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the river passing by
rain informing its progress
with rippled whispers

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Look, The River Is

Look, the river is
Full of its brim
And you got a push.

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The River, and I

I stand naked, untouched
Alone, unafraid and still
The sun shies away
And the wind brushes past me
While I stand
Naked and untouched

I kneel down,
And feel the river
Flowing relentlessly, unstopped
Angry, loud, cold and pure
The river shows no mercy
As it beats against the rocks
It knows no love, no guilt
It only knows survival
As it finds its way
And so it flows
Relentless and unstopped

Yet, I fight the river
I yearn for its love
Like a fool,
I keep standing, waiting
The river keeps moving
Paying me no heed
Yet I keep standing
Naked and untouched.

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Happy And Sad Journey Of The River

calm was the river,
meandering with serenity,
adorned with grace of lapping
on its own inbankment.
crossing, rocky catchments,
and elsewhere a sand bed
rising, and falling, in rhythmic
tune, barely audible,
yet to the boatman, with oars,
a feeling of harmony and joy.
singing to the tune of
flowing water, the lost tune
of yesterday!

also the creatures of water,
had seen endless joy filled days,
when the sun shined on water,
and they frolicked in glee,
the shining bodies of fish,
catching the sun,
appearing and dissapearing.
sun being, the sole monarch,
and soul of all waterbeings,
giving it new life energy to live.
stepping down as mentor to all
living souls.

it is a different story now,
today the underwater creatures,
are in the danger of extinction,
they lost their zeal,
in polluted water,
to survive and procreate.

now, the stars, and the birds
dont see their image,
in the murky, muddy water mirror.
the river decides to change its course,
or submerge itself in its on sorrow!

yet, in its angst mood in monsoon,
in unexplained ravage,
the river water, crosses,
all embankments,
making land, houses and trees, one
by flowing in fitful frenzied speed
in wrath and anger,
to meet its mentor
.......the sea.

torrential rain,
driving people,
out of home and hearth
of homestead land,
devouring, all. in all.
roaring in demonic cry
submerging, only from
tree tops, you could see all.

here there and everywhere,
floods has become,
a forceful energy, making
man and nature,
one in creation.
the suffering is endless,
the fight for survival continues.
,















.

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Learn From The Song Of The River

Learn from the river. It flows.
It does not ever stop or stand still.
It would only be a puddle, if it stopped.
It would evaporate, dry up, cease to be, if it fell in love with a scene, staying there, never to move again.
The river leaps over rocks, swirls around anything that blocks its way.
If something obstructs that is too big to move, too hard to dissolve, the river simply washes over and around; persistently, unrelentingly wearing away at the obstruction, until the river conquers and reconstructs its pathway and time is all it takes.
The river sings a varied melody, because it incorporates into its singing, what ever comes into its course.
Under low hanging trees, between high rising hillsides, over sand or piles and stacks of rocks, between narrow banks, through wide passes, covering deepest crevasses, flirting along shallow bottoms,
the river adjusts its song, as it changes its environment.
It creates new harmony with the alto of the earth's echoes,
the soprano of the leaves and grasses,
the basso grande of the rock face and walls of hills and mountains.

Over and above, the tenor of the sky sings recitative,
the melody of God's creation, blending the song of the river into unmatched beauty with all.
We, who try to live like a river, will flow.
No myth will conquer us, saying, 'Stay here, eternity will find this all unchanged.'
We know that the fleeting moment never will pass again, those same low hanging branches.
The river sees each scene but once.
We who live like a river, understand that each rock of crisis,
each bend in our course, which drives us to a new direction,
can never still our song.
For the river flows on eternally, in the course set only by God.
And the river blesses or curses, as it wills, everything that it passes

