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Beach Work Poems | Beach Poems About Work

These Beach Work poems are examples of Beach poems about Work. These are the best examples of Beach Work poems written by international PoetrySoup poets

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Details | Free verse | |

The Butterfly Flutters By

The butterfly flutters by—
It’s the symbol of our Company.
That logo’s on my bus so high,
Where clients ride so comfortably.
That noted fluttering butterfly
Is a noble Pacific Monarch;
You can sometimes see it cruising by
The Monterey Peninsula, light or dark.
You’ll see my bus parked by fine hotels,
Classy wineries, the Monterey Aquarium,
Beneath the Carmel Mission bells, 
Or in Pebble for the A. T. and T. Pro-Am.
The butterfly flutters by—
And in case you didn’t know it,
The driver that waves as he flies by
Also happens to be this poet.*

*The driver has been working part time since 2007 for 
Pacific Monarch Ltd., which is headquartered in Marina, 
California.  The buses are navy blue with a white butterfly
logo.  The author has written many songs and poems 
while waiting in his bus between runs.


Details | Free verse | |

Revitalized

Clocks in the house were all but removed 
I chose utter quietude over malicious ticks and tocks.
Adhering to schedules was reliant on the angles of the sun,
and the sandy family hourglass artifact sitting by the side 
of me at my station, every hour on the hour reminding, and
I myself being ready to flip.  This was how not to live 
as a farmer and still be a slave to the working of grains. 
The sanctity of my spinning room was also my prison for
 forty hours every week, and a third of my adult life. 
Pressing down on the pedal below to see the top half rotate
and as my world turns I sometimes get approached. 
With significant fibers, their casual orders are mine for marching,
working that spindle to the satisfaction of the customer,
as was every occasion but my last one, the best one, the only one 
that I'll remember as special, delivering my soul from boredom.
My only daughter, sweet thing, no siblings to rival with
unless a naked, well tattered doll counts. She took it on adventures 
to the moon while I couldn't see my child, my savior expanding horizons.
It was silly not to see her blowing about carefree as the wind that day
without concerns over food and shelter all she desired was the deepest 
one of all.  She was sleeping on desires with every chance to dream for her 
best friend a modest cape for him to fly. Deep inside I knew her spirits 
and that doll would ride the same breeze but I had to say no for the silk 
was not mine. The customer was always right until the next day 
when I stepped out to the corner store for the bite of a sour apple, 
returning to an open door the hourglass was broken and my spindle bare. 
The world had stopped spinning, time had stopped existing… so long 
comfortable rut. Mortified for a brevity, just when I thought worlds 
couldn't change, mine had with the crashing of an antique. The glass 
littered beach on the floor was proof of that. The spindle was stripped of 
its importance and all of a sudden it hit me fast, so fast I smiled.
My daughter was no devil and yet she was the culprit stealing
my heart before and a cape now but it was okay,
just this once, to have a family legacy mocked
for the prosperity of a child's imagination. 
Seeing them fly in the backyard I dripped gentle
waves from tear ducts upon that glass scattered beach    
secretly grateful, values in my life were restored. 


Details | Free verse | |

These Brick Bound Boxes

these brick bound boxes 
fill this equinox of smart headed people
of these independent achievable people
critical analysts of this 21 century 
ready to be presentable to the unmighty 
smaller population of antisocial teenage children
willing them to be

not to be free, but inside these brick bound boxes
that fill the human intelligence with total
literate irrelevance to who we should be
to who can be 

ultimately like them
filled in these brick bound boxes
with mental instimulance
of a mix of lies, creation and motives
see, I don’t have a problem with any of them

just these brick bound boxes that hold them
hold this unforgettable willing mind 
of someone we chose to leave behind 
in these brick bound boxes

that encompass first the mind and then the soul
but who wants all this control?

society can speak of a whole.
an incredible strong mental image
of how life is to be--
within these brick bound boxes.

My life isn’t based in these brick bound boxes
but it soon will
creating a song of the monotone dead
longing to be passed on from generation to generation
but can't you see

can't you forget that this is not who we ought to be
unless we need to spontaneously combust
in this equinox till it metastasizes
catastro sizes to an everlasting dust
even you must ought to smell the musk.
 
So tell me, how do thee?
how do thee live with these brick bound boxes
filling up every empty not-yet-set concrete whole
implying of who you are before you could even
have some kind of control over yourself

its swept under the rug.
no biggie, you're just a kiddie
no actual value to this reality 
yet before you can buy alcohol

and I’m someone to sound big
I just don’t want to fill these lonely brick bound boxes
where the death of every living will cease to be a beginning
in this equinox of the everlasting dust,
so do you must, live in these brick bound boxes?


Details | Sonnet | |

Midway

To Gooney Birds

Shifting palm trees in sandy beach sunshine
Guard an immortal violet-blue lagoon
Gooney birds beg and dance all in a line
When they land it’s like watching a cartoon

As the ship is being refueled at pier
Steaks and beer on the beach with these strange birds
An island oasis it would appear
What I observed was truly beyond words 

Sailors in various degrees of dress
Being chased and attacked by vicious foul
While steaks burned with cold beer we couldn’t care less
By sunset my shipmates began to howl

A bizarre lay over as you have read
We left at sunrise all with aching head