We’re writing water or waterways today. Your inspiration will come from one of these four sources. There are oceans of lotions, land of a thousand lakes, river of dreams and streams of consciousness. Try to find a different view of water like those above. Write your poem with that in mind.


This, a watershed
moment; a lightbulb moment
if we let it be.

(c) Marie Elena Good, 2020




The sky is clear,
pristine and calm.
The breezes soothing.
No storm could invade,
nothing to throw shade on this new day.
It is early and the swirling
surf is crisp,
the waves lap the shore
tasting all flavors within.
I begin, board in tow,
steps deliberate.
Slow. No one near;
the sky is clear.
The surf beckons,
it reckons to take me
for the ride of my life.
My board is waxed and
it wanes in the bob of eternity.
The waves and me,
I paddle to the crest
in waters way over my chest.
Well over my head instead.
Giving me all that I can take.
I watch the pipe form.
I think I’ve made a mistake.

(C) Walter J Wojtanik – 2020


  1. Pond’ering Lullabies

    Rainbow Hollow in Tennessee
    sang lullabies to me at night
    on her mellow, silvered moonlight
    mirrored on the pond’s peaceful face
    at the cattle’s watering place.

    Bullfrogs deep bass
    Cricket’s strident sound
    Long bay of the Howard’s hound
    Lowing of a mother cow
    Hoot of a hungry owl…

    Now on restless nights far from home
    I float on songs from Tennessee
    sighed by that pond of childhood dreams
    sweet, viscous, honey-comb dreams
    oozing from honey locust trees

    Alongside that pond’s peaceful face
    at the cattle’s watering place,
    Rainbow Hollow, in Tennessee.


    Northward, northward to the lake
    it trudges on. In the glacier’s wake
    it dredges buried cobblestone
    and leaves it bare for men to make

    their houses, leaves the last moraine
    and teardrop drumlin split in twain,
    and joins with Lake Ontario
    and thence with ocean waves, a plain

    and steady stream that knows its place;
    that funnels tears of clouds with grace
    from spring to sea, nurturing hope
    that Earth may not forsake the human race.

  3. Journey

    After last night’s rain the low-water
    meanders over the road through woodland
    and field silting soybeans, cornfields,
    and laving hooves of cows leaning
    against double strands of barbed wire
    draped with strangled shreds of dead grass

    this nameless fingerling creek curving away
    under the narrow bridge with its crumbling
    twin pillars bearing witness to horse and buggy
    besting turbulent flooding or sedately
    crossed on the deceptive calm of gravel bar,
    streambed barely damp in summer drought

    yet its water trickling ever onward to meet up
    but one field over with Middle Creek
    swell and widen until it pools into two
    hundred acres of state fishing lake
    before tumbling to the Marais des Cygnes

    the Marsh of Swans dropping into
    the Little Osage and then its bigger brother
    both named by the great Osage Nation
    whose homes once dotted steep banks

    foaming waterways now devoid of raft
    or kayak by law after spring flooding invaded
    bottom land destroying homes and crops
    the river returning now to one of memory
    where only churning current and
    surfacing fish break its sibilant silence

    as relentlessly it carves its course into
    the longest river in North America,
    becomes the muddy Missouri flowing
    past port and beneath barges until
    merging with the Mississippi under
    September’s full Corn Moon,
    riding the current, a golden gondola
    sailing on its journey into the Gulf.

  4. Pingback: Thoughts on Bodies of Water | purplepeninportland

  5. Thoughts On Bodies of Water

    If I write
    in streams
    of consciousness
    an ocean of notions
    pops into my head.
    I see a riverboat,
    steam wheel paddling
    down the Mississippi.
    My gaze is steady-
    non-wavering–as I wait,
    but am not fated to see
    the Lady in the Lake.

  6. If you see me in the river of life, give me a high five and I’ll high five you back.


    The river of life flows along
    Steadily moving us forward
    No regard for our wishes to
    Slow the flow for an instant
    Or even a temporary stopping
    That we may enjoy a moment

    The river of life flows on
    And we are all at its mercy
    We cannot avoid the current
    Whether calm or in the rapids
    And thus we go with the flow
    With no escape short of death


    These days,
    the sea that I love,
    the sea that is so unpredictable,
    is sending some hefty waves
    I didn’t foresee crashing
    my way.

    And I,
    seasoned in facing waves
    that erupt in the sea that I love,
    must muster the old skills
    that have never gotten
    a chance to rust

    and swim
    through the waves
    that are too rough for comfort,
    one stroke after another,
    inhaling deep breaths
    of high hopes.

    And although
    the other side of waves is blurry,
    I trust anew the forces that carried me
    to solid ground before. Once again,
    I enlist the familiar old skills,
    as I fall and rise with the tide.

    – Nurit Israeli

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