Issue 18 of The River is out!

The River

Come Celebrate 10,000 views on The River

The Social Zone for The River

12pm CST till 2pm CST

The River is out! Issue 17

The River

Edition 1 Issue 17

Writing Contest ~ on The River

The River is conducting their Fall/Spring writing challenge. Submissions are due by September 25th

For further details click

Lost in Meth

Shreds of string hold

the shell of a woman collapsed,

trapped in the hollows of self,

a pitted face and fallen teeth,

lie empty with a box of remnants

of a life lost in trickery,

the deceptions of addiction

that ate on her soul

destroying

her faded days of yesterday.

The River ~ ~ Issue 12

The River

Edition 1 Issue 12  ~ September 2, 2011

featuring Poets United  

Edition 11 ~~ August 26, 2011

click to go to the River

The River ~~~~~ Edition 10

click to go to The River

Edition 10                              August 19,2011

Waabin Ozhibiiwin- new poetry blog

A new chapter of poetry begins as an old takes a step back with it's trunk of words left unlocked.

 A new look, a new place, with extra additions.

 Waabin Ozhibiiwin ~ a Dawn Writer is born. :)

Crescent Moon

Echoes of a lone wolf’s cry

dance with silvery shadows

beneath the light of the moon.

A distant howl is carried

with the rising of the sun

answering his lonesome calls.

Along the changing horizon

with the eastern winds he runs,

to the dawn of a new day.

Eyes lock as lips meet halfway

exploring with soft, gentle caresses                 

the steps of their opening door.

Two wolves begin once more.

linked with dVerse~ Poets Pub Grand Opening

Does a Woman need a Man? updated w/ Does one Need a Man?

We were taught growing up

a woman does not need a man

to want one maybe but need….

needing a man was a sign of weakness 

a life riddled of dependency and control.

We were taught from a young age

watching our mothers and aunts

with the right tools women can do it all

they can fix the broken toilet, provide for

the family and kiss the children goodnight.

As adults, we learned from the loyalty

of Eagles and the closeness of Wolves

it is natural for us to need a companion

not someone to take care of us or fill a

fantasy but to love us and touch us…

Cinderella was not our favorite story.

I did two versions to this piece. Since, I posted the first I have come to wonder why I posted it other than letting pressure get to me. I like the second much better which I wrote first.

Does one Need a Man?          

I remember thinking it is weak to need a man.

To want one yes but need…

Oh it horrified me, numbed me with images of

housewives and brainless, obedient women

ridiculed with dependency and control.

An existence of imprisonment

a nightmare to us, the daughters

of strong independent women

we grew up being taught

a women does not need a man

with the right tools women can do it all!

they can fix the broken toilet, provide for

the family, and raise the children

there is need to settle.

Then I learned of human need

from the loyalty of Eagles

and the companionship of wolves

need was not necessarily bad

it mattered why you needed

I realized I needed a companion,

best friend, a lover. Not to take care

of me but to love me and touch me…

you can probably imagine

Cinderella was not my favorite story.

5/11

  

The Collector

Rob Hanson

The Collector

In the neighborhood when I was a kid

there lived this strange sort of a man

he somehow lived off the grid

and he chased us with a frying pan.

He lived all alone around the bend

off Fernickle street in that house

of broken shutters with his friend,

his only friend, a house mouse.

When we saw him, we always ran

it seemed to us he’d lost his lid

to survive we had to have a plan

if our parents heard, they forbid.

Then one day we saw a blouse

curious as all we tried to blend

she carried out a plastic grouse

we learned he had come to an end.

She asked if we would help her plan

and carry what he never got rid

her dad was a collector his life span

we said yes it was time to contend.

 posted for Sunday Photo at One Stop Poetry

Crossroad

  

drawing by Annie Perconti                 

                       
                     Crossroad

A young woman treads in circles

caught at a crossroad of decision.
Her eyes bleed of confusion knowing,

she lost herself in their image.

Dreary and afraid, her lotus
fades, peeling open her rawness, 
exposing a weeping child 
grown, pleading for direction.

She leans against the body of her 
grandmother, listening to her stories,

trying to find meanings behind

images sketched in her branches.

Her grandmother’s wise words 
echo the shadows of answers.
Teaching the young woman 
to dive into fresh waters and 
flow with her intended path.

                     ©River Urke 5/2011


posted for One Shoot Wednesday week 50 at One Stop Poetry

The Prize~

The Prize

Dedicated to Brandy Brenna

Three good friends canoe down the Kinni

each with their own bag of thoughts.

They navigate Clapping Waters

following a calmer course

they lean back, gliding the stillness

and hear the air between her wings

before any of them see her.

The fisherman in the rear

only noticed the fish

The artist in the front

only saw the bird

The dreamer in the center

witnessed the marvel of both.

An Eagle great in essence and size

Dove down to the surface of calm

waters, a little ahead of the trio

Grabbing a huge trout in her claws

Hovering over the water

Flapping her powerful wings

Gathering her strength

then flying away with her prize.

