He's used to war, he fights real hard,
He's a soldier, he's battle scarred.
The enemy is weak, there is nothing to fear,
His compassion is gone, he has no tears.
He was taught well, was taught how to kill,
He's done it so much, it's lost it's thrill.
He no longer feels bad, when the enemy dies,
Tears don't come any more to his tired eyes.
In the beginning it was against his will,
But he soon broke down, and got used to kill.
Never thinking that his foe, was also just a man,
Like him with a family, doing the best he can.
He cannot have feelings, for anyone,
But then, for a moment, he thinks of his son.
He wants to go home, but it's not time yet,
So he goes back to a war, that he wants to forget.
Next day on the beach, on his tour of duty,
Lies a child's body, on the coast of Turkey.
He cannot believe what he sees with his own eyes,
A cute little boy, with no signs of life.
Lying face down, right there on the sand,
He picks him up, with his big strong hands.
And when he saw that there was no hope,
The soldier realized he could not cope.
He shuddered deeply...letting out a sigh,
And that's when...the soldier cried.
Now the whole world mourns that little boy,
Many children elsewhere, receive another toy.
Yes, people stand by, while these refugees die,
Some see the news and say, please...pass the pie.
John Derek Hamilton September 04,2015
Copyright © John Hamilton | Year Posted 2015
Laying here staring out across the ocean,
listening to the sound of waves roaring,
gazing up at all of the glimmering stars,
lighting up the sea like a dance floor.
Counting stars as blessings life has given me,
thanking God for each and everyone of them,
so relaxing just lying next to the shore lines,
trying to draw in the last bits of the night.
The full moon shining ever so brightly now,
and the waves calm down to a gentle splash,
a light breeze pushes softly against my skin,
I grab my sweater and drape it around me,
as I go to leave I stop and turn around,
just to admire the ocean one last time.
Copyright © Rachel Trine | Year Posted 2015
Morning breaks in cheerful warm brilliance,
pale sapphire sky pristine.
Grey-white gulls glide vociferously above
in search of firma bound fare.
Reflections of Sol’s arms vault from the sea,
smooth but for zephyr stroked folds;
pure, sugar white sand kissed softly
by persistent waves subtle roll.
Soft ghosts of tepid breeze course random,
sensually caressing what be;
long thin-bladed grasses sway lightly
in synchrony and shameless delight.
With bonnet in hand an aged woman strolls
beside the vast Gulf of blue;
damp, firm sand squeaks soothingly
against the soles of her tired bare feet.
Her large eyes of brown focus ahead,
bear no witness to her days and shine;
fine flowing hair of luminous white
draped over shoulders so slight.
A pause, though brief, in quiet reflection,
her gaze upon the distant view
and mind in stoic reminiscence
of past friends and loves and wonder.
His strong arms hold her close tightly,
warmth of body and soul unite,
while gaiety in unbound laughter
disclose love once again renewed.
A tender brush of hand upon cheek
raises fiery passion in both,
as excited young eyes meet in ardor
essence link in eternal embrace.
One warm briny tear born of these thoughts
streams slowly down her cheek,
she slowly walks on as sand squeaks soothingly
against the soles of her tired bare feet.
Copyright © Michael Santner | Year Posted 2005
Waves crash down on the rocks reducing them to sand
Then sweeps them away to some far off land
The wave roll in covering my feet in sand
In the concept of time I wonder just who I am?
I gaze before me the vastness of the sea
Represents all the possibilities inside of me
I can’t think of any place I would rather be
I have trouble describing there’s so much to see.
I walk out to the rocks to find some treasure
I find many starfish much to my pleasure
It seems that the only way to go is up
So I step up and take a drink from life’s cup.
Peace and tranquility fill me inside
While the waves provide a pretty good ride
The water is cool and so refreshing
All of the pieces seem to be meshing.
A seagull in the water and gets hit by a wave
I dawn a smile and feel I am saved
I like how the sky melts into the sea
Over the horizon sounds like the place to be.
The adventure I’m on may never be through
Sometimes I’m not sure what I should do
I just press on and see what shall become
I like what I see so I try to grab some.
Copyright © Mark Russell | Year Posted 2011
Things seems to be very clear,
When actually felt it is unclear,
What really seems to be clear,
May never ever be clear for ever.
Your help for others,
May be to be appreciated,
Or taken as what is called,
to be uncounted.
My question is clear,
Why the help for others,
Is sometime never appreciated,
However it is always delivered.
In response to ethics,
lingers in my mind the answer,
To help others is not to be recognised,
But it is to be called someone,
Who can be respected.
