Your eye's light shines like our moon, her moon...
she skips stones upon the sea--
...although we're just dancing
between the idea of shadows.
How can I hold the soul of a girl while
she's walking little stars on a string?
The night sea crashes as the moon,
at lightspeed; paints a Picasso upon every wave.
Open your celestial door and help me walk.
Sweeter words have flown,
but these are the only words I've ever known.
I'm so tired of chasing dark shadows
that disappear in the warm morning sun.
Some just wake up and walk out my door--
It makes my face grow longer as
the world turns me to face my
forty seventh winter wind.
Copyright © red barchettadrive | Year Posted 2015
The ancient Seer sees seas, well beyond the seas the Seer sees. The Highlander Seer sees the seas that traveled did he, to see what the Highlander Seer wanted to see. Upon seeing where the Seer seen, the scene, he'd seen, had been seen, so serene was this scene the Highlander Seer over the seas scene in his dreams!
Copyright © James Fraser | Year Posted 2015
A thorough yield
On a farm field of far east
It took me time to realize
How far I am to my far east of coast
Call of my weather
Call of my winds
I sailed further and farther
To my naked coasts
Naive songs, Nimble rains
Nile of rivers, Nascent clouds
Reaching this far
I kissed my earth
Ground of my grief
Glory of my ghosts
Glad is those leaves
However scanty they are
Cast is my shadows
No longer they hide
My colors and my figures
They cast numbers on stars
Measure their light
Scope my winters
Scale my summers
Scanty my rains
Scuttle I wish my springs
Now let me see my greens
Their leveling heights
Their leafy gaze
Their spiderly gesture
Their primordial texture
Now let me be slow
In company of my greens
#Poem by +Gokul Alex
Copyright © Gokul Alex | Year Posted 2013
Lazy I lingered on the porch of my terrace
a hummingbird was softly picking on a daisy
this reminded of the time when I lived at the coast
I use to watch seagulls as they dived into the sea
that ancient symbol of the strife to survive
But as I turned my eyes away from the sand
the hummingbird started to sing a melody
my soul surrendered to harmony
gone that old vision of agony
When I returned to the comfort of my lazy couch
in my head the hummingbird's song went on and on
took me back to times of innocences so clear and so pure
it finally won from that old cynic I'd become.
That was the day, I heard a hummingbird sing.
Copyright © ellinor sador | Year Posted 2013
The bay was smooth as glass
The sky was a crisp blue
The snow covered peaks stood
stark, gigantic, bold
My job was to row a boat,
to a raft of logs and tie one on,
and tow it to the pile driver
and dock crew while as yet the ships
The oar was dipped into the dark sea,
and pulled with eddies slowly unfurled,
the log was moving with the steady strokes
of flashing oars in Alaska on top
of the world.
What a joy it was to be paid
to stretch my body at this glorious job,
mastering a row boat in the time of fax
and smart phones grasped somewhere
by a mob.
A rush of wind riffles wavelets upon the bay
the heavy log strains the rope then yields
the unhurried course is plowed to Kenny
on the pile driver, eighty-five years old,
Just in time the cable comes down
I loosen the half hitches and Kenny shouts,
“Keep 'er hot boy, keep 'er hot!”
I snub the cable to the creosote log,
as daylight pouts.
I sit back to the oars for another trip,
but Kenny yells, “oh, it's almost coffee time,
get outta that boat!” The workers drop
PV's , 3X12's, chain saws to stretch
on the company's dime.
We saunter to the chow hall for mug up
in the hush of the bay and its wavelets
nothing but the breeze, peaks and foxes
and us, the poets of Paradise headed
The cook, a union member of the Merchant Marine,
fixed an abundant spread,
fruit juice, milk, hot chocolate, coffee,
cake and pastries baked fresh to
raise the dead.
After forty-five minutes we struggled up
to get back to the tools of our trade,
I climbed back in my row boat,
settled to oars ready to pull
green from jade.
It was a race to finish the dock
for the ships to come and unload
cargoes of salt, food, building supplies,
for the wretched cannery, days went by and
Kenny called us to mug up
and we dropped our tools and swirled
sugar in coffee and wolfed down pastries
slathered with butter in Alaska
on top of the world.
