~ meloostraightfromhertilt-a-world ~    [Author's Home Page!]
  318206   Poems Read   


[Poetry PoetryPoem] [Poetry Search] [Contact Us] [FREE Site] [Home] [Poets] [Login]


cat speech

The Little Bird Said

A Start Again...(I Green-Dreamed Again Last Night)

two out of three people

Lonesome Love



All The Changing....

Nameless

Night Train

Some Children Have Nightmares (tentative title)

Home, Ghuey, Sweet Home

A Dog Should Have His Tail...

Enough to Clear The Clouds Away 4/13/2019

Checking Out

Devious

Hope Is Sometimes The Best Of All You've Got (definition poem)

Last Night

Someone Send Out A Search Party

Crows...writing exercise in honor of April /National Poetry month

Words

Only The Choice To Be

When People Go

The Day You Left (Words From A Half-Remembered Dream)

Wake Wake Wake

It Is In The Rain

Dream Goblins Of The Night

Wake And Remember

Unwelcomed Like So Much Unfinished Business

In March (Finally, Spring 2016)

All For Algernon

Weak In The Knees

The Finisher's Song

Nothing's Sadder Than A Rose

More Poetry >>

Sweet Old Red    (River)

I will go down to the river.
I will ride my rusty blue bike.
It is dark by the river.
The dense trees make a curtain to block out the light.
I will sit near the tombstones.
I will read to the old ones my young words.
I will listen to the living river groan,
The wind whispering and the chorus of birds.
Here I am someone.
Here I am at my best.
Here I sit happily alone.
In nature my tired heart sighs,
is at rest.
I forget all things, all others.
My thoughts come to life and begin to roam.
With the rush of the water pulsing in my ears,
I find I feel most at home.
I will go down to the twisting banks
of the river.
I will shout and listen for the echo
of strength my tender voice delivers,
the new voice I've gained since
coming here.
I will walk among the tangled tree snags,
then sit and linger.
I will stay and watch the sky turn to purple night through
my small fingers.
All becomes calm, becomes clear.
Here its true, no flowers grow but
the discarded plastic ones from long neglected graves.
Here its true, an old beaver uses
these same flowers
and tamps them into his sturdy dam,
like an old miser utilizing everything he
gathers and saves.
Each day
I will go down to the river.
For the muddy Red is good enough for me.
The Red may not be the great Mississippi,
But her pace and her peace is slow and easy,
So I sit down beside her and just be.

From an old childhood memory. This is a real river that flows north. One of very few that does.

Copyright January 29, 2002  Melissa A Howells Tilt-A-World  Meloo





Vote for this poem

Sweet Old Red (River)


Comments

 

Email Poem


©2000 - 2019 ------- Individual Authors of the Poetry. All rights reserved by authors

Sign Guestbook Read Guestbook

   Tell someone about this Poem.    blank

[ Control Panel ]
Last 100 Poems

Search over
400,000 poems!