John Anderson Poet Lyric

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She Shells Peas By the Seashore

She reads seashells on seashores like tea leaves,
seeing faint signs the ebb tide truly believes.
Each shell has fallen to create a spelling bee
in the clues the sea has scattered in its debris.

She lifts conch shells, gently to her ear,
Some shells hum softly of mariners drawing near,
Some hiss their warnings, dark, stark and austere,
Some reek of the brine, lost sailors once held dear.
Some recall battles fought in wild raging seas,
All are messages, the sea shells from its pleas.

So shell the peas by the seashore
where the sea meets the sand, once more.
Read the script, trace the score.
Hear the sounds, deep within shell's core.

So let the seashore tell its tale,
in fragments the waves unveil.
The tide will wash away each scour and scar,
Then leave us seeing what we truly are.
The messages surge in the ebbs and flows,
echoing what the tide brings in and knows.

So read the shells like tea leaves.
Hear the secrets told by pirates and thieves.
Embrace the meanings not quite there,
like latte art cast on crema's foaming flair.

The sandy shore shifts with every tide.
No single story ever remains the same.
Each wave writes a new fresh line,
so every person sees their own name,
in the peas and ques, shelled in the rhyme.

So read the shells, seesaw your biases adrift.
Take what comes in, then release its grift.
For the sea speaks with a forked shifty tongue,
that we love and hate, yet let remain unsung.

So shell the peas by the seashore
where the sea meets the sand once more.
Read the script, trace the score.
Hear the sounds, deep in the shell's core.

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