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Patrick White

Crossing The River On Thin Ice

Crossing the river on thin ice, the next step
the beginning, and the one after that
the end and the whole of the rest of your life.
I’m listening for cracks in a mirror.
I’m jumping from rock to rock
like prophetic skulls
cobbling the yellow brick road
with glacial i.e.d.s
playing chess with my nerves
like the wicked witch of the east
laying bets against my afterlife
should I break through
and be swept under
to look at the stars as I used to do
on summer nights flat on my back
when I was young
only to find, older, I still do,
through a broken window in a palace of ice
like an acid flashback of my whole life
seen through an ice-age cataract
over my third eye
like flowers in the sky
strewn over the dangerous path I took
to get to the other side.
As I do. With the uncanny feeling
I’ve been mountain climbing on the moon.
I can trust the river like an instinct.
It’s purging to risk now and again
falling through something
to get to the other side of it
as if life had given you a pass
and you think, maybe, just maybe
it wanted you here for something
that would be made abundantly clear later
though for now, it’s more than enough
to feel the glee
of having gotten away with something
like the simple bliss of just being alive
to celebrate your victory against the odds.
But it’s crucial not to gloat.
Gloating makes you arrogant.
Arrogance makes you stupid.
Stupid makes a mistake.
And the river, like a country road,
will teach you to respect its leniency
on the way back without any.
So for the next half mile
through the intermittent field hospitals
of the birch groves overwhelmed
by the number of the fallen amputees
the beavers have chewed down to pencil stubs,
I remember Walter de la Mare’s imperative
about treading softly,
for you tread on my dreams,
and take great care not to wake anyone up
grasping stray branches I use
like crutches, walking sticks, and canes
as I place each foot down gently and deliberately
crossing a minefield covered in snow
to make absolutely sure that I don’t.
Because if you don’t let things dream
of whatever they’re dreaming about,
and walk softly whenever you’ve got
a big stick in your hand
like a dead tree trying to help you
get a leg up on crossing it like a threshold,
it could be you that wakes up to the nightmare
on the nasty side of Walter de la Mare.
The leaves claw at the ice-glazed snow
like bats at a glass-blown window,
frozen waves of a tide on the moon
flexing the neck muscles of a maneless horse,
or even more bizarrely
because life is more surrealistic
in the deep end
than it is sane in the shallows,
the mummified feet of Canada geese
who’ve lost their footing in the snow.
Brush wolves off in the distance
baiting the farmyard dogs
to howl at the end of their leashes
like the domesticated pets
that became of the dogs of war,
commissionaires at the door,
or come out and be torn to pieces
like the calves and the lambs
and those who fell for the ruse
and wandered out alone
and had their necks broken
for taking their instincts off the chain
to be something they weren’t anymore.
For accepting the challenge
of their old wild adversarial selves
like the French at Agincourt
only to be found in the fall
like the skeleton of a favourite dog
in hunting season south of Highway 7
when the white-tailed deer
are culled by the locals
to keep the population down
and the brush wolves at a distance
looking on with a hard winter ahead
in their strategic hearts
and pups to feed
learning from their persecutors
how to the steal the farm back
one sheep, one cat,
one calf, one chicken,
one foolish dog off its turf at a time.
As I am with a National Geographic
sixty millimetre refracting telescope
strapped to my back like the easel
I used to bring here in the summer,
as if I were out to cull the stars of Orion
by myself in a wild place
in the middle of the night
in a clearing in the woods
where the wolves watched what I painted
fascinated, warily tolerant, and sated
without treading on my dreams
and waking me up to the danger I was in
if they hadn’t recognized
the same voice that called to me
called to them like the sorceress
of a moonlit summer night
and in the winter,
the spell-binding stars
of a wizard of ice
that indentured us all
wolf, human, dog, deer
river, birch, hill, and telescope alike
to the crazy wisdom of an essential insight
that makes anyone whose blood
has ever risked running
like paint with the wolves,
or dared being driven into
deeper snow like a telescope at bay
or descended into a dangerous darkness
to clarify a wolf’s-eye view
of the millions of grazing stars
moving slowing across the heavens,
an apprentice of the light for life
when life isn’t a chore on the farm
you’ve been brought up to endure
securing a board on a barn door
to keep it shut like your mouth
when you know you should
but a calling you can’t ignore
to risk it all on thin ice
like Hannibal or Lao Tzu
crossing the Alps
like elephants in the dark
with one throw
of the constellations
that bite into the dice down to the bone
just to see what you’re made of
when you’re on your own
far from home
and there’s lots to be afraid of.