To all, continue to help,
Not to to be appreciated by others,
But to be respected by yourself.
Copyright © Balbir Singh | Year Posted 2013
There was one spot upon the hill
where when the sun was just right,
and you got up real early, you could
see the ocean. Just a glimpse of it
as the sun bounced its morning yawn
across the bay. It seemed a million
miles away, that strip of salty coolness
glimmering in the distance. We had gone
there once, riding busses with the
windows open, the smell of city
pouring in and the thrill of mystery
and adventure building. The slender
strip of ocean now become the suitor
of horizon’s hand, hot grainy sand
to sift between the toes and waves,
Oh man the waves, that slapped against
hot skin causing shocking shrieks and
shivered smiles. The taste of salt
licked slowly from the last French
Fry, the feel of sand and stone in
tickling erosion beneath the feet,
the touch of drifting seaweed, the
tightness of fresh salted, drying skin.
Shared sandwiches and Kool-aid
raised to gourmet grade by scented
breeze off ocean waves. Hot seats
on stifling bus and fast asleep,
a stone to hold, a memory to keep.
The spot will e’er remain the keyhole
that I peek through at a day, one day,
when we were there, the sun, the sea,
the air, and me.
John G. Lawless
submitted to – Summertime Fun – Poetry Contest
sponsor – Debbie Guzzi
Copyright © John lawless | Year Posted 2015
Dawn’s arms rock us awaken
First light guides our eyes open
A minute or two we bask
Before we rise to the tasks
Buzzing we go, all duty
Not missing the melody
Of plans laid out well in war
When the battle cry did warn
Signs were posted in plenty
In aches of flesh past groaning
Clocks ticked too fast to keep up
We sensed the call to the Sun
Finally armed and fueled
We three and the engine revved
Taking routes always farther
Away from the walled master
Warmer becomes flesh and heart
As we steer like movie stars
Heads high to catch the sun’s drops
Eyes shaded in blissful lost
Soon we are flying through air
Passing green-eyed rooms with cheer
Bucolic scenes blaze colors
How beautifully they merge
Tempo slows as deep blue nears
Silent, the wait comes to bear
Descent is smooth, toes sink in
Digging in grains so golden
It is here we recover
Here, we let go of the war
Copyright © Terry-Ann Coley | Year Posted 2013
E-Z Glo Punk, Lightning Flash,
TNT Devices will burst, do crash
Southern Night, Piccolo Petes
are hard to beat...
I like hand held Sparklers, Tanks
flashing fountains, Solar Flare
Six to #20 Gold I have to share,
no incidence, no burns, thanks...
Whistles blow, fountains glow,
pop'n sounds, entire sky all aglow
I love those colors, high an low
trails eched onto my retina
inspired me to let ya know
Now you close both eyes
in pitch dark, what a surprise
for you to see, right there
darkness, absolutely anywhere
beautiful trails of lights in motion
"Always read a label of caution"
Copyright © Perry Campanella | Year Posted 2013
I was in-processing my Army unit in Germany when the fortieth anniversary of D-Day happened; but, alas, I couldn't leave. I wanted so much to be there to meet the old surviving veterans, to shake their hands and hear their stories. I had read accounts of D-Day-- June 6th, 1944. I had already seen several times the film The Longest Day, based on the book by Cornelius Ryan.
Eventually my family followed me back to Germany, and we later took a vacation that included Normandy.
We visited Sainte-Mere-Eglise, and I pointed out the manekin of Private john Steele--the paratrooper that had gotten stuck on the church's steeple.
We visited the upper German fortifications of Point Du Hoc, where Army Rangers fought their way up impossible cliffs.
We paid our respects at the US war cemetery on Omaha Beach, and my sons and I walked where so many Americans had died to free Europe.
My wife was very somber and respectful at these sites; she is French, and grew up hearing stories of the German occupation.
I often still watch on June 6th either The Longest Day, or Saving Private Ryan, and try to imagine my forebears on those beaches.
