint? I couldn’t tell you.

  212. Michelle Hed

    Nature’s Peace Offering (A Curtal Sonnet)

    Your movement inspires grace and peace,
    your curves and arches resplendent
    in colored beauty, you fall like the waves
    of a woman’s hair upon earth’s face –
    curvy, straight or cascading in falling force
    leaving moving beauty marks which time can’t mask.

    The sweet and varied sounds you make, sings me
    to sleep like the softest mother’s lullaby
    your harmony and melodies so natural
    you soothe the contrariness right out of me.
    Water, life and peace.

  213. Julieann

    Circle of Life

    Life begins in a safe cocoon
    Floating in a viscous amniotic fluid
    From which we emerge into a dry world
    Looking to regain that feeling
    Of safety and life
    We learn to swim and know
    That water is our friend
    We love pirate stories
    And treasure ships
    Seeking buried treasure
    On some distant deserted isle
    We walk the shores searching —
    For what? Shells? The meaning
    Of life itself?
    Without the life giving fluid
    We dehydrate and float away
    To another dimension
    And with too much water
    We drown, as life is washed away
    And so it goes from birth to death
    And we hope, we dream
    We pray that someone, somewhere
    Will bury us at sea – it’s not from
    Ashes to ashes and dust to dust
    We come and go
    But from the watery birth
    To the watery grave

  214. PKP

    Sea of Tears

    Like Alice
    at times
    temptation taunts
    to swim in a sea
    of my own wept
    tears – most others
    I simply float beyond
    the tears and save the
    swim for sunshined
    aquamarine waters
    gentling my soul

  215. pamelaraw

    Morning Shower

    I stand below the nozzle’s rush,
    feel jet blasts of drops flow
    down my back like a hot avalanche,
    cascade over mounds of flesh
    hugging grumpy bones and sleepy
    knees. I don’t know how
    climbers and campers, sailors
    and soldiers go for weeks without
    a way to rinse everything clean—
    the debris of bad dreams, salt
    stains of fear, the dirty remnants
    of loneliness—to send those soapy
    dark dregs down the drain.

  216. Linda Goin

    Wicked Waters
    Ego non baptizo te in nomine patris,
    sed in nomine diaboli!”

    — Herman Melville, Moby Dick

    This river is feckless,
    the way it sucks sins
    from ceremony, slugs
    that detritus downstream,
    with a gula so grand
    it overflows, impregnating
    homes with little pagans
    and catachumens.

    I build estates with stones
    that brim with pride,
    eat fish with forked tongues,
    swim in wrath, and envy the sky’s
    faculty to float. I lust
    after warm, and discourage
    anyone who swallows simply
    to quell thirst. I dream
    of rheum running rich
    with estrogen, feminizing
    the entire vocabulary.

    “Oh my, mama, she’s at it
    again, preaching obliquely
    about holier water…”
    That’s right, babbling baby,
    pay your tithes to attention,
    a thing so rare with fines
    too deep for anyone who believes
    she can keep her head above.

    1. TomNeal

      Figlia del tuo figlio

      This is a difficult poem- difficult is a compliment. I think it merits close reading. I’ll come back to it later today. In some ways it seems an inverted The Dry Salvages, but . . .

      1. Linda Goin

        …but, the critics were harsh on that third poem in his quartet (remember that mine is a draft! ha!). Plus, I wish I had thought of invoking Krishna. I’ve been told often that I’m oblique…so I’m poking fun at myself as well as trying to remember the seven sins.

      2. TomNeal

        Just for fun:
        ‘eat fish with forked tongues’

        Paraphrased: Eat Christians (ichthus) who lie

        Even as the river diaboli snakes its way through the world, the flesh, and the devil,
        and passes through the 7 deadly sins and related temptations, it purifies the Church by destroying that which has become corrupt, and here the text would seem to revel in its “preaching obliquely”– as it also does with envy (discussion for another day).

        This message is ‘too deep for anyone who believes,’ and especially the one who believes ‘she can keep her head above.’ Belief in ‘self’ is, thus, smacked down.

        The ‘feckless’ river it seems is a disposal system, that unconsciously serves a higher purpose.

        There are, of course, many other readings.

        1. Linda Goin

          You are SO much fun. Sometimes I can miss my own meanings, but you’re pretty spot on. Oh — don’t forget the brim and stone. And, thank you so much for the time you spend with my worlds/words. I’m quite honored. =)

  217. Walt Wojtanik


    Walking, evening fall.
    Waves softly licking the sand,
    retreating only to return for another
    taste. A lake, tranquil; serene
    reflecting in glints of moonlight
    right in the view of Venus.
    The gentle lady reaches,
    distance not a concern.
    He yearns for the connection,
    and intersection of souls.
    Sniffing the lake into his lungs
    allowing every breath to mimic
    its aroma. Faceless, but never
    heart less, two unknown
    to each other, cling
    to each other. On the shore
    to remain strangers no more!

  218. jclenhardt

    Artesian Wells

    He says, he’s drowning,
    but why should I
    throw life rings?
    He says, he’s never
    seen water so wet,
    so green, so inviting,
    and so he asks me,
    while sputtering
    to stay afloat
    up top the surface,
    where it was it came from?
    and so calmly, I say,
    “from a glacier melt,
    some 1000 years before,
    where it rolled itself
    down half the side
    of the earth
    to pool itself in an
    artesian well
    my mother drank from,
    some thirty odd years ago.”

    And so it seems
    he’s got it now,
    and kicks around
    in circles
    doing back strokes,
    then asks me to watch,
    and as he does
    a somersault,
    I roll my eyes
    to find,
    he dives beneath
    the surface
    from the turbulence
    I’ve caused,
    and as I wait,
    I watch, I wonder,
    how long it is,
    he can hold his breath?
    until I hear his footsteps
    between my ears.