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The river and its waves are one

The river and its waves are one
surf: where is the difference between the river and its waves?

When the wave rises,
it is the water;
and when it falls,
it is the same water again.

Tell me, Sir, where is the distinction?
Because it has been named as wave,
shall it no longer be considered as water?

Within the Supreme Brahma,
the worlds are being told like beads:
Look upon that rosary with the eyes of wisdom.

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The River's Arms...

I Rushed Into The River’s Arms
It Carried Me Away
Within Its Strong, Swift Current
Amid Foam and Sunlit Spray

It Wetly Glossed My Skin
Dripping Diamonds … and Dipping Me
Close Down To The Riverbed
Deep and Wild and Murky

At First, Its Cold Nature
Shocked and Intimidated
Until I Learned Its Flow
Sweetly Invigorated …

Every Splash Upon My Flesh
Was Playful and Caressive
Every Plunge and Every Pull
Held Me Curiously and Possessive

My Body Buoyed and Bounced
Floating On Smooth Liquid
Every Sprinkle Was Sparkling
Each Velvet-Lapping, Vivid

Where Dreams Un-Drowned Had Mixed
With Waves Rimming O’er and Spilt …
Rippled and Spinned Around Rocks That Skipped
Were Danced Down Into Silken-Silt

I Kept Rising By Riverside
Thru Every Dunk and Every Dive …
Every Surge Felt So Alive
Every Soak So Synchronized

Like A Saturday Baptism
My Saturated Soul, Glistened
An Enraptured, Reborn Vision
Fresh-Rinsed … and Arisen

I Let The River Steer
So Symbolic and So Sure
It Carries To Something Greater
I’ll Find Out Just What Later …

River Long and River Wide
My River Song On Riverside
Traveling On The River Tides
River’s Arms Is One Sweet Ride ”

It Is Not A Pot Of Gold
But A Jade River That Flows
At The End Of A Rainbow
(Every Forest Creature Knows)

Now Sitting On Riverbank
Watching This Swishing Water-Tank
Don’t Know How I Didn’t Sank …
But I Do Know Who To Thank! …

River Long, Oh River Ride
My River Song … On Riverside
Traveling On Your River Tides
River’s Arms Was Open Wide

… I Rushed Into The River’s Arms and … “


Written & ©: 7/13/10

By: The MoonBee

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Patrick White

Let Me Be Worthy Of The River

Let me be worthy of the river
and the strange ores that glow at night,
buried like teachers in the mountain;
let my blood always taste of the moon
and my heart burn like a black rose,
like the poem in the fire
that sweetened the sky with a flower of smoke,
for the wisdom of the generously unattainable,
and transcend the hell that shadows the folly
of not being foolish.

May the stars,
when they gather in gardens
water the roots of my seeing from clear fountains
and the wind bleed like ink from my pen
when I'm wounded by the beauty and the terror
of my helplessness.

When I am large, spacious, profound,
let me sit like the universe
on the throne of a seed
that lies in the dirt;
and when I am small, brief,
a trinket of light in a flash of ephemera,
robe me in the lion skin of the night sky
and ennoble me
with delusion and enlightenment
on this road of ghosts.

Whatever befall,
let me perish or prosper as a human
who insists upon the divinity of all
and burns and rises
for the heresy and truth of it.

Let anyone born be accounted a hero,
a lifeboat that hauled the world aboard
when the seas raged in the womb
to give birth to suffering;
and may I always be entrusted
with the ancient shales of dark courage it takes
to look into the dragon's eyes
and not be horrified
by the ferocity of the freedom
that thaws space
like an hourglass in the rain.

And should love occur
to shape the blade of the moon
on the anvil of my heart,
and a cauldron of passionate visions
scald the eyes with intimate glimpses
of myriad heavens and hells,
all truer than reason,
may my bitterness pass
like the eclipse of an hour,
a left-handed blessing,
no vinegar of injured illusion
accept the sad surrender of the wine
like the death poppy of a folded flag,
no tar of judgment and denial
feather the dream with stone pillows,
no abyss under the brief era of an eyelid,
make me too petty or afraid
to dance with my skin off
engulfed like the wind
in secret sails of mystic fire.