                                         ©River Maria Urke 6/10

6/11 rewrite

thanks to google images

gabriel ~ duel poetry

gabriel...
 
beads tumble
down the crest
of the rising horn
skirts twirl
fingers tap 
ancient rhythms
on sides of glasses
emotions liquid
beats flowing
among a purity of tone
a range of octaves 
match the rising horn 
then descending tones
passionate growls
bring wide-eyed smiles
and a chorus of sensual amens
a moment of silence
fills the room until
the ring of cymbals strike
as the music of soul 
begins again 

by Charlie Martin & River Urke

This is the eighth poem Charlie/slpmartin and I have wrote together with Duel Poetry.   

Duel Poetry:  a prearranged poetry writing challenge  between two people to evolve a new poem where each writer must respond to the other writer’s lines  (4 -5 ) until both parties agree that the poem is complete.

photo by Charlie Martin- "horn"

Lessons of Self

Is there a point one reaches
being alone, night after night

where isolation eats at itself

locking the door behind

the weeping sounds of lonely?

Is there a purpose to loneliness?

lessons hidden in the shadows

amongst a forlornness of self

lost arms reaching for light.

Is there a point one reaches
where turning back is not

an option and moving forward

is not possible, when all that is

left is to be right now?

There is a point and purpose

if one strives to learn and

know oneself, explains Pema

in her voice of wisdom.

©River Urke 5/2011

*Pema Chodron is a Tibetan Buddhist Nun that has taught me many things through my life.

Distant Lovers

Whichever way you read it at whatever given time pick your 

ending for this poem its your choice with this rhyme.

Distant Lovers

Across the vast deep waters on an Island in the sea,

her distant lover dwells in the land of Banshee.

A love of mind and soul as if tied with timeless thread.

An invisible connection held with everlasting breath spread.

A high wind blows his sails westward to her shore.

Their eyes for the first time will touch and explore.

Hours trail the day she waits for the dawn of a sailor’s lore.

She knows his ship is near; soon he shall land upon her shore.

Rising waves and birds galore tell him land is nearly found.

He panics with fear and guilt turning his sails back around.  

He passes no word of change leaving her hanging and unsure.

Death runs through her mind. She decides their love obscure.

Believing her love died that day, forever lost to her at sea.

She cuts her long hair releasing them both to be free.

He sails home, wails of his passion echo the beats of his life

overcome by thoughts of her, he has to leave his wife.

One night, he endured no more with mists of eve & ancient rites 

he yells her name into the wind, asking in prayer if time will 

change his flight.

Time answers his lonesome call,

“Go to her, go to her now the gate of fate will open

 four dews of a morning and one night remain unbroken!”

At once, he set sail for her shore not thinking to send her word. 

He was lost in the world of Time, trapped inside his own absurd.

The third night he lands ashore asking for the house Mansur.

He finds his way to her door expecting her to answer.

~

1

She opens the door and there he stands. Confusion breaks out on 

her face. She goes to speak but he stops her, 

wraps his arms around and embraces her with dawn.

~

2

No one answers the door or looks out the window, no life

is visible at all. He slumps down on the porch to think

feeling beaten down by his own ambitious self.

~

3

She opens the door with a disturbing look of anger on

her face. The man she believed dead stood there smiling.

Taking a step back she tells him no! with the rising of dawn. 

© River 5/11

posted for One Shot Wednesday week 46 at One Stop Poetry

Ancient Voices

A scratchy whisper tingles

brushimg the lobe of her ear

echoing words of tomorrow

only meant for her to hear

fearing the voice, she yells

begging it to leave

entirely missing the message

she was to receive

never was she taught

meaning behind the voice

never told she was lucky

or that she had a choice

she walked an ancient path

alone, yet, well protected

learning in years to come

meanings of the unexpected.

            ©River 4/11

There’s always a Point…

Sinking deeper into the center
of a swirling ball of warmth 

rising hotter with every word
expanding and growing 
burning with long tentacles 

spreading through crevices 
cracked by past storms
fueling the building energy

striking the point of boiling
the ball explodes at you.

Sinking deeper into the center
of a swirling ball of warmth 

rising hotter with every pulse
expanding and growing 
burning with long tentacles 

spreading through veins

a warmth of tingles 
fueling the building energy

striking the point of love
the ball wraps around you.

©  5/11

A Tale of Time

A Tale of Time is a story told in the form of a poem.
                              ~ ~


.......  Daydreaming on a Sunday afternoon

              ~ an abstract moment in time ~

          

~ The Keeper and the Well ~

                                   with a Drop of Time!

Time is untouchable

invisible to the naked eye

many have tried to own it

in its own right, it is…

Some believe it is man made

revolving around people

captured by hours upon seconds

tightly within a box.

Others watch Earth’s cycles  

and count the age of old rocks

measuring of mere moments

encompassing all life.