  219. Taylor Emily Copeland

    Upon returning to the ocean

    After months of cabin fever,
    holed up from the winter’s chill
    and years removed from the long
    drive from Pennsylvanian suburbia
    to the Jersey shore, I will have
    no choice but to leave my flip
    flops behind in the clutter of my
    backseat, grab only a towel and
    a small cooler and rush the white
    hot sands as they burn the bottoms
    of my tender feet. I will drop
    everything into the indents of the
    others, kids and their parents
    walking around, throwing frisbees,
    building sand castles, adjust my
    swimsuit, which feels more snug than
    it should and walk straight into
    the water, letting it surround my
    pale skin, dip my head beneath the
    greenish brown water and ignore the
    seaweed, swim past the children
    splashing each other and the surfers
    looking for a long gone wave.
    I might just keep going, leave
    behind the shirtless men, some
    browned by the sun and chiseled,
    some with pregnant bellies filled
    with pretzels and cheeseburgers,
    and leave only these words behind.

  220. Espen Stenersrod

    Day 26
    Journey through limbo

    Lifted into weightlessness
    With clear view
    No smell or taste
    Only emotions that sparkle
    In total darkness
    Illuminated by your own being
    An astral power shooting through
    Limb by limb
    As limbo appears as a paradise itself
    Can only reflect the range of colors
    No objects
    Everything is consciousness
    Vibrational state
    Ascending in stages
    Towards a new black hole
    Never felt so alive
    While being alive

    A gasp
    One last noise

    Pitch black


  221. Connie Peters


    Words can be a nurturing well
    A fountain of youth
    A downpour in the desert
    A flood gate of truth

    Words can flow like a river
    A home to some creatures
    Or a thunderous waterfall
    With eye-catching features

    But words can drown a person
    Or flood a great city
    Words can wound and destroy
    Which is a great pity

    May the words you write
    Be the life-giving kind
    Giving hope to the hopeless
    And sight to the blind

  222. lina

    Salt Water

    As a boy, my father caught
    fish with his hands
    at the edge of the sea,
    The water was full then.
    Crabs floated on the waves.
    Sea urchins stuck to rocks.
    Dolphins trailed fishing boats
    in the morning.
    It was almost enough
    to live on.
    But the water was cold
    and the beach dropped off
    When he swam,
    swift currents pulled
    toward a stone outcropping.
    If not for the salt buoying him,
    he might not have
    gotten away.

  223. DanielR

    When I was a child of maybe five
    before or since I never felt more alive
    than when the Big Top came to town
    and I met Sparkles, my favorite clown
    powdered white with a honking nose
    a rainbow of polka dots on his clothes
    merriment danced within his eyes
    around every corner lay a surprise
    laughter filled the tent that day
    when with his flower he did spray
    me with water until I was wet
    a funnier clown I never met

    Daniel Roessler

  224. Connie Peters

    The River

    A river flows within my heart today,
    life-giving, bubbling, rushing through with bliss.
    It carries off debris that comes my way,
    and tastes much sweeter than a lover’s kiss.
    It grows much deeper with each time I pray.

  225. Connie Peters

    Funeral of a Fiend

    The man with the collar
    gathers mourners
    with lightning green eyes.

    In a thunderous voice,
    he soaks them with platitudes
    and idealistic images of the dead.

    He holds up the deceased
    as a poster child
    for all that is noble.

    Disdain lies dormant,
    an underground hot spring.
    Grieving conceals grins.

    The family scatters,
    secretly rejoicing,
    their tears, a spring rain.

  226. Walt Wojtanik


    The fluidity of life, languid,
    liquid, ebbing and flowing,
    showing your reflection.
    The attraction has its allure,
    and you’re sure things are sailing
    along, You feel strong.
    You feel you belong afloat
    on a tranquil lake. But eventually
    the winds whip up and toss
    your sails; it wails and you take on
    water. You ought to head for shore,
    but you’re more concerned
    with completing your journey.
    Safe harbors are great for most,
    but you seek your comfort level.
    No devil or high water will deter you.
    Shaking your fist, you sail onward.

  227. Mama Zen

    The Jester

    I tend to joke when I’m drowning
    and welcome the work of the water.
    I’m the daughter
    you never taught to swim.
    I make comedy of salt sting,
    and I grin –
    moss in my teeth.

    Kelli Simpson

  228. Deborah Hare

    Thirsty Children

    We are admonished
    to teach the children
    and we do our best.
    they reach the water’s edge
    but it is only You, Dear Lord
    who can make them thirsty.

  229. Walt Wojtanik


    There’s no beating the heat,
    it comes replete with perspiration
    as your inspiration. Arid and dry,
    tricking your eye to see the sea
    of trouble you’re in for if your
    thirst is not quenched, not
    to mention the tension of visions
    you can not explain. It looks like it rained,
    a respite with puddles, an oasis
    of all places. Running in a sprint,
    the glint off of the water wins out.
    You lower your mouth for the sip you seek…
    you’ll be spitting up that sand for a week.

  230. Monique

    Canticle of the Rain

    Rain falls onto my roof
    The lightning flashes
    The thunder roars in the distance
    But the rain itself is quiet.
    As if it wants me to listen
    At first I feared the storms
    The howling winds and booming thunder
    But this storm is softer
    I am aware of its presence
    But I feel no fear in my heart
    Instead I close my eyes
    And long to hear the rain
    Because I realized that rainstorms are a gift
    And that for every day of sunshine
    there is one for rain as well

  231. Phil Boiarski

    One Hydrogen, Two Oxygen

    Sealed inside this skin of air,
    the snow globe we live in,
    is so finite. All the water
    on our small blue ball,
    sealed inside one atmosphere.
    This rain runs to the stream
    which runs to the river
    that runs to the ocean,
    mother of all clouds.
    Water drops down,
    evaporates and falls again.
    all the water, we will ever
    have, brought to us
    millennia ago,
    pure as the snow.

