Here’s the deal, poet, with cities
built by the falls of wide rivers,
these hard places where you unload
your cargo and portage the well-
worn path — life is not the flatboat
held fast by sun-rotted hemp. And
it’s not the bales of tobacco toted
by dark men naked to the waist,
glistening. Life is the river itself
pouring over the falls, dashed
to vapor on the rocks, recirculating
in mad whirls, releasing into the flow.
Close your eyes, my love, let me
tell you what I see — the mist
rising into rainbows over the plunge,
bubbles spinning past snapping turtles
sunning on logs, and the heron aloft
on sure wingbeats that slice the air
into so many shimmering inspirations.
- 87,990 hits
Tag Cloud of Limingaars poetica Audio Poem autumn beauty bird birds Buddhism cat clouds cold crow crows death depression desire dogs dream dreams fall fire flash fiction grief haiku haikus heart home kiss life light loneliness lost love love love poem lovers lust moon morning naked nature night nude ocean poem poema poet poetry poets Post by Voice rain Ray Sharp river sadness sex short poem short story skin sky sleep snow song sonnet spring stars star tattoos summer sun sunset tanka tattoo tattoos of stars time trees water wind winter
Copyright Notice© Ray Sharp and Bard of Liminga, 2008 to Present. Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without written permission of the author and web site owner is strictly prohibited. Excerpts and links may be used, provided that full and clear credit is given to Ray Sharp, Bard of Liminga and raysharp.wordpress. com with appropriate and specific direction to the original content.