Quotes about rowing, page 7
The poets contrive
I have nothing to complain for, not even of one
I am thankful for all, conceived in mind, to stun
it is because my garden blooms, and soul strives
and my ancestors salute from their distant lives
Memories visit me and mostly make me care,
they turn the key of remembrances on my door,
and I accept their oddity of call. Maybe I enroll
a frivolous romantic, on this supercilious stare.
People claim their life, was a tragedy! My God
what a falsehood to live upon! A baited fishing rod
to catch me in their transient support of riddance,
I laugh, as there is no mercy in their cold glance
I 've seen poets! Yes, noble, mysterious souls
with words to kiss a remote heart, a boat's tholes
supporting our rowing oars of efforts. A caress
explaining the bliss of a Naiad or curse of an Ogress.
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poem by Giorgio Veneto
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Poets Contrive
[Poets contrive]
I have nothing to complain for, not even one
I am thankful to all, conceived are, to stun
because my garden blooms, and soul strives
and my ancestors salute from their distant lives
Memories visit me and mostly make me care,
they turn the key of remembrances on my door,
and I accept their oddity of call. So I enroll
a frivolous romantic, in my memories flare.
People claim their life, was a tragedy! My God
what a falsehood to live upon! A baited fishing rod
to catch me in their support of riddance,
I laugh, as there is no mercy in their cold glance
I 've seen poets! Yes, noble, mysterious souls
with words to kiss a remote heart, a boat's tholes,
supporting our rowing oars of efforts. To express
[...] Read more
poem by Giorgio Veneto
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The Lapse
This poem must be done to-day;
Then, I 'll e'en to it.
I must not dream my time away,--
I 'm sure to rue it.
The day is rather bright, I know
The Muse will pardon
My half-defection, if I go
Into the garden.
It must be better working there,--
I 'm sure it's sweeter:
And something in the balmy air
May clear my metre.
Ah this is noble, what a sky!
What breezes blowing!
The very clouds, I know not why,
Call one to rowing.
The stream will be a paradise
To-day, I 'll warrant.
I know the tide that's on the rise
Will seem a torrent;
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poem by Paul Laurence Dunbar
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Lighthouse
Tell me, O moisture
Halted in the eternity of my eyes
Which stagnant epoch has confined you!
God weeps rain
On some land of pain
Why only one dropp of my tear
Has stuck on His lashes.
Tell me, O breeze of shores
The name of the city
In which she waits for me
Who told me in a drenched voyage
love is an island, grief the sail!
Tell me the releaving spell
I will perform the ritual
Of departing
And will meet her
In long rows of stony pillars
I will hold her in my arms
And will hand over her
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poem by Naseer Ahmed Nasir
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In The Shape Of A Dollar Sign
One driven by passion,
For what it is they do...
Is much different than someone,
Driven by a dollar bill...
And 'that' attachment.
Never have I witnessed,
Anyone driven by passion...
Being late!
Or heard excusing everything they do.
One driven and motivated by money,
Can not get excuses...
Fast enough out of their mouths.
And the pupils in their eyes are not round...
As is the custom.
They appear more in the shape of a dollar sign.
And 'that' is the difference,
Associated with someone who has passion...
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poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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The Jay
I was pegging out your lime-green dress;
you were hoping the last of the sun
might sip the last few beads of drip-dry water
from its lime-green hem.
I had a blister-stigmata the size of an eye
in the palm of my hand
from twisting the point of a screw
into the meat of the house. Those days. Those times.
The bird was crossing the gravel path
in the style of a rowing boat crossing dry land.
Struck with terror when I held it tight
in the gardening-gloves of humankind, we saw for ourselves
the mouse-fur face and black moustache,
the squab of breastmeat under its throat,
the buff-brown coat and blue lapels,
the painted inside of its mouth,
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poem by Simon Armitage
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Fishing On The Susquehanna In July
I have never been fishing on the Susquehanna
or on any river for that matter
to be perfectly honest.
Not in July or any month
have I had the pleasure -- if it is a pleasure --
of fishing on the Susquehanna.
I am more likely to be found
in a quiet room like this one --
a painting of a woman on the wall,
a bowl of tangerines on the table --
trying to manufacture the sensation
of fishing on the Susquehanna.
There is little doubt
that others have been fishing
on the Susquehanna,
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poem by Billy Collins
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The Rain
Come on, where are you, long lost sun,
the rain looks finished, I’m sure its done.
I spoke too soon, its coming down again,
it’s even swamping the house’s drain.
The rain’s surging force as it hits the ground
creates a noise like no other sound.
Our wheelie bin is being beaten like a drum.
Oh, where has that hidden sun gone?
I can’t even see through the windowpane,
it’s covered with huge drops of rain.
Look at it streaming down that outside wall,
the guttering looks about to fall.
There it goes; it’s shattered against the ground
but the rain has dampened its crashing sound.
I keep looking for that cloud break in the sky
for the sun to push through, or at least have a try.
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poem by Orlando Belo
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Just A Housewife
I am just a housewife, no mean feat
I put food on the table, for my family to eat
nourishing wholesome meals, cooked with a mother's touch,
not food like a restaurants, which you dont miss much,
I am there to comfort and listen to woes,
I have to be a refree too, and settle all the rows,
I pamper his mother and keep his folks happy,
and even keep smiling, when I am feeling snappy,
I'm house proud and neat, clean rooms are a must,
my days are spent cleaning, and keeping out the dust,
I am a nurse, too helping in healing, wounds of both kinds,
real fears of my husband and imaginary fears of young minds,
I am a hostess when required, entertaining within constraints,
I'm also a disciplanarian when children require restraints,
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poem by Arti Chopra
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Boats A Bobbing
I’m sitting on the jetty, feet dangling o’er the sea,
A view that’s so breathtaking, that it’s enveloped me.
The sunlight on the water, with facets shining bright.
I could sit forever absorbing this wondrous sight.
The little boats a bobbing out on the restless brine,
Their sails of rainbow colours are beautiful and fine.
Wind is gently blowing as they navigate to shore,
At one with the ocean, such adventuring in store.
I’m standing on the headland watching seagulls streak by,
There’s squawking and diving as they pulsate through the sky.
Always so hungry, forever searching for their meal,
No matter who’s food tempts them, they are ready to steal.
I’m resting on a boulder on the top of the cliffs.
Two rowing boats are proceeding I think they are skiffs.
Chasing to beat each other with their single man crew,
There is so much to observe, Ah! here comes a canoe.
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poem by Ernestine Northover
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