  232. annell

    The Story of My Life
    What is it but perception
    No more or no less than
    What I think it is
    I count the days
    Squeeze out the paint
    The years go by
    It all happens so quickly

    Over before I have even
    Figured out the order of things
    Leave the door open
    Welcome the stranger
    You have seen him
    Many times on the road
    You dream the future
    But it isn’t yours to control

    The future seeks it’s own
    Like water in a stream
    As time passes
    I am fading
    Becoming a ghost in the
    Story that is my life
    Never complete
    Just reaching a conclusion

    I whisper my goodbyes
    Not really audible on my lips
    Written on small sheets of white paper
    Folded carefully
    Like small white shells
    Scattered on a beach
    Left for shell seekers to find

    Note: I am home from my trip…still a little dizzy, it takes a while to slip back into myself, find the place where I left off, continue my life.

  233. dianemdavis

    A SIP OF WATER (Berlin 1945)

    My father was a good doctor.
    He had a star on his door, a sign
    from the king of Prussia
    that he was a great assistance
    to the population.
    But during the war
    Papa assisted in a different way.

    Those who were given notice
    of going to the camps,
    or about to be caught for crimes
    against the state, sought a way out.

    It was simple, really.
    They would climb into bed
    and in the morning
    Papa would pronounce them dead.
    My job was to sit through the night
    and watch
    that they didn’t throw up the medicine.

    Sometimes they would wake
    and call out.
    It wouldn’t be for much,
    just a sip of water, or a story
    or a song to ease them back to their dreams.
    But most nights
    they just went to sleep.

    Now my father is gone,
    and I don’t have medicine
    to relieve the pain of those
    violated by the Russians.
    But accidents happen.
    And in those first few weeks
    after the war
    there were hundreds and thousands
    of accidents
    in Berlin.

      1. gmagrady

        Completely moved by this piece, I used the “poem a day search tool” to find your other poems. If it’s not already in the works, you surely have a Berlin book waiting to happen. Amazing images, all, raw and sad and told so eloquently.

  234. Walt Wojtanik


    Chocolate Labrador with striking eyes,
    yelps and cries at the sound of freedom.
    Fireworks alerting, unnerving
    sending Buddy scurrying.
    Hurrying past the pool skittering
    on the wet pavement sliding
    in full stride into the water
    paddling to the other side to hide
    in his kennel. Sneaking peeks
    when the lull echoes. Venturing
    bravely past the deck chairs
    to be startled again by a barrage
    sending him back for another swim.

  235. Walt Wojtanik


    the sea birds celebrate
    waiting their tern to swoop and soar.
    Amidst the ROAR of the water’s CRASH,
    LOUDLY ROLLING, extolling a bright
    Summer’s day. Symphonic and euphonious,
    raucous and cacophonous. Children at play
    SCREAM and YELL above the swell.
    dead fish in the sand. They stand
    near the overturned row boat.
    Lifeguard SHOUTING instruction;
    a sand castle’s DESTRUCTION;
    of a older boy BEATING his chest
    doing his best to antagonize
    a younger brother in tears.
    Steam ship WHISTLES in the distance
    a DRONE in insistence. MUFFLED
    waves in a FRENZY; the RUSTLING of umbrellas
    FLAPPING while you’re napping.
    You yearn for these times that remind you
    that it’s more than the sights that entice,
    the sounds are as appreciated,
    a summer’s day elongated, loudly
    anticipated, this day at the beach!

  236. TomNeal

    Alexander’s Gift
    (A psalm of Thessalonike)

    The mist on the water turns pink gray,
    And from the deep I hear mermaids singing,
    ‘Thessalonike, Thessalonike,
    It is time, come home to the sweet sea bed,
    It is time, come home to the sweet sea bed.’

    And, I know that Alexander is dead,
    I know that my brother the king is dead.

    It was he who washed my hair in that Spring:
    In the waters of immortality.
    In the waters of immortality,
    It was he who washed my head that spring.

    And now I survive my brother the king,
    My brother, he is free in Elysium,
    He conquered the world and gained his release,
    And I must eternally grieve on earth,
    I must grieve on earth as it is not heaven,
    And with the Mer on earth under the sea
    Live and accept my immortality,
    On earth as it is not in heaven.

      1. TomNeal


        You are a true poet, and your poetry speaks/shouts truth. I am flattered that you find something worthwhile in what I have posted. Poetry and music matter.

        Holy dang,


  237. Mark Danowsky

    This Is Not Water

    Again, I think about Wallace
    saying he was drawn to Carver.
    I thought I misheard him
    say he loved
    Where Water Comes Together With Other Water
    but really I think it was
    So Much Water So Close To Home.
    He could have been talking about poetry
    since Wallace said he read poetry
    for joy. He said he could do this
    because it was non-competitive
    or maybe non-confrontational.
    Consider how bowled over he was
    and to what length he said he would go
    to promote the poetry of Jon Davis.
    I don’t think poets think the same way
    about fiction. When I read fiction
    fiction throws me off my game.
    Emerson could explain it better.
    The point is water is in all of us.
    Maybe that’s the secret to
    Wallace’s famous commencement speech.
    But forget about water.
    Wait, don’t. It’s just that
    this is not water.
    I am no Wallace.
    You would be better off
    reading or rereading
    This is Water.

  238. grcran

    hard carving

    in consideration of
    canyons cut from solid rock
    and tears streaming down my face
    the question is
    does water have

    by gpr crane

  239. writinglife16

    Blue Tides

    Sad to say
    The phrase “Roll Tide Roll”
    escaped me.
    I was confused.
    Of course, tides go in and out.
    I just yelled “Go Blue.”

    Note: I had a little fun with this prompt. This is my nod to college football and water.
    No offense intended to UA fans.