Copyright © Mark J. Halliday | Year Posted 2015
The rush of swish against the shoreline
The wind blowing swift by is a sign
A storm a brewing, clattering, and shattering
The thunder clapping a great sky battering
The waves swoosh higher up
As you can get this sound like in a cup
But more so just cover your hand
Now the feeling of grit giving sound to sand
Whoosh! the wind takes your hair
It is fear-est when water spit as it declare
War on your skin, with vibration that pings
And the silence of slow blowing wind sings
Copyright © Reynaldo Mast | Year Posted 2013
Dear Past, Present and My Dear Future
Wearing a coat
Or call it an anorak
Through the rain he takes his steps
And on the road he walks
A hat to cover his head
Like an armored personnel
He is dressed
Anodized from the loneliness in his pumping flesh
It beats even now
It used to beat then
With hopes for it to keep beating
Till his soul sees a dead end
Inside a shell he used to hide
But now he breaks it
And takes a step ahead
Humiliating his past
Silently announcing life’s rebirth
By his anodyne walk
He walks and walks
To the mountain up ahead
He stands at the foot and
Looks back at the far end
He then says with a
Smirk on his face
“Now it’s time”
And then breaks into a smile
Hoping for the best.
Before he walk
Any further ahead
He says to himself
“Dear past…. I will miss you
but its fare well…….
Dear present …do know
Its happiness if you think
And sorrow if you think
Oh Dearest future…
I know not what you bring
But I hope your decision to be best
And I know I will do my best
A test you will take
Of my fate
And my ways…
But help me to choose right
And help me to correct
My dear past and change the fate I fear
No more of that I shall suffer
For I feel I am in good hands and hoping that’s true…”
He walks again up the mountain and by this the rain stops
No fear, not scared for he believes in a
Bright future and
So does the sun shine above…
By Manthra ©
Copyright © manthra har | Year Posted 2015
It was a warm summer night
In a glowing neon dream
When I walked under palms
By the ultra-violet sea
Where Soft light rained down
Gently spread upon the beach
Hazy sky and oceans blurred
Aqua, orange, purples, pink
In the atmospheric twilight
I strolled the endless avenue
Mixing with the bar lights
Entranced by the sea view
Reflecting on the waters
Were flickering yellow strokes
Where freight ships turned to fairylights
Like a painting on the Rhone
Along the lamplit concourse
Ambient and watercolour washed
A stream of strollers poured
Soaking up the dusk
And With the flow of a ghostly breeze
I brushed by lovers and loners
Slender exotic joggers
And the Sunset bathing homeless
To this day it burns inside
My first night in Limassol
She left colours in my eyes
Copyright © Johndinsky Official | Year Posted 2014
"A sunset is the proscenium between Heaven and Earth
where Gods reminds us that he is
always close by."
Copyright © Jeffrey Forman | Year Posted 2015
LE TRE SORELLE
My favorite spot in Italy, and perhaps anywhere, was Ristorante Le Tre Sorelle
in Positano. It was at the bottom of at least a hundred stone steps, just on
the right, and right on the beach. A hundred steps seemed like ten, with
delights for the senses on every step. Chic bikini shops with tan young clients,
tiny pastry shops, ice cream vendors, mini-galleries, and lone musicians, all
bathed in the soft bright sunlight of the Amalfi Coast.
Le Tre Sorelle had affordable pasta and a priceless view. Between
checkered tables and cobalt sea marched the ancient beauty of humanity in
every form and state.
Over espresso, we created names for people in this parade, to suit our
fancy. “There is Mr. and Mrs. Cold Obtrusive boring Mr. and Mrs. Kind
Receptive.”, we might say, or, “There is Mr. Old Fat Rich failing to interest
Miss poor Young Georgeous.” Sometimes we would separate our unwitting
victims into “should wear bikini”, “maybe should”, and “never should”
classes. We made up other rude categories depending on how much wine
we could afford with the affordable pasta.
The challenge of youth in Positano was to find a place to sleep for free.
Step one in this quest was to find a pretty girl who also had a hotel room. Step
two was to persuade her to share it. Step three was to sleep on the beach.
But the beach was duly patrolled by the Beach Patrol. So the trick was
to dance in the last-open disco until everyone, including the Beach Patrol,
were too tired to care. Then with luck, we could borrow some fisherman’s
boat cover for the night, until the fisherman went fishing. Still, this meant
one or two good hours of sleep.
Besides, at sunrise, we could swim in the sea and chill ourselves awake, just
long enough for the first espresso of another beautiful day, at Le Tre Sorelle.
In spite of youthful nonsense, the crushing beauty of Amalfi, both human
and stone, pressed it’s lovely wisdom deep inside our souls.
Copyright © James Rudd | Year Posted 2011
(listening to cuando me enamoro while reading is very much recommended)
She was sitting on her bed while resting her back against a pillow that she placed vertically against her bed's headboard. The chilly evening breeze managed to sneak inside through her bedroom window so she snuggled her legs under her rather thick comforter. Her face was expressionless to begin with- she felt empty and hollow. She checked her phone and played the song Cuando Me Enamoro sung by Enrique Iglesias. It has been a while since she listened to it. The girl always has a thing for Spanish songs as they always give her tingles and tickles.