There's always a clown, a jester
who rides beside the hero like an anti-self,
a thoroughbred and a dray
yoked to the little red wagon of the heart
like two thieves either side
of an unwitnessed crucifixion,
two dadaphors, two torches
disposed like opposable hinges
on a door that opens like water
at the whisper of a key.

Let me be the clown-prince
of my own idiotic profundities then,
let me survive my way into the wisdom
of the inspired fools
who know that anything they ask for
from the stolen bounty of the king
is just another absurdity in disguise,
that even laughter isn't a lifeline.

I've always had my heart
caught in my throat
like a bird in a chimney,
a cork in a wine-bottle,
a habitable planet in a black hole.

I have loved and befriended
almost anyone
who would let me
and seen their evanescence,
their transigence, their vagrancy, their passage
through this mansion of space
with the amazing windows and chandeliers,
the sad brevity of the things they cherished.

Blind to restorative grails,
I have not sought the meaning of life,
I have not hunted the dragon with nets,
knowing reality is meaningless
because it has no fingers,
it doesn't point to anything beyond itself,
nor bear witness in a mirror,
but I have walked in the peacock robes
of the twilight sky, all eyes,
in the gardens of the life of meaning,
past the hushed bloodtalk of the roses,
and seen for myself
that there are flowers with petals of water
and roots of fire
that drink the stars like rain.

Meaning dethrones the flowers like bottle-caps
and there's no refund on the empties.
Night puts its hands over your eyes
and asks you to guess;
and there's no end of the mystery,
no end of the blessing
of sitting under a tree
looking up at a star
wondering what human beings,
what you are doing on earth;
what a thought is, an emotion,
the blade of grass beside you,
everything alone together
in the silent boat of the rising moon
docking at its own reflection
as if the port were always in the voyage,
understanding
merely an expression of the intensity
of our not knowing.

The answers come and go,
governments, religions, arts, sciences, fortune-cookies,
like parking meters, like waterbirds,
like oceans on the moon.

Life is the lock that opens the key,
the skymouth of the dream that woke itself up
talking in its sleep,
trying to remember the dreamer.

Like the fleets and caravans
of the seeds on the autumn wind
we are the purest expression
of a universe
that answers us with ourselves
when we ask for a sign.

Like cherries that ripen in the silence
of the deepening night,
turning our tears to wine,
our darkness into eyes,
may my shadows always be worthy
of the light that casts them.

Sixty-three years a human being,
sixty-three years of suffering and doubt,
of boredom and magmatic intensities,
of mystic elation and mythic insignificance,
of anger, danger, risk, defeat and victory,
of saying and seeing,
of trying to kiss the shadow of my pain away
by deepening my ignorance
and progressing backwards
through the re-runs of old eclipses
that once gorged on the moon like dragons.

Tonight the wind howls bitterly outside
and the stars seem eras away in the cold
as if the intimacy I have felt with their shining
since I was a boy
were just another leaf torn from the tree.

It's rare to catch a glimpse of your agony,
to see that even the brightest fountains
of your efflorescence
are rooted in a wounded watershed
that has never known the colour of your eyes.

I don't need to be forgiven
for being born;
and I won't be poured
like a tidal wine
into a life that isn't mine
however many cracks appear in the cup,
however I recede and leak out of myself,
my blood isn't anyone else's signature,
and this walking to nowhere I call a poem,
no one's footprints following me but my own.

How should it be otherwise
that I fall like rain
to appease this rumour of life
like a fire in my roots
and flash through the creekbeds
of my own flowing
like time returning to its hidden source
with news of nothing?

An echo of light
looking for its lost voice like a star,
I don't need to prove myself to the night
like a theory in the heart of a passing stranger
and space is the only death mask
that is the true likeness of my face.

No more than the light and the rain
that open the seeds like love-letters,
I don't need to know
what I will become
or what was revealed behind me in the dark,
but let me be worthy
of this wounded boat of the moment
with its cargo of eyes
enduring the burden and inspiration
of the voyage
like illegal refugees
with forged passports to Atlantis;
and if I must be accounted
one of the martyrs of absurdity,
then let me be as generous as wings
to the worms in my name
that blindly tilled the soil
of a rootless country.