  240. Walt Wojtanik


    I come to this shore daily.
    This gaily appointed place
    shall remember my face
    as another fool who took control
    of his metered soul.
    The prizes that catch my eye
    are striking, and hiking
    amongst this finery astounds.
    Sifting through the sands
    that time has placed to hide
    the treasures of words held sacred,
    placates my heart. I start to find
    the sheer beauty presented
    as pearls of wisdom and poetic
    perfection. Uncovering shells,
    each differently opulent,
    and sent to this place to grace
    my shore. We’ve come together
    to gather to our hearts, words
    of a soulful bent. Sharing the emotion
    of these caring hearts left to carry on
    until loving waters cast them asunder.
    It’s no wonder I collect poems in the
    beautiful iridescence of their expression;
    I come to this shore daily

  241. lshannon

    ummm ok, here is the proper one…

    My Ocean Lover

    All your colors and shades
    green, gray, black, brown
    and oh so blue,

    All your moods, violent,
    gentle, mesmerizing, me,
    and oh so zen.

    Your denizens,
    small, large, harmless
    and so totally toxic.

    Your inspiration
    bringing the world to your shores
    and beckons us over and over

    Calling us to leave,
    to discover, to push ourselves
    and all our boundaries.

    From large ships
    canvas and wood, to rafts of twig
    and logs lashed,

    You compel us
    make us dream and bring
    us home to your 70%

    Tears, and blood,
    salt flats flavor the fish
    caught and eaten under

    far away skies,
    the blackest of canopies.
    Pierced with the most perfect stars.

    But your sound is the voice
    slipping over sand
    crashing on ragged coast

    It is this song, the symphony
    that brings me home to you.
    and oh so complete we become.

  242. Walt Wojtanik


    We had touched the water at the same time,
    a brief respite from the toils of the day.
    Relaxing, soothing as a rinse cycle to clear
    the stench of failure from your tired soul.
    Your eyes have been closed to your fate
    but it’s not too late to make restitution.
    Your solution is waiting to be implemented;
    you were sent here for a reason or a season,
    but this lifetime is a finite situation,
    and for all of your soul searching
    you discover you weren’t really a bad guy,
    you just weren’t cut out to be a player,
    Marco Polo!

  243. lshannon

    My Ocean Lover

    All your colors and shades
    green, gray, black, brown
    and oh so blue,

    All your moods, violent,
    gentle, mesmarizing, me,
    and oh so zen.

    Your deizens,
    small, large, harmless
    and so totally toxic.

    Your inspiration
    bringing the world to your shores
    and becons us over and over

    Calling us to leave,
    to discover, to push ourselves
    and all our boundaries.

    From large ships
    cavaas and wood, to rafts of twig
    and logs lashed,

    You compell us
    make us dream and bring
    us home to your 70%

    Tears, and blood,
    salt flats flavor the fish
    caught and eaten under

    far away skies,
    the blackest of canopies.
    Pierced with the most perfect stars.

    But your sound is the voice
    slippng over sand
    crashing on ragged coast

    It is this song, the symphony
    that brings me home to you.
    and oh so complete we become.

  244. JanetRuth

    Living Water…

    We weigh our will with wanting
    And weep that we are cursed
    With intransigent taunting
    Of begging, bleeding thirst

    We stuff our cheeks and plunder
    Earth’s bread-crumb luxuries
    While groaning as we wonder
    What will this thirst appease?

    Our pockets bulge with bondage
    The well of transient bliss
    Lures us, like eager children
    To drink its emptiness

    We clamor for sweet nectar
    To quaff our guilt and greed
    Is there nothing but water
    To fill this mouth of need?

    Will we, for all existence
    Be damned to drink in vain?
    The hollow of resistance
    Our perpetual pain?

    Hark; hope pours from Love’s fountain
    Spoken to sinners first
    Pure, precious words of Promise
    To satisfy our thirst

    ‘I give you Living Water,
    A Well-spring from within
    And everyone who drinks from it
    Will never thirst again’

  245. anneemcwilliams

    (after Toi Derricotte)

    What was there is there in a different way:
    Not the crammed possessions running up the walls of every room
    Not the groaning table full of food, its message written in women’s language
    No, not the memories, the twig porch bench made by a man long dead
    The scents and atmosphere of immigrants settled on used goods
    (Too good for the dump, too poor to buy new), not the grandmother
    Who had been born out of wedlock and left behind
    Who had been given a simple life by her mother’s mother
    Who hid her own background
    Not the garden, not the root cellar full of canned goods
    Not the sparkling wavey-glassed windows of the 1800’s cabin
    You would be surprised at how productive she was
    Not the pump by the back door, or the privvy, or the outdoor brick oven
    All that is gone
    Not the tight-lipped private, self-possessed meanly peculiar woman
    Not the hands that quilted and crocheted and made a dollar squeal
    Not the face that has become mine
    Not the undercurrent of missing
    Not the love holding back
    Not the first-water of survival

    first draft 04/26/2014

    Mischling: was the German term used during the Third Reich to denote persons deemed to have both Aryan and Jewish ancestry

    first water: means “highest quality” and is a term which originates from the gemstone trade. The clarity of diamonds is assessed by their translucence; the more like water, the higher the quality.

