Poetry of and about Niagara Falls & the Niagara River – the waterfalls, the city, the history, the stunters, and everything else Niagara
reaney
When the bridegroom
Reaches the room
With breath bated
He approaches
The moment long awaited.
He takes off his loud cravat
And his shirt and his hat,
His trousers and his shoes,
And his undershirt and drawers.
Naked, as from his mother,
He attempts with another
To return to that sweet night of the womb.
Source: James Reaney. The Red Heart. Toronto: McClelland & Stewart, 1949
watson stopover
Yellow trolley cars like golden pumpkins
Disgorging Cinderellas (for the day,)
And young Prince Charmings, friendly country bumpkins…
(They recently were married, do you say?)
Bright bazaars with giddy banners flying —
Basilisks, gorgons, carved, or sphinx —
And gaudy postal cards just right for lying —
And here’s a fount of rosy, foolish drinks,
Niagara Falls emblazoned on a cup ;
And, in a sugar-shell, old fashioned scenes —
Once-regal Indians now lifting up
A beaded thing, the Waterfall in greens.
The raucous hawker in the street is quelled. . .
(Administration building ? Left, sir. . . )
By that deep throbbing tone unparalleled
Authentic Voice that makes man’s pulses stir. . .
More Indians in the apses of the grove ;
The islands with their edges greenly shaded ;
And shy young couples — walking out — for love ?
Cabs and busses endlessly paraded.
The bridges where one pauses to inquire
Of very soul if eyes have seen aright ;
Sea-green, and speeding waters dripping fire —
The heavy masses slipping out of sight. . .
A far-set rocky isle by rustic bridge,
And then, within the river, one sharp jag
(Gull Island once ? It seems vast privilege
To meditate — the mightiest so brag.)
And now, again, that climax of the trip,
Observed but only to benumb the sense ;
The pouring masses ceaselessly that slip
Into dread chasms of Magnificence. . . .
Source: Evelyn M. Watson. Poems of the Niagara Frontier. New York: Dean & Company, 1929.
Click to see more poems from Watson’s Poems of the Niagara Frontier
watson stopover
They honeymoon in Canada
to see Niagara Falls.
She’s young, and he is very old,
but oh, Viagra calls!
A single night of nuptial bliss
these newlyweds will face.
The pills work well—but truth to tell,
his old heart can’t keep pace.
Niagara Falls: Viagra calls
for just a little while;
a widow for a newlywed,
a dead groom with a smile.
She cashes the insurance check
and goes back to St. Paul;
she thanks the Lord for Viagra
and for Niagara Falls!
© 2001 Larry Pace
Source: The author, 2001
inside a wicker alligator basket
hides a black and white photo
his children are the age
of the faces looking back
he peers into her eyes
able to hold the gaze
the engine squealed
fan belt slapped
severing all ties
the gas pedal
became a foot rest
in the fading twilight
two pairs of feet
tracked neon winks
thunderclaps
drowned their steps
they sprinted through puddles
giggling and shivering
registered
as man and wife
in the motel shack
the cabin had one twin bed
a dresser left empty
she hung up wet shirt and jeans
“I’ll shower first if that’s ok”
he laid wet clothes next to hers
she emerged wearing a white towel
draped it over the headboard
raised the patchwork quilt
folded back the sheets
arranged the pillows
slipped into bed
he turned into the bathroom
slid off his underpants
let the hot stream
douse his hair
sat in the warmth
patting and drying
then opened the door
flipped the towel
onto the dresser
rolled under covers
she smiled at him
“Are you ok? you look nervous…”
they met at breakfast
sixteen hours ago
her mother sat opposite
pulling on the straps
of her pale gingham dress
long blonde hair unbound
garden flower above left ear
“Thank you for taking our daughter”
her husband patted his back
shook hands nodding slowly
kissed his child on the cheek
opened the car door
turned away
strangers in bucket seats
she told jokes
sewed a loose button on his shirt
brought sandwiches on french bread
vine fresh tomatoes
roasted peppers cilantro
smiled whenever he looked
laughed nervously
at the New York state line
she turned away
lay on her side
switched off the lamp
he stared at the ceiling
listened to her breath
he could touch her back
finger stroke the course of her spine
hand trace the shape of her arm
to her hip across her thigh
palm drift along rounded belly
her belly — tomorrow
feet in cold stirrups —
she may have turned towards him
kissed him full on the mouth
he slept on his back
hands on stomach
in the morning the motel manager
asks “How’s your wife?”
snaps a shot of the couple
brunette and blonde in greyscale
next to a highway sign
“Niagara Falls 18 mi”
© May 6, 2000 Richard H. Fox
Source: The author
Click here to see a revised version of this poem
Richard H. Fox’s website – 
A colony of nudists sing through the waves
loose like sheer capes
at the border of here and south,
quivering unabashedly in orgasm.
It’s not the pirates or daredevils they want
or the hair of widows on balconies
stuck in their tracks with hearts spun like old records
under a mournful sun.
The honeymooners are who they desire
brimming with foam and white white sheets
trailing along the guardrail pungent with sex
even after a shower, still full of nerve.
Cascading down the cliff they signal,
follow the jump in their ears;
The mermaid voices sweeter, more difficult to cast
away than the lines of wedding bells.
Source: Priscila Uppal. Pretending to die. Exile Editions, 2001.