It was late about dinner time
I rowed the last log to cable,
“Keep 'er hot boy, keep 'er hot!”
that the Sea Provider cleared Priest Rock
as if in a fable.
She came up the channel blasting her horn
as the pile driver gave a final hiss
the last plank was laid as she came along side
and threw bow line, stern line, spring line to collective
Copyright © Peter Kautsky | Year Posted 2014
A fragile mind breaks
Wake upon the rock laden shores
A muffled heart begs to echo
Whispers lost among a velvet chamber
Dusk comes premature time and again
Dropping the curtain on an optimistic sunrise
If you never witness dawn
There is no tomorrow
Always the dreamer aches
Never awake to make real what he desires
The restless corpse walks blind
Dead ends seem fitting for one of the kind
Lost in the labyrinth of strangling vines
Love is the motive and the weapon
Taking root in throats dry from weeping
Sprouts of amnesia in place of smiles
A garden called heartbreak holds onlookers captive
The comfort takes hold, sets in the bones weary of searching
A plea for rest lands on deaf ears
The hollow boy tires of himself
The last request he will ever make
Lost and tired
He wishes to be weak no more
Copyright © Alexander Schwartz | Year Posted 2013
That reflects the ocean.
A ocean that is almost bottomless to the eyes.
No one is able to reach it, it is endless.
Will the day come when the chest of memories is seen by someone,
Or will it be buried forever, covered by the sands of loss and misery?
Maybe someday someone will hold up the key,
And unlock these feelings she has held forever,
And let them go until everything,
Is released, and she is
Copyright © Frisk Carris | Year Posted 2015
Let us drink to this
Ancient windswept stone, the pearl
Of Atlantic sea
All rights released into Public Domain
Copyright © Brian Chung | Year Posted 2016
Innocuous winds stir on the surface
Diabolical, sinuous unknowns, chilled to the bone
What dwells beneath is what concerns us
The Black Sea has secrets hidden in the depths
Dark ages wait in pain
Thick tar buried, expired with the spirit
Fermenting hate below the sunken boat
Something with bad breath and jagged teeth
Sinks deeper without sleep into the mind
Anticipates death and never rests
Lurks ugly in contempt with nefarious intent
Grabs for you to drag you down
There is no cure for abominations sent from hell
With malice, psychotic episodes that never end
Iniquity is not that pretty in the dark of hearts
Found at the level of the dead
Layers of warped consciousness licking at the brain
Over the edge with insanity to feed
It wants brains to eat to suck out all ideas
One thought at a time until they die
It does not matter that monsters have no manners
Etiquette is for the weak of mind, delicate of spirit
Creatures from the sea don't care what you are thinking
If this seems strange to you, familiar or too dangerous
Copyright © Earl Schumacker | Year Posted 2016
Her eyes gaze upward and witness
The bluest sky of some she has seen,
Issuing forth strength to her weakening soul,
Pure, warm - a living sea;
A towering terrain she plants her feet,
A flowing stream to point her toward
Realms beyond her simple child-like dreams.
She captures a glimpse of sunlight’s smile,
She sings a song of happiness,
A faultless peace, a gift of love;
Illumination creates merriment, and
Dominates her soul,
Disquiet and difficulty fade away,
An age of joy will be her harbor,
An age of love will keep her clothed,
An age of rest will be her guest,
Her spirit soars as sunlight washes ashore.
Copyright © kathleen stevens | Year Posted 2012
Chipmunks, squirrels collecting
bitternut hickory, chirping
against a small owl cruising
low beneath the trees.
Everyone has gone this morning
to school or work. Laundry rolling,
carpets vacuumed, cleaning
in the bathroom on my knees.
I'd like to be Whitman, praising
the pure contralto, Wynton practicing
all day. But like my father dying
I cannot hear what I cannot see.
Locally there's politics, processing
points of view. Eventually coming
to a decision, building or not building
windmills on the sky, bridges in the sea.
Insignificant and mighty happenings
seem the same from my vantage ageing
gratefully, inexorably, planning
how to die in my own damn way.