    1. anneemcwilliams

      2nd draft

      (after Toi Derricotte)

      What was there is there in a different way:
      Not the crammed possessions running up the walls of every room
      Not the groaning table full of food, its message written in women’s words
      No, not the memories, the twig porch bench made by her long dead man
      Not the scents and atmosphere of immigrants settled on used goods
      (Too good for the dump, too poor to buy new), not the grandmother
      Who had been born out of wedlock and left behind
      Who had a simple life with her mother’s mother,
      Who hid her own background
      Not the garden, not the root cellar full of canning
      Not the sparkling wavey-glassed windows of the old cabin
      Not the daily toil:
      Not the pump by the back door, or the privvy, or the outdoor brick oven
      Not the tight-lipped private, self-possessed meanly-peculiar woman
      Not the hands that quilted and crocheted and made a dollar squeal
      All that is gone but
      Not the face that has become mine
      Not the undercurrent of missing
      Not the love holding back
      Not the first-water of survival

      1. anneemcwilliams

        3rd draft
        (after Toi Derricotte)

        What was there is there in a different way:
        Not the crammed possessions running up the walls of every room
        Not the groaning table full of food, its message written in women’s words
        No, not the memories, the twig porch bench made by her long dead man
        Not the scents and atmosphere of immigrants settled on used goods
        (Too good for the dump, too poor to buy new), not the grandmother
        Who had been born out of wedlock and left behind
        Who had a simple life with her mother’s mother,
        Who hid her own background
        Not the garden, not the root cellar full of canning
        Not the sparkling wavey-glassed windows of the old cabin
        Not the daily toil:
        Not the pump by the back door, or the privvy, or the outdoor brick oven
        Not the tight-lipped private, self-possessed meanly-peculiar woman
        Not the hands that quilted and crocheted and made a dollar squeal
        Not the love holding back
        All that is gone but
        Not the undercurrent of missing
        Not the will for survival
        Not the face that has become mine

  246. Margot Suydam

    We Are All Looking

    For water. Thirsty if not parched
    we watch the water-logged sky
    pass us by. We keep what’s far
    from reach close enough to edge
    out its tactile memory: painful
    pinches we would never forget

    even as the single drops rain on
    like short moments of massage.
    And what if the clouds opened?
    Could we all remain unscathed
    relish the damp?

  247. DanielR

    We spoke of many things last December
    How you needed your space, time to yourself
    Your eyes no longer laughed, your smile absent
    Birds, angels, and butterflies all have wings
    So why not you? A chance to find yourself
    But when your thirst for freedom goes unquenched
    What next? The answer lies in damp darkness
    And my eyes water with your memory

    Daniel Roessler

  248. DanielR

    My eyes were full
    with the splendor of
    water bending over
    smooth, polished rocks
    etching out its own path
    free falling eighty feet
    in sheets of white
    landing below in pools
    deep with jade hues
    seeping over the edges
    and trickling onward
    I longed to go along
    on that very journey.

    Daniel Roessler

  249. LeeAnne Ellyett

    Splash of Colour

    The Magestic St. Lawrence River,
    To watch it quiver,
    From season to season,
    With greater reason,

    A kaleidoscope of colour,
    In winter duller,
    Dark and grey,
    Thick white ice stays,

    Spring melts away,
    Fresh blue water fills the bay,
    Geese come home to play,
    Seagulls hunt for prey,

    Summer, in it’s glory,
    Softly flowing, telling a story,
    Sunshine dancing on the surface,
    Like sparkling diamonds with purpose,

    Fall, leaves brilliant red,
    Sky’s dark with dread,
    Our feathered friends fled,
    Stormy weather, whitecaps ahead.

  250. cindikenn

    Water is Life

    One day in the desert, it rained.

    Sky heavy with puddle making,
    skin drenching, chill producing wet.
    Heaven opened flood gates, tears on
    my warm, sandy desert beach wet.

    No storm water system meant pool
    sized puddles; shoes, socks, jeans, undies
    soaked. Hair plastered to Christian heads,
    while locals cheerfully strolled the

    boardwalk beneath my balcony.
    Women in hijab, abaya,
    walked together in twos and threes
    behind happy men wearing thobes;

    a gratitude parade. The rain
    came down and down and down and down.
    Isn’t the weather amazing?
    She raised beaming face, arms outstretched,

    allowed streaming mist to caress
    black scarf and dance upon black robe.
    We prayed for it, she said and sighed.
    Water is the essence of life.

    My hair matted, jeans sagged, sneakers
    squeaked, clothes soaked. I shook my head and
    my life showered to the pavement.
    Perspective is everything.

    Disclaimer: parts of this piece were previously published in a different format at http://bobandcindi.kennaley.com/2013/01/cold-and-wet-in-doha.html

  251. Kimmy Sophia

    Dirty laundry needs to soak
    aquifirs serve pine and oak
    wild herds seek a water hole
    domestic pets their water bowl.
    Droughts cause mass evaporation
    rains bring relief and re-hydration,
    when the fields and farms
    cracked and dry
    folks pray for rain so crops won’t die.
    Jesus turned water into wine
    because to thirst is human,
    to quench, divine.

  252. dsborden

    by D. S. Borden

    clings to
    an underside,
    as a pearl
    in the shadow
    of a shell

    This desert,
    preserved in time
    holds me still

    I dare not blink
    for fear my eyes
    will shatter
    or exhale
    for fear this fragile
    land will
    dissolve into the wind

    and I would
    be left

  253. dhaivid3

    Poem title: Try, then Surmount

    It courses through my fingers
    Limbs flailing here and there
    No structure;
    Breath caught, loud ringing in my ears!
    Panic strokes the arteries,
    Veins bulge in reply.
    From the soul a cry emanates
    From the lips a loud scream – but wait –


    Alas, The Skill is found
    The Master’s voice the sound that carries the novice across the abyss of inexperience till he becomes
    The champion swimmer
    And the lesson is over.

    (I unashamedly dedicate this to Michael Phelps, lovely boy (I am 5 years older, so yeah, boy) that he is.)

  254. pomodoro


    My mother lies with unblinking eyes,
    her backed-up plumbing a harsh betrayal,
    mouth open as if to speak,
    a knot of air tense between us.
    With eyes pearled cold, she stares at the open closet.
    Satin, taffeta, and flounces of organdy
    roost above the fabric of hospice care,
    like flamboyant birds on a wire.
    A thin white sheet covers the unnatural splay of bare feet
    that danced out the disappointment to exhaustion.
    The room is empty tonight. I read
    poems, poems, poems
    as if one poem makes a difference over the other
    and the reading itself is important to the cause.
    I kneel like a thief and
    wear the sheen of the spared.

