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The River ("Every artist was first an amateur…")

rank, rank, rank ~ a word of multivariate meanings,
too many with hints of degrading nefariousness,
know
this
then:

the river we write upon, invites from all shores, enter!
where and when you will, let the current carry, or with
intent serious, furious paddle along side the rest of us
permanent beginners,

because each time we start to compose, all that we we
have composed before, is just loam, soil from to sprout anew,
no prior ordering survives, we begin as fumbling rank
beginners, amateurs, starting first and then over and over again
for each start
is not a statistically significant event, difference, indeed, it is clarity of challenge, search, and the joy to destroy, in order to be of finding,
it is same for one and for all,
we all are ranked, the same, first time amateurs…

so I bid you: run, get wet, welcome disasters, crumple too many
first drafts, BUT be ready when the ah ha period!
a gasp confirms: competed, satisfaction guaranteed…

it doesn’t query qualifications for quality is
yours to discern, yours to differentiate, yours to  own,
to give away freely in abundance, nor does quality be an enquirer,
doesn’t ask what are your bona fides
your good sides,  
just
to
bring and borrow,
impart and deport,
take us by surprise,
comfort and comport,
leaving behind outside a
crumb trail to make us follow
you to the coveted inside of that mystery
inner tube within that brain of yours that
roundly supports all of us ever lusting
for
just one…more




12:32 PM
Sabbath
May 25
2024

S.I.
Come nebbia,
Nebbia sparsa

Che divien acqua,
Poi torrente,
E poi per sempre

E forte e rapida e turbolenta
Cui vien la vita, la gioia, i colori

Il nostro scopo é
Ma non era niente
A translation of "Like mist", a sweet poem on existential nihilism.

I submitted this to an online contest.
Feel free to vote for 30 days.

https://dantebus.com/concorsi/opera/278379
Vitæ Apr 17
We swim inside
the balsamic moon
rippling in laughter,
from the meeting
of our bodies still
shimmering
in water,
touched by life
but not by time,
weathering.
Together, we sail
in silver currents
circling bends
slowly as the river
that once carried us
empties into an
ocean dream, and
like sediments too,
we distill into
 infinity.
For those of us born under a waning crescent
Heidi Franke Apr 13
Out of the darkness
I claw and rise to see
There is a forest inside.
The green surrounds me.
The sun's rays splatter
Me awake to my open body.
I let in the light
I lean into the forest
With the trees holding me up
- as I tilt to fall
Reinforcing my stand I forgot
- I was a part of.

The green has grown so strong
Like the blood that sweeps away
Inside of me to a rivers tune.
I don't want to leave this place,
Fearing it will be taken beyond
Or that it was never mine.
Reinventing this woodland
That has always been inside.
The pine, the wind through the branches, the owl winks.
It has always been here with me
Compelled to germinate
Waiting for my return.
I lift up my head and the sky
- Is so blue.
Recovery from PTSD
Like mist, sparse,

becoming water,
and then a river,
and going forever

(and strong and fast and turbulent
growing life and joy and colors)

Our purpose is,
and was never.
Very concise poem on existential nihilism

2024-04-04
EA
The babble of the valley Brooke
A rush- the flowing, liquid memory moving
Downstream.
Water; the stillness of
a puddle
A pond, the pooling-
scintillates & permeates.
A gentel lapping
against the creekside,
A skip-stone-scape beneath the wetness
Augments the heavy water
As nature's soundtrack.
The valley walls
Hadrian Veska Feb 21
Rolling hills beneath a low grey sky
The rippling water in the back of my eyes
Stillness hallowed, forlorn and sweet
The black sacred ground beneath my feet

The earth is rich yet nothing here grows
The river has dried and no longer flows
The trees are bare of leaves but not fruit
An omen of something below the deep roots

Does anyone here but lost husks remain
If I stay will anything thus here be gained
Does the sun here rise or does it merely set
The twilight stretches on but cannot end yet
A journey from when to where
Keara Marie Feb 1
I think I’m going to do it this time. I’m going to cut it out of me. Why?
I can’t deal with this anymore. It’s as simple as that. The world is an ocean that washes over me. The sound of the water is deafening. It drowns my heart. My panic becomes as large as the sun and my mind as little as the moon appears. I need release. I need to hurt me before the world can again. Then I can comfort myself. I’m going to make myself a river worth drowning in.
And I did
Malia Jan 30
“Come on!”

The stepping stones
Warm your feet
When you land.
Clear, tinted blue
Flows past beneath them
Like a crystal sky.
Mischievous wind
Tickles my neck,
Blowing the hairs away.
Sweet rays settle
Like a blanket
Over my skin.

“Do you hear it now?”
I was trying to find ways to describe music, but I ended up with something that seems totally unrelated to music lol. But words like “crescendo”, “note”, and even “symphony” seem too impersonal.
Bekah Halle Jan 13
Down by the Murray River,
where life swims all around;
above and beneath the surface,
in this heat, everything flows.
Beers, BBQs, budgie smugglers and babes in bikinis,
memories bobbing above ground
capturing freedom, post-pandemic and pre-celebrations.

Down by the Murray River,
watching things flow safely and soundly,
birthing new possibilities:
boyfriends, babies, businesses and brews?!
Endless possibilities abound,
prophecies realised; salvation.

Down by the Murray River,
with nature, our souls sing loudly,
simplicity is possible,
trusting and enjoying,
everything is allowed.
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