Anchored by the river

Off prompt for NaPoWriMo today. I hate lists and my heart isn’t in it today anyway. Another puente instead.


On the right bank was home,

museums, galleries, market and school,

Sunday walks hand in hand, lovers,

later with children and changed perspectives.

There were friends there and parks

with sandpits and swings, cafés, smell of pastis,

coffee, and amid the endless serpentine streets

and right-angled, towering Haussmanniens,

the ordinary grubbiness of life


~anchored by the river~


the memories run

around the island spanned by bridges,

water and stone and iron,

intricate traceries of history, craftsmanship and passion.

Distance has enveloped memories in gentle mists,

an immutable past that remains,

though the heart is eaten by flames,

and time like the river rolls away,

never going back.


Letting go

This was inspired by Jilly’s Jim Harrison quote:

“The river can’t heal everything”  ~ Jim Harrison

The painting, by August Macke is of the Rhine at Hersel.


Into the water it goes,

the weight of the past a round stone,

and the ripples it shivers so bright,

silver flickers, still I stand alone.


Into the river, brown trout

swish shadows where currents run deep,

tressed water of anger and love,

drawn down to the ocean to sleep.


If you’d once whispered soft words at dawn

when the harsh morning dragged me awake,

but the rose petals left me the thorn,

and the shame of the day was to break.


Into the water I send

the petals and thorns and the dreams,

to sail in a barque with white sails,

where silver and golden light streams.


Into the river we go,

swept in dark arms of the flow,

perhaps at the end will come peace,

when your face fades to moonlight—release.

Water wrinkles



River water is wrinkled, the skin of an old man, a new baby, like the skin that takes us by surprise and we say, is that really mine, remembering suddenly the peach-smoothness never noticed of years before. Surfaces crack, sun-baked mud in the fields, the rippling traces of a fallen stone pushing to the bank, my face, yours, with lines and folds that never were there before. I run my finger from the wing of your nose to the dimpled corner of your mouth. You smile, and the cracks, lines, faults disappear like the years.


Liquid light ripples

amid turgid green tresses

breeze tastes of blue waves.

Microfiction #writephoto: Watcher

This is for Sue Vincent’s Thursday #writephoto prompt




An underground river flowing into the light, they call it. After a sinuous journey through rock strata and hollow caverns, it finally rises and pours into a shallow bed, tranquil and green, shaded by lush, broad leaves. Two low arches, mossy with damp and alive with rampant vegetation straddle the placid water.

Who built them, nobody knows, nor why. No preservation order protects the dark twin tunnels, no protest group has tried to prevent the local farmers building a dam that will stop the river, flood the site and provide water for their maize crop.

The river flows, calm and peaceful. Stars look down on its ever-moving surface where moonlight ripples among the stones of its bed. Moonlight glints hard and bright on the shiny bulldozers lined up to begin clearing the trees and the old stones.

Is it moonlight reflected in the depths of each tunnel, growing stronger as the night advances, filling the arches with a light as old as the stars? The ground shakes and the river flows quicker, tumbling angrily as the earth surges upwards, higher, into the star-flecked night.

Two dark eye sockets beneath a helm of stone, above a warrior’s frame, stony and ancient as the earth, turn towards the little town that dared steal the waters of life. The dark eyes let their tears of anger pour away, and feet dragged from sleep deep within the earth, wade through the roaring river, crushing the engines of destruction, following the watery path to the town.

In the morning, the waters will pour red, and they will still flow to the sea.

There is a place

This is a Skeltonic poem for the NaPoWriMo prompt.


There is a place,

a peaceful space,

where blackbirds run

in the sun

and river flows.

No one knows

where is goes,

the river slow,

when the stream,

silver gleam,

into the sea,

with blackbird glee,

rolls away.

I will stay,

watch starlings play,

if you will say,

you’ll sit with me,

forever keep me


Robin’s song not done

Continuing my masochistic exploration of poetic forms, I have written a cascade poem using rhyme as well as meter. Makes it more difficult and makes me feel chuffed when it’s finished.

This continues the dVerse ‘river’ theme.

Bad weather2

River flows chill where the celandines throng,

Mid flood debris on its way down to the sea,

Robin’s not done with his sweet winter song.


Tresses of green-grey, the current pulls strong,

The cry of the gulls sounds like laughter to me,

River flows chill where the celandines throng.


I toss out my hopes, sail to where you may be,

Garlands of dreams float, I set them all free,

Mid flood debris on its way down to the sea.


On gold tangled banks this is where I belong

Though your face like love fades and false hopes flee,

Robin’s not done with his sweet winter song.

Along the misty river

It’s open night at the dVerse pub, so anything goes. The photo is one I took this morning. The poem, a triolet is inspired by it.


Along the misty river fly

The ghosts of gulls with strident calls,

And I can barely see the sky.

Along the misty river fly

Shades of the lost, I hear them cry.

They search the banks as twilight falls

Along the misty river. Fly,

The ghosts of gulls with strident calls.