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At the river (englyn lleddfbroest)

The fish was spilling its roe
while in a kind of birth throe,
while at the river a doe
trampled a hyena’s toe

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Swimming With The River's Rage

when the meaning of water
ceases to be fluid
one fish swims with the rage of the river
looking for sharp stones
to tear off its fins
looking for a crazy fisherman
to catch it
hook, like and sinker

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At the River

Shall we gather at the river,
Where bright angel feet have trod,
With its crystal tide for ever flowing
by the throne of God?
Gather at the river!
Yes, we'll gather at the river,
The beautiful, the beautiful river,
Yes well gather at the river
that flows by the throne of God.
Shall we gather? Shall we gather at the river?

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The River and the Dam

The river flows down the hill,
Till it finds it is slowing

The dam stands as tall as a mill,
To stop the river from its flowing

The water accepts its fate,
Yet it rises as it waits

The dam stands it's ground
The river never finding a way around.

The river flows once more my friend
The dam did break and shall not mend

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The River

What makes a man
What makes a woman
Happy
What makes you think
What make you say
Love
Some says its like the river
How it runs to the sea
Love could be the river
One million people
Hoping to find
The river
One is in the middle
On the bottom of the sea
Like a spine of a tree
Its all a riddle to me
Its all a riddle to me
To me

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The River

What makes a man
What makes a woman
Happy
What makes you think
What make you say
Love
Some says its like the river
How it runs to the sea
Love could be the river
One million people
Hoping to find
The river
One is in the middle
On the bottom of the sea
Like a spine of a tree
Its all a riddle to me
Its all a riddle to me
To me

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The River

A calm river disturbed
is like a cold torrent thunder
It flows a fume of emotion
and ebbs back gave and somber
Its frosty water - sad and serene
and her tears are even colder
a mirror of beautiful scenes
dreamy fluid luster
Futile and still,
I soaked my feet in the river
she responded with the hostility
of the squirming chill inside her.

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The Greed Of The River

brown to its existence the river as usual is silent
it borrows the sound of the slashing boat and from the time to time talks
it asks. 'where to boatman? '
but the boatman does not answer
he does not know how this river works how this river feels
it has taken people away
it has taken people back to their places
it has swallowed lives
and then in silence it sleeps
its belly full

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Sitting by the River

Sitting by the river,
trying to clear my mind,
trying to clear the emotions that i have inside,
I look into the water..i see the ripples flow,
then i realise its only all a show,
the river will not stop me from crying at night,
it will not heal the wounds i got in the last fight.
It will not heal my heartache, nor will it healy my pain..
so sitting by the river i have nothing to gain.


30/07/07

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Rainfall on the river

Rainfall on the river
~
Sat beneath an old oak tree
Watching the rain fall on the river
The water jumps with every splash
Circles roll out in rippled formation
Interacting only to disappear
And begin again continuous
With the rain still falling
The sound rustles through the air
The sky like an old grey blanket
Thrown across the world
Leaking as far as the eye can see
Patchy and weathered
Beneath the shade of the oak tree
With only a spray of rainfall
Watching the river dance
Ripples and jumps

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The Running Waters Of The River

running water on the river
despite the boulders
it finds itself its way

to where all the waters meet
in that destination
of everything and everyone

running restless souls
towards the same destination

it is not divergence
it is convergence

it is the oneness of all rivers
of all souls

i run and flow
i become everything and everyone at the end

from this flow on this journey
towards everything and everyone

i am gone i am found i am lost i am the drop
becoming a part of the ocean's universe

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The river's song

The river's song
~
There's a song in the river
that streams from mountains and rain
it plays upon rocks and riverbanks
the birds and fish know it well
it flows effortless in a rhythm
pitched by its own will
a rolling waltz, serenely sweet
feeds the thirsty trees
there's a song in the river
an acoustic serenade
the endless symphony
where unwritten words decree
that there is music here
tide eventually to the sea
insects dance upon each note
while sticks and leaves
twirl away to its beat
there's a song in the river
and it plays for free

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