  255. mzanemcclellan

    Just Enough You
    Sometimes I just want to curl up
    when I can’t get enough of you,
    and parts of me start to transform.
    As my mouth turns into cotton,
    eyes start to feel like sandpaper,
    and my skin, like ash, flakes away,
    to wither away from this world.
    What if I got too much of you?
    Too quickly, would my brain explode?
    Or drown within an inch of you.
    If swept up in your suddenness,
    then dragged out far from stable ground
    Could I tread or swim long enough
    to not be swallowed by your force,
    so quiet, so deep, insistent?
    You gather me into your depths,
    I know I can’t live without you.
    If I ever get too much you,
    I will swim in and drink of you,
    until there is just enough you
    to float inside and out, to be,
    a fluid part of each other.

  256. Roderick Bates

    We are of water, but we are not water

    by Roderick Bates

    Shorter days, weaker sun, begin the slowing down.
    Smaller creatures crawl under, burrow into, take their rest.
    And water itself slows as it nears the change to solid—
    molecules jostle each other, push apart, until Hey Presto!
    ice forms and they all stand apart, all take more space.

    And yet we, mostly water ourselves, take another course.
    Months of sunny languor, naps in the shade, give over
    to brisk hustle as we chop wood, hunt deer, harvest
    our crops of potatoes, corn, squash, baskets of basil.
    And at the Solstice we do not expand, move more apart —
    we come together. We fill our rooms with friends and fire
    and talk; we welcome the stranger to our hearth and table.

    Even when we are outside, in the snow, on the ice,
    we huddle, and even our shivering is a faster, closer thing.
    We hold the promise of all water, that in time
    it will once again loosen, and move, and flow.

  257. Gwyvian

    Impressionist’s canvas

    I am fading to impressionist, loosely gathered
    splashes that seemingly have little connection—
    but if I squint in the mirror, it all seems
    to form a picture of sorts – then again, I may be just
    deluding myself, maybe I am just a bit of
    crumbling leaf floating atop a murky puddle, worth
    no more than a grimace as someone steps in me
    unawares – after which I cling hopelessly to a sole, an
    irritant eventually to be ground beyond recognition—
    a bucket of icy rain ran down my spine as I swam in
    thought: exactly what I needed to fan the flames of my
    existential crisis in elementally sublime irony;
    but whether or not heat gushed in me, I gathered into
    something more wholesome – in direction, at least—
    and asserted myself in more than a couple of
    dimensions short of credibility—
    I have that ability, inflating into something almost
    like everyone else, though I think my veins
    are hollow, and my blood as thin as life’s breath:
    I am barely there, and have very little substance;
    what I am is a complacent dove waiting for crumbs,
    certain in my knowledge that soon or late, they
    will begin to fall – only, I await the cleansing rain,
    to wash away the stains and relieve me of the taint
    of touching on existence in such a shallow way, as
    sometimes I do when I get a splash in the face; but I know
    that I am a mere blot of paint, accidentally wandered onto
    the canvas of a masterpiece, with emotion leaping
    from painted eyes, heart’s sent fluttering at
    the edges of their smiles, the trees seeming to rustle,
    ponds to send ripples that spread from water to grass—
    compared to all that, I am a crude little splash;
    yet, whatever my inexpert artist chooses to name me once
    I am decorating a once-bleak stretch of space complete,
    I am sure that with another color or two bleeding together
    in that cleansing water to wash the indelicate brushes, my
    murky substance may coalesce into something unique:
    the more you add, the less I reveal, turning black to hide
    what everyone keeps trying to highlight in my
    imperfect swirls and lack of general direction—
    perhaps I won’t stay an impressionist creation, and have more
    solid foundations to reveal and conceal my meanings as
    I choose, but I begin to see the truth of my making… and that
    is that my life is at the sufferance of something far more basic,
    far more primal than an artist’s whims: I am parched paint
    clinging firmly to my meager substance – but easily washed
    away to nonexistence, by a mere touch… of murky waters.

    April 26, 2014

    By: Lucy K. Melocco

  258. Sasha A. Palmer

    Happy Saturday. A “water haiku” added. 26 prompts, 26 haiku.

    beyond the welkin
    a sleepy angel awakes
    off to work wings brushed

    the commute is quick
    one giant leap for mankind
    for angel one step

    the task is simple
    persuade men to be happy
    that’s what angels do

    since the creation
    happiness has been men’s foe
    men prefer ruin

    men long for passion
    harmony unsettles them
    men would rather burn

    men inhale cities
    drink beneath the rural moon
    on the airplane wings

    ever amateur
    created in God’s image
    hopelessly human

    torment their lovers
    dance themselves to destruction
    ever lonely men

    finding no refuge
    men cry when they see the Pope
    vagabond pilgrims

    empires rise and fall
    look back foresee the future
    humans do not change

    men bend their beliefs
    divide sex and sentiment
    still believe in love

    strolls through central park
    wild quarrels starting over
    beautiful and damned

    men battle their beasts
    walk along the precipice
    all the sad young men

    if i were God i
    dancers and storytellers
    always reasoning

    love is all there is
    still men crave bitter in sweet
    never satisfied

    men beat on borne back
    ceaselessly into the past
    silent tombstones speak

    lost generation
    paradigmatic writings
    jazz age any age

    winter dreams wear off
    the prickly dust of late spring
    freshness of lilacs

    pink floating dresses
    pink babies in pink bonnets
    it all starts anew

    a tight fellowship
    flappers and philosophers
    a curious case

    men tamper with faith
    yet at the end of the day
    all want to come home

    men want to repent
    quit the Godless dirty games
    men want to be loved

    life crackles like ice
    on this side of paradise
    faith is difficult

    tell it to the One
    He advocates for all men
    He knows about faith

    when everything fails
    when Babylon walls crumple
    He will raise you up

    when your soul is dry
    when you walk in wilderness
    He will clench your thirst

  259. carolemt87

    Rain Cloud

    Sweet popcorn cloud
    like a giggling playground tease
    swinging high and just out of reach
    flashing a frilly white petticoat
    under a soft blue skirt.