Copyright © Robert Ronnow | Year Posted 2015
I do not know?
I part my days:
One half for daughters not able yet
To count by hand
Or walk with open heart,
And a half for the man huddling upon the age
As heavy as the war
Or, like a palm with no breath of odour.
What left I turn to birds
Replete with white…
Fleeting sea gulls,
Butterflies lisping with magic,
Signs of Surprise,
Tales about elves,
And the carol
Living deep in the dream
Narrated by the grandma
As she was warning me
To run away
So that the core of the sea would cool off.
But, I forget her warning,
Wandering far out in my head,
But .. the clock calls to my dreams
So I come back…
To part my days:
One half for daughters not able yet
To jump as high as the wash rope
Burdened with woolen clothes,
For the man sitting in silence
Sipping the nectar of the present
And cursing upon the future sorrow.
Copyright © Faleeha Hassan | Year Posted 2012
Imagine ships glissading into harbour,
their masts scraping the sky, sails aloft,
billowy, like great bird wings fluttering.
Captains navigate their ships into port,
return voyages that crossed the seven seas,
riding the waves, north and south, east and west
from Jamaica to London to Timbuktu,
ship holds filled with bananas, sugar, rum
and molasses from sunny far-off lands.
Wives awaiting husbands’ safe return home,
pacing the widows walk, reading letters
sent months ago, hint of hardships and
menaces at sea that fuels anxiety:
imaginations run wild, spiralling –
fierce brigands besieging vessels at sea;
sudden squalls threaten ships, tossed to and fro,
waves like a leviathan, thrashes and roils,
wrecks run aground, pummelled by pounding surf.
Copyright © Carol Fillmore | Year Posted 2015
The Good Age and Sea
Like the wind flapping against the water
leaving you breathless, hoping for another day
say time has no moment for me and that is good,
the way it should be, doors closing behind you in
the rush of tragic human events undoing you and
these motionless patterns of thought transcending
now, what you have been, what you have become,
these blues bargaining you beyond the windows of
your own imagination towards a closer place of
fear, winding you up, like silly string at the parade
as they walk by laughing and you have to love the
riots and marketplace crowding with strangers, here
Copyright © Jonathan Elliott | Year Posted 2013
Kissed his student.
Punched his friend.
Accused her lover.
What if China's navy asserts control where our navy also patrols?
Should we concede the South China Sea? Not on your life! Or maybe.
Lives may be lost but so what. There's so much biomass in the
Lord have mercy on my soul
Which means bring my confusion into an expressible state before it's too
Sal went to jail. I belong to the loved ones. Never may the anarchic
man's thoughts be my thoughts. Not one.
It could be cancer or just a cyst
That killed Frost's considerable speck
Instead of considering its considerable intelligence.
Although bottomless ancient night stretches
From your short life forward, remember
It also stretches backward without measure.
There are few straight lines in nature and only one alternative to ageing,
so suck it up!
Suppose everything's fine and you've wasted your time wearing
sackcloth over your soul?
Start now knowing joy.
Copyright © Robert Ronnow | Year Posted 2015
Sailing to the coast of vision
With deep and silent sentiment
In favorable waves by the side
To uphold our country's pride.
With the mast of the ship like flag fluttering
To reach where everyone's dreams are fulfilled
With different cultures moving in same direction
For the ship to reach the destination.
Where people are fed with knowledge
And country moves forward as it age
Being the one to be proud to live on
And with our hopes shine.
Copyright © Venkatesh Raghava | Year Posted 2017
Run to the seashore
build sand castles
Sand in your toes
deep in the sand
Run in the waves
Poke dead jellyfish
pick up tiny crabs
feel slippery seaweed
in between your fingers
frown at the kids
relax in the sunshine
tan in your swimsuit
lie on the towel
under an umbrella
Brings her own
with their father
to the beach
and watches her kids,
watches her babies,
Copyright © Marie Viloria | Year Posted 2011
A sea of love
It's written in my soul
You're the only one
With me the greedy heart
Overrules the wise mind
Copyright © Pheko Motaung | Year Posted 2016
I do not know?