One knows the truth

about time and all its secrets

the chosen one that watches

the true Keeper of Time.

 Decades upon decades

he neither ages nor dies

bestowed a legacy of honor

a destiny of solitude and time.

Crossing through realms

the Keeper wears two faces

one tells of his legacy

the other sees him as a tale.

As a new century nears

the wind sings him reminders

the time is here to begin

his travels to the Well.

The Keeper of Time kneels

amidst the sands of the Sahara

waiting and praying

 on the eve of a decade

a new dawn in time.

One Drop of Time releases per century

the size of a grand mountains tear

falling towards the Sahara

in rings of sand it lands

instantly absorbed

flowing down

the Well of

Time.

Crystal clear

drops of time

lucid in collection.

Awaiting in a well of stone

tended by the Keeper

for all of life

requires

time

stepping

realm to realm

the Keeper travels

 bestowing them their tempo.

Rhythms of difference

beats of fast and slow

realms of opposite flow

carved out riverbeds

on a course of their own accord

running at their own rate

two flows

connect

continuing

down the road on

an abstract moment in time.

   © River 2/11

posted for One Shot Wednesday week 44 at One Stop Poetry~ writers and readers wanted!!!!

Z ~ Zeroed Out & Zone

Zeroed Out

her head whips around

to the ring of the phone

freezing still

she knows it’s him

calling again

to say he will be late

never to actually show

this time

she doesn’t answer.

 ©River 4/11

Zone

waiting for the zone

smack dab

sitting in the mid

of a challenge

digging for ideas

each day
a poem A to Z
the pressures on 

stuck at letter G

empty

although here comes 

H gliding along

puzzled I notice

smiling

both are carried

by my writing Zone.

 ©River 4/11

Y ~ Your Eyes....

Your Eyes 

Have you looked in the mirror recently?

really, really looked

at the person reflected back?

beyond your laugh lines and crows feet

digging deeper than your thoughts

lying buried in your soul

is a beautiful you

waiting to be found

among layers of self doubt

shinning in your moments of silence .

Do you see it?

I see your beauty.

It is reflected in your eyes.

                                           

                                    ©River 4/11

X ~ X-rated

Can you imagine life

where nothing is rated X

in a time, a place

where men don’t gawk at a breast

and a woman doesn’t shrivel back

at the site of a penis

in a time, a place

where the body is not
a shameful vessel of sin

in a time of no exploitation

in a place just like here
where nothing X-rated exists.

            ©River 4/11

W ~ Wails Rise

                                                                Wails Rise

wails rise

as tears flood

and dreams crash

of a deep love

destroyed

before

the chance to be

without tangled webs

of weak threads

no time to
grow the strength

to sail through the hard

and open to the sun

wails rise

as tears flood
and dreams crash
 of a lost love

                                                             gone

                                                              forever..

                                                            ©River 4/11

V ~ Voices

Voices

A scratchy whisper

tingles behind

echoing words

only meant for her.

To young to know

the meaning

not cultured

for understanding.

She fears the voice

yelling

begging it
to leave her alone.

An ancient path of

protection

she’ll learn

in years to come.

            ©River 4/11

U ~ Unable to Stand

As it is today

some sixteen years back

on a Sunday morning in early spring,

I remember waking up

tingly and numb

with a pain the same

as when your foot falls asleep

from my rib cage down.

I was 21

Unable to stand

Scared out of my mind.

 ©River 4/11

Paralysis times Three

T ~ truths hidden behind the mask

you caught my eye

intriguing me

with your poetic words

and warm smile

I opened my closed door

hesitant to trust

we shared morning moments

reading poetry until

we landed on the bed

locking in passion beyond words

you captured my heart

swept me off my feet

with your gracious hands

and warm heart

kissing me tenderly

caressing me with artist hands

you whispered beautiful words

full of promises

I opened my locked heart

trembling…

feeling something was not right

I listening to you instead of me

only to learn some months in

you were a lie.

                  ©River 4/11

R ~ Ring around the Rosy

Ring around the Rosy

1

A nursery rhyme

passed down to us

we teach our children

young to sing and play

not really ever knowing

what it truly means

not really ever caring

it’s a nursery rhyme

How bad could it be?

2

Ring around the rosy

with a pocket full of poesy

ashes, ashes

we all fall down

the children go

around and  around

till ashes and ashes

they all fall down

giggling with joy

wanting to go again

and again.

3

A nursery rhyme

telling a story of a plague

full of puss and death

infected sores

burning the sick

high above ground

while ashes fall.

Ring around the rosy

with a pocket full of posy

ashes, ashes

we all fall down

  River 4/11

Q - Quantum Riders

Quantum

riders sail the

seas of matter with all

energy needed to travel

between realm to quantum realm

an electromagnetic leap

of faith in abstract math

forces and gravity

turn theory in

Quantum


Rictameter - the meter pattern (syllables per line) is 2-4-6-8-10-8-6-4-2.. First and last lines are identical.