    I smell your blood
    boiling as you grow
    hovering so close that
    I can almost taste that honey
    rumbling under the summer sun.
    You wink and run away
    from my dry grass and fields
    crackling in the July dust.

    As you rub my nose
    with a cool wind
    I watch while you drop
    your precious cargo
    on someone else’s corn.

    Carol J Carpenter

  260. Quaker

    My Job: Repairing Cocytus, “the River of Wailing” in Hades

    I hear the river lamenting the earth’s slow death,
    every drop now poisoned, now slick with oil,
    garbage floats and the river burns eternally.

    Some say this is a dream, but this is not pleasant.
    The river is sludge made of politician lies.
    This is a boat of suffering and I must witness pain.

    Some know this is a nightmare; But again not a dream.
    This is the real world, the one clearly seen.
    I have all eternity to try to cleanse each pained droplet.

  261. Jacqueline Casey

    On Ormond Beach

    Upon this beach, the people saunter by.
    Idyllic children play at water’s edge.
    The warm wind blows its foam into my eyes.
    My swimming fins sink quickly from this ledge.

    And, lo! my body, buoyed by the salt
    forgets. My mind has slipped the bony cage.
    Free floating, spiny blob, I’m fish, default,
    some centuries before from early age.

    I’m orca, playing, as a human ought.
    Suspended, I am Pisces lost to shore.
    Steered by my fins, my eyes, as rounded lens
    spin forth; no more aerobic carnivore!

    But suddenly old Triton blows his horn;
    I’m banished back to shore where I am born.

    1. grcran

      wow, this one is so much fun to read! the conversion to water nymph and the joy of aquatic life and the return to land… lovely rhyming, references, and a choice of words which abide by the meter in a seamless and fluid way… thanks!

  262. Linda Rhinehart Neas


    After years, parched – nearly burned up
    by lack of sustenance –
    aqua amour pours over the thirsting essence,
    soaking every molecule –
    until –
    saturation feeds the need
    to be cherished, recognized and heard.
    What was close to death,
    animates, springing forth –
    adding to the flood.

  263. JanetRuth

    Small and Mighty

    You didn’t say a word
    As I spilled wrath’s disgrace
    But the rebuke that roused my shame
    Was written on your face

    My foolhardy revolt
    For all its brash veneer
    Was silenced by the reprimand
    Of one wee, bitty tear

    © Janet Martin

  264. Benjamin Thomas


    The Sun rises
    and falls
    like the walls
    of a chest
    inspiring, exhaling
    retaining what’s best
    expanding it’s wings
    over grainy cloud

    The rain descends
    convinced it needs escape
    from the great sky-
    scraper but I’m 100%
    waterproof, slick
    in my birthday suit

    Externally impermeable
    against April’s showers
    it’s mighty flood devours
    though they bead
    all over my skin
    I’m externally impermeable
    yet permeated within

  265. kelly letky

    the degradation of thirst in the alley of progress

    infrastructures crumble cry and all the trees are lying

    i walk through your concrete garden
    stunned by lack of growth and claustrophobia becomes
    my escape

    there is no air here but you keep breathing
    wheezing teasing freezing oxygen into clink clank cubes
    lining glasses of liquid liberation

    what have you done with the flowers? even the weeds
    are afraid to breech
    your barrier of sophisticated cement

    give me your heart and i’ll plant you a memory

    give me your disease and i’ll grow you a cure

    give me your hope and i’ll bury the bones you cannot hide


    down and watch comets race a sky you cannot see
    blind yourself with light and reputation
    sit in your city white-noise silence

    i have your bird in a cage of freedom
    every morning we sing you back into existence
    though you’ll never find a single luck feather

    as you rest your bare head on a synthetic pillow

    of down

    ~Kelly Letky

  266. Gwyvian


    Swept under a current, I saw a web of silver strings
    a silken tangle to drag me deep to the muddy underworld,
    my eyes dazzled with the crystalline flux
    on the surface dwindling rapidly—
    I cannot breathe, my heart is pounding in hunger for air, and
    my head is swimming from fingers of darkness pressuring—
    yet the silk drowns my voice almost gently, forcing
    vision before my burning eyes: delicate clouds rolling
    in free gusts of whipping air, and there is so much pressure,
    squeezing essence to soak, squeezing life out of my lungs—
    as mercilessly as the current took me ‘neath, now it tosses me
    out like bones stripped of flesh from the maw of a beast,
    and I scrambled on useless knees to bank, spluttering and
    shivering uncontrollably—
    but the visions still came: the clouds were passing, and
    warm touches of rain ran down my icy face…
    and I felt the tug that swelled river and rain, with my heart
    still joined in its murky depths: droplets shivered away
    from my tossing head, splashes that wreathed me suddenly
    in a moonlight necklace, brilliance of miniatures of the cosmos—
    I felt the strange heat of fever, a delicate magnetism:
    a surge of incredible feeling – and an itching tingle of
    restlessness nestled into my bones where I cannot reach—
    I know I will have no easy dreams should I sleep, for
    that celestial being sings an ocean in me to bubble to the surface,
    and the waves will keep frothing well after she finally sets…
    she is a Goddess uncontested, a watcher to tug heartblood of
    Earth, human and sprite alike – a master puppeteer who
    unveils our truths with the tide – I am but a trickle, I understand,
    a drop in a current rushing with shattering force,
    rising steamy haze to a thundercloud that spans the sky—
    but however great or small our matrices spread into one another,
    we share the blood of silver: I am daughter of the river that
    almost drowned me, with currents hidden in blackness as surely
    as those in the sea, enigmatic landscapes molded by
    the force of personality: and I weep as freely as I cycle from joy
    to misery, as the Earth sooths itself and nurtures with her tears,
    …and I share the sprinkles of celestial essence planted in
    primordial pools of liquidity—
    we are all of that liquid moondust, and always
    will be ebbing and flowing to her lullaby, each
    a tiny ocean nestled in a drop, and our pulses
    synchronized to wax and wane with her smiles…

    April 26, 2014

    By: Lucy K. Melocco

  267. Linda Voit

    Michael’s Nickname

    Born of a word misheard,
    a circle of young boys divulging
    their middle names.