All that is living,
What once was strong
Has now all faded
Their days come and gone
The trees that once stood proud
Now appear so weak
The crystal clear waters,
Now so dingy and meek
An eagle soars by
Through the icy wind
Letting out a mighty cry
As if time has passed again
The sound gives to some
Hope and purpose
For the dawn of a new age
Has now begun
Copyright © Michael Harris | Year Posted 2006
land is threw you
And was laid on pavilion of a poem
It may not mislead characters ... Who are you?
A homeland on the door of hell though it appeared
your is emigration was to merit
did not shake the anti-palm trunk
To fall in your hand
Wet promises to the waves of the sea
His Salt ...
The lust of the hard soul ... maybe
That ... kill you
Your word is your land
Arabism is no longer enough
To feed you
A dark dream
Between border modesty
Satisfaction of expatriate saints
Blow your sadness, will kill you
And you are who
Taken from the hands of your priest
retained for the mole
He will not let you down
Believe you are the close neighbors of your soul
What inflicts the predestination for you
It was like a piece of candy
My hand fell
from your mouth
The sea does not lay down its children
My name is Yabibi
It is the paradise of the highest mortal
Of false nectar
As a tomb, its inhabitants did not inquire
A song to grieve your childhood
Sleep, my love
It is no longer within history
He who condemns your innocence
Or ask you
Is his condition
The sea does not feed its children
Copyright © Abdel latif Moubarak | Year Posted 2017
BLOWS THE NORTH WIND
From off North Sea, a night wind cold,
reminding me of growing old,
each joint in pain, each pain held dear,
lest in the end, I die from here,
but die we must, or so I'm told.
Out of the coming of the dawn,
tomorrow's hope, life's going on,
my hope for sunlight, soft and warm,
to rid me of my painful norm,
Night on your way!! O! Death be gone!
Out of the night, from off North Sea,
as I have mentioned previously,
no wind you've felt has ever blown,
so cold to chill your heart and bone,
so deep as this wind does to me.
Out from tomorrow's warming trend,
with dawn, the touching of a friend,
I hold the glow that kisses me,
as dear as life--it seems to be,
the touch of God, and not the end.
Off from North Sea, out from the night,
tis frigid, constant freezing bite,
The blowing wind, a winter's gale,
makes every joint I have to fail,
but love the pain, or die I might.
In light, tomorrow shall be less
of pain brought on by cold's progress,
and I no longer wish to die,
but hope to see you, by and by,
to make complete some happiness.
© Ron Wilson aka Vee Bdosa the Doylestown Poet
Copyright © Vee Bdosa | Year Posted 2017
Whose idea it was,
An early morning picnic by the beach!
The air is cold and the sea is loud
With the sea gulls all clattering
my husband fancies taking a dip
with the children all clamoring.
as the dog runs chasing rabbits
the wind’s thick as soup.
While I lay here in the picnic mat alone
Brushing sand off my dress,
There is a click and I look up
And see my daughter with the camera.
I frown and send her away
Wondering could it get any worse,
Before I could finish the thought
I look down , see the tiny ants,
Good, good ; the ants are here ,I say
I didn’t even know there were ants in beaches
I shake them off while I constantly wonder
Whose idea it was; whose indeed.
Twenty years later in the basement,
Going through some stuff,
I find the old photograph
Of the Sunday morning
In the photo ,
I see my husband in his shorts
Ready for a swim,
My three children , the dog
Everything I remember clearly,
It was the one my
of our early morning picnic by the sea.
My husband’s been gone four years now,
My kids are busy
making houses and memories
with wonderful families and happy lives,
all in their own new worlds
they all looked so happy
while I was galled
all of it a lifetime ago,
in that Sunday morning
of my life
as I close my eyes
and go back there and reminisce,
of that morning by the picnic mat,
with heavy baskets in my guard,
I feel the breeze and look ahead
In the fresh sun
I see my husband, young and happy
I look at the kids
and see time flying away
With the sand
Blowing in the wind
I look at them playing
‘never grow up’
In the moment,
twenty years of late,
by the Sunday morning
I look at the sea and smile
on the beach,
And I am happy for a while.
Copyright © Sitabz Garg | Year Posted 2017