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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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.
Copyright © karl marszalowicz | Year Posted 2013
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.
Copyright © Mark J. Halliday | Year Posted 2014
I do not know?
I just want to write. No labels...no titles. May I scribble my thoughts down? I may not remember them later. My mind wanders quickly. One rambling thought after another.
Copyright © Christina Hons | Year Posted 2015
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
Copyright © Gary Jones | Year Posted 2007