When I am falling in love (Cuando me enamoro).
Closed her eyes and she could imagine herself walking towards a beach. She imagined a large white beach resort facing towards the ocean. It's sunset now. Pero por dentro, entiende que no puedo, y a veces me pierdo... That song again, sweetly paired with invigorating beats produced from a light brown bongo, properly harmonized with passionate husky voices and matched with a benign nylon strings of a Spanish guitar that were plucked meticulously.
Huu...uuu...cuando me enamoro...
The feminine wind rippled through her white maxi dress. She took hold of her sun hat so that it won't get knocked off by the wind. Her long dark blonde hair was blown softly. She was feeling the moment but to her despair, a few strands entered her mouth so she quickly got them out and tucked them behind her right ear in order to not look like a person who's too starved they eat their own hair.
Okay, back to the beachy mood.
The music is still playing, obviously because she put it on repeat. The bongo is her favorite part- it mixes so well with other instruments. She smiled as she listened to it. The feeling of confidence has started to seep in so she decided to act as if she had experienced everything including the ups and downs in life.
Si la luna sería tu premio, yo juraría hacer cualquier...
(continue to Cuando Me Enamoro II)
Copyright © Nur Abidah Mahri | Year Posted 2016
Prone,lying side by side
Lapped by an ebbing tide,
Together upon passion's ride-
In love's embrace enlocked
This watershed,no longer shocks.
Copyright © Brian Strand | Year Posted 2007
Her shadows followed her while she was strolling alongside the beach. The red hues of sunset fell upon her skin and emphasized the freckles on her cheeks. The girl desperately wanted to remember the taste of independence and openness. For some reason, the loud sound of the crashing waves complemented the song like Haley Reinhart and Casey Abrams. She felt the texture of every grain of sands beneath her feet and squished it only to see that they come right out from the gaps of her toes. Some Spanish dancers would be perfect here... And a cocktail.
Cuando menos me lo espero me enamoro, se detiene el tiempo...
The wind is getting colder. A huge boulder was placed just near the shore. It was dry and large enough for her to sit on top of. She hugged her knees and gazed out across the broad crimson sea, throwing the feeling of longing far towards the horizon. A mixture of maroon, apricot and amber colors painted the sky, performing a balmy gradient. A few small crows were present like blank ink being splattered across a canvas.
Si la luna sería tu premio, yo juraría hacer cualquier cosa por ser su dueño, por ser tu dueño, oh...
She stayed there ‘till the sun buried itself into the horizon and the bright spotlights at the beach resort were switched on. The music stopped abruptly.
She opened her eyes slowly... One by one, the furniture in her bedroom came to view. She looked out the window and it was so dark outside, already night. The girl lifted the comforter to take a look at her two paralyzed legs and let out a small sigh. She closed her eyes and subsided into her bed quietly. Went into the beach resort and continued her fantasy. Only this time with different song, obviously.
Si pudiera bajarte una estrella del cielo, lo haría sin pensarlo dos veces, porque te quiero, ay, y hasta un lucero, ay.
26 March 2016
Copyright © Nur Abidah Mahri | Year Posted 2016
Even as thunder boomed mighty overhead
and power lines on San Domingo Avenue outside
faltered and succumbed to the tempest
the Ortegas stood breathless in the family room, gaze transfixed
upon the television screen like so many deer in the headlights of a truck.
Finally a flash from without, and a snap
extinguished all light within the household. Ten seconds passed
without a sound. Then the father uttered something and
the family members scattered, each returning a moment later
bearing possessions of infinite value. Within a minute,
all had crammed into the station wagon, evacuation route ingrained
within their minds like a seed of hope.
All but one. Manuelito had been lost.
The mother howled and flied back into the house,
tears streaming down her face hard as the rain.
She reached the back porch, and to her eternal shock
found Manuelito standing alone on the beach like a mannequin
eyes locked upon the Cyclops-eye of the storm.
The mother cried out through anguished sobs
in vain, for the howling drone of the wind overpowered all
and when Manuelito turned around to face all that he loved
he did so with all the finality of a grown man
resolved upon his course of action.
The mother abruptly ceased her crying, and
her countenance briefly matched that of her son
as she, too, turned her gaze upon the jewel center of the storm
and was hypnotized by the awesome power of the divine.