    He reveals what he shares
    with his dad’s dad –
    Walter. One boy finds it

    curious, but stays silent.
    Middle names come up again
    years later, as they are prone

    to do, and the boy recalls
    how odd Michael’s is –
    Water. Laughter drowns

    the attempt to correct.
    The name, conferred, still kicks
    three decades later.

    Linda Voit

  268. EeLas6678

    Stale Waters

    I’m weary and scrapped knees keep knocking,
    bent before the door,
    Lungs expanded-the winds keep mocking,
    visualize the shore.
    Gasp! Breathe in cold needles of reality,
    Tell me there’s more beyond what I see.
    I’m treading, treading these stale waters,
    Do I keep treading, treading these stale waters?

    These oceans I see are merely puddles in the sand,
    but I can’t stay afloat,
    Dislocated shoulder waiting for your hand,
    I grab your cloak.
    Gasp! All energy towards believing in a miracle,
    Tell me there’s restoration-the Psalms more than lyrical.
    I’m treading, treading these stale waters,
    Do I keep treading, treading these stale waters?

    I learned to swim, but never this distance,
    I learned to love, but nothing like this experience.
    Teach me who You are
    so that I no longer tread these stale waters.
    Satisfy my thirst for You
    so I no longer seek these stale waters.
    Ease my created tension and cover me in
    Fresh water.

    No longer treading, treading these stale waters,
    You no longer have to keep treading, treading these stale waters.

    -Emily Lasinsky

  269. mbenjamins

    The Calling
    Water falls and we fall with it
    The thirst cannot be quenched.
    Yearning for more, we reach out
    hoping to numb the pain,
    believing that it will cease.
    Restless, we fight to ignore the truth.
    Exhausted, but never sleeping.
    The crying never stops,
    never takes a breath.
    The pull on our mind is racing
    like an animal craving to be fed.
    The call breaks our heart
    until it is answered.

          1. mzanemcclellan

            Worked fine for me . Nicely done! I made my own video for the trailer to my poetry book. You can see it on my author page if you like.www.facebook.com/mzanemcclellan

            Thanks for your hard work on it Jaqueline. Peace. ~ Michael

  270. donaldillich

    Bags of Water

    This is what aliens will call us,
    trying hard to keep oceans inside,
    carry them around so no one expects

    they pour out when we’re punctured.
    If there’s a cut, we bandage it,
    so the tributary can’t run dry,

    so the wound won’t gain size.
    If a power tool accident occurs
    we call an ambulance to save

    the seas in our floating bodies.
    A suicide shot in the head
    is a desire to pass one river

    through another, till they burst.
    When we die we drain the waters
    of corpses so we believe the dead

    live on dry land, they can’t drown.
    In our graves, though, the rain
    soaks us through and through.

    We can’t object to its moisture.
    When it floods inside, around us,
    we remember what a body is.

  271. Benjamin Thomas


    Water is humble
    a fluid crystal beauty
    capable of gently cleansing
    and nourishing the human body

    Water is absolutely insane
    without a conscience
    frequently displaying
    hurricane moods
    and force
    fully capable
    of mass destruction

  272. Benjamin Thomas


    We are a people
    of water
    who are made
    to drink
    for it comes in
    through the mouth
    then exits out the drain
    flowing throughout
    our entire inner being
    all excess is excreted
    but what we need remains
    to fuel covert brain operations
    pump blood through our veins

  273. courageousdreamer

    Water-we gonna do about it?

    As much as we hate to admit it,
    Being bitter and twisted will achieve nothing.
    Call me cynical if you wish,
    Dare me to challenge my opinion.
    Caring won’t change the side effects of global warming either.
    But all things considered,
    We must realise that nothing lasts forever.

    In the winter,
    Our world is frozen,
    Yet we have chosen a dangerous path,
    Of wastage and pollution of our precious water.
    A life-giving substance for all,
    That dwell on this tiny planet.

    I have nothing more to add,
    Just the thought of future generations,
    Makes me depressingly sad.
    They will not be glad,
    When they can no longer go out to the sprinklers,
    Or dance in the rain,
    Hear the pitter patter on the panes of crystal glass.
    This daunting responsibility should not be inherited,
    Passed down to them,
    Nor should we give looks of disdain,
    To those who,
    At present,
    Are trying to prevent,
    This horrible fate.

    There have been so many movies,
    Public awareness campaigns,
    Yet we refrain from springing into action,
    Due to our flaws,
    The inherent human condition of greed,
    And lust for more.

    Now I know we’re not all insane people,
    And let’s not play the blame game here,
    Let’s just work together,
    Little by little,
    Build up a community of action,
    Rather than an institution of white-noise words,
    Because every drop counts,
    And what I’ve often heard is,
    ‘From little things,
    Big things grow.’

    1. TomNeal

      When they can no longer go out to the sprinklers,
      Or dance in the rain,
      Hear the pitter patter on the panes of crystal glass.

      That brings back many memories.

      I do hope that we do not sell their birthright for a pot of porridge.