At length she regained self-consciousness, and her eyes
darted back to that segment of the beach where her son had been standing
but his figure, like a stream of sand on the dunes of time,
had been replaced by nothingness,
the allure of the unknown and
Poseidon’s call of wild fury
too strong to resist.
Copyright © Jesse Jones | Year Posted 2007
Look at the gal
Look at the gal
Facing the sea
Living her freedom
I did see
What is she
A part of an angel
Come n see
Through my eyes
U will see
The same I trust
Look at the gal
Look at the gal
Xperiencing science !!!
Copyright © anjanjyoti bhattacharjya | Year Posted 2015
Salty mistiness enters my head.
Nostrils take in. Waves crash!
Sting rays sting! Crabs scatter!
Sandcastles, built wet on dry sand.
Walking miles on water-lapped shore.
Caesar remains, constant companion.
Then man politely asked for my hand.
Next year, for my hand in matrimony.
Ah. Salty, misty, water-waves pull.
Floating out to horizon, swim back.
Suck in the sweet, ocean air retreat.
Summertime vacations, every August.
Gray, weathered house, long ago gone.
It provided shelter, bed to lay head.
Shish kabobs! Stone crabs from fishy,
Dead heads on string. Left turn, bay.
Copyright © June Ellen Smith | Year Posted 2010
Long slow and stealth streaming on Buzzards Bay
Oil Tank Barge Bouchard one twenty glides without a care.
Challenging the reef she is sliced
oozing her poison into water’s life there.
Wrecking havoc while she spills her guts
Barney Joy Beach all awash
with venom that did kill the lonesome birds
daily doing their morbid tasks.
Undertakers, non-paradisal birds
not wanted, not welcomed, but rudely caste.
Never loved, nor despised
themselves, they are unconcerned about appearances
save that of life or death.
Once eating their fill they spread great wings to fly.
They are undertakers free from peril
while they gorge upon the death of others.
Open and shut their doubled edge swords
dividing asunder even bone and marrow.
Rotting flesh and graying skin
stomaching a retching stench within.
Without the undertakers myrhh (mur)
of the buzzards pointed beak
carcasses would be strewn upon
the wondrous shores of Earth.
This sight of unattended carnage
would cause the eye to look away
less one might glance upon the bleak.
Plumage of spreading wings do shrink
as the plume of destruction spreads
Death Barge Bouchard one twenty sinks
as Buzzards Bay lays dead.
Sea waves scrubs the sandy beach
that graveyard with blackened stones
written upon with a killers ink
inscribed “Here lays the buzzards bones.”
Oil Tanker Barge Bouchard One Twenty’s Captain
adorned not the albatross that day.
It was the “digger” he killed at Buzzards Bay.
The remains of the undertaker’s bird
around his neck to stay.
Copyright © Mark Hounsell | Year Posted 2016
Never thought I could enjoy being this cold
The sand is firm beneath my bare wet feet
The sun hides behind clouds that threaten rain
Wind finds holes to shiver in my hasty thrown on jacket
And yet the aloneness of this wade into the wind
Is a satisfaction in itself as gulls group huddle ahead
Stress is long away from this brisk feeling
Glasses fogged and filled with salt mist brushwork
Change the distant view to Van Gogh swirls
A tern dives into rolling water to rise again in triumph with a fish
The sand between my aching toes is driving me to wetness
Soon I'll turn around
Halfway taps my shoulder insisting
The tide turns as the jetty rocks appear
What other fool would call this walk enjoyment
I see a figure sitting there content
Turning with the cold wind on my back
I leave her there alone with running tide
Put my useless glasses in my pocket
I feel like dancing in the runback water
The cold has gone I'm filled with joy instead
Copyright © Donald Meikle | Year Posted 2008
With the closing of the day,
I sit and watch another ship slowly sail away.
I run my fingers gently thru the sand.
And watch its warm wet substance softly flow thru my hand.
I see nature and all its wonders and the heavens up above.
The sights that I am seeing, had to have been a special gift, a gift of Gods’ love.
Something like this just didn’t happen, someone had a plan.
The creator who made it was no mortal man.
It’s almost like the earth lives and breathes given a mind of its own.
When it gets mad and angry its awesome force we are shown.
Come spring it’s like a lady all ready for the dance.
Filled with awesome springtime flowers that weren’t put here just by chance
Each new season we see it put on a different hat.
Each and every season gives us something spectacular for us to marvel at.
It was Gods on hand that sat on this land.
And God is the one who has total and full command.
Copyright © Ronald Bingham | Year Posted 2007