Prose Poetry Beach Poems | Prose Poetry Poems About Beach

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Details | Prose Poetry |

Sand Castles

Upon a beach I came to stand
And watched a child at play. 
He did while playing in the sand
A point of life convey. 

With scoops and buckets he did build 
A structure tall and grand. 
And to the child the beach did yield 
A castle made of sand. 

But as he left, I do recall, 
Away I did not turn. 
And with the coming night would fall
A lesson to be learned. 

The tide came in, with force did strike, 
The castle could not stand. 
And I was shown how life is like
A castle made of sand. 

And man is but a child at play, 
His works they will not last. 
For all he builds within days
Shall be by time surpassed. 

Each thing we do, Each thing we say, 
Each notion we conceive,
They all to soon shall pass away, 
Yes, this I do believe. 

We leave no mark, we leave no trace
That shall forever stand 
Be sure my friend time will erase
Our days however grand.

Copyright © Stan Bradford | Year Posted 2007

Details | Prose Poetry |

A Day at the Beach

Are we having fun yet?
I think I’m doing everything right.

The three-hour drive only took four hours.
My postage stamp of beach is
staked out and blanketed.
Soda and Kool-Aid float in
tepid water in the cooler.
Beach towels, bathing suits, balls,
umbrellas, goggles, fins, chips,
hats, sun block, sand toys, lawn chairs,                   
and Solarcaine are near at hand.

I know, you see, because I carried them
across every damn inch of a quarter mile
of burning sand while the kids chased
seagulls and picked Cheetos off the

Are we having fun yet?

Sand has invaded personal spaces
even my gynecologist hasn’t seen.
My hair has twisted itself into Rasta locks,
saltwater style, and I can actually
see the freckles exploding like popcorn.
I lie down. I open a book. I am promptly surrounded.

“Mommy, it’s hot. We want to go home.”

Are we having fun yet?

Copyright © Mary Oliver Rotman | Year Posted 2015

Details | Prose Poetry |

I won't be Home For Xmas

I won't be home
not For Christmas
nor for funerals
not for birthdays
Wanted to never see you
on those days so hard to get through.

When you abandoned the sweetness
and chased your dream into the alley
When you thought it best to see me cry

When your mind changed with the direction of the wind 
I stood there with spit on my finger tips...
holding my hand in the air,Waiting for the winds of hope
to blow your love and loyalty in my direction

Home is a strange city
where no one knows me.
where no one will invite me to sit across the table
and try to smile as I play with my stuffing on china with flowers
As I remember the children laughing and opening gifts.
I remember the long silent ride back to our house.

I think back when I got on my knees
before climbing into our cold bed 
The prayers just uttered coming back void.
Ask God to just let you touch me again
I needed your body-heat to keep warm.
I needed your support to continue on 
for the sake of the commitment.

For the sake of waiting for love to remind you
Even if pity could hold you there..
I would not be ashamed of what you sacrificed
When love had given birth to pity-
I would have held on without pride.

Now I never want to come back to that town.
Where no one cares that you don't love me.
I am in remission.
Alone but it's OK.
Please tell our future to visit me. 
On the seashores. 
The sun warms me in
my new home 
where no one knows me.
All my old friends are 
dead and dying.So...

I won't be home
not For Christmas
nor for funerals
not for birthdays
Wanted to never see you
on those days so hard to get through.

Just my spirit and the ocean.
and one day tell our grandchildren
Grandma will be here walking;
With one finger in the air moistened with spit.
to see which way the wind blows.

Copyright © Vicki Acquah | Year Posted 2013

Details | Prose Poetry |


(Apropos My Island Home..)

The sun slowly sunk
its exhausted reddish-orange
head into the waiting sea’s 
soothing sky blue bosom.

Excited white mane waves
splashed upon the waiting shore;
leaving the froth of their tears dissipating
in stilled sand soaked with haunting memories
of the disembarkation of stinking slave ships.

At the entrance gate of the sea wall,
a newly painted sign read: Guest Only.
Sighting my ebony epidermal hue,
red coral eyes of a bleeding conscience
painfully motioned me to move on:

Pity, you can’t be a guest
in your own yard. 

Copyright © millard lowe | Year Posted 2015

Details | Prose Poetry |


A gray dawn, a dark twilight.
 Daybreak, dawn, dusk.
A flash of lightening across the horizon.
 Windswept trees, in all bent shape, 
Such is the result due to harsh winds 
 That travel for miles and miles.
And we have no knowledge from where it came from
 Or where it is going.
But that its travel continues across the daunting mass
 Called; Ocean.
Oh how it churns the water.
 I can feel the mist and spray cover my body
And tingle my hands.
 Standing in the shallow the air blows about me
With sandy hair raging like fire, slapping my face.
 A feeling of unknown,
Watching angry waves become violent.
 And a shiver of coldness, trembles my body.
A sense of peace,
 I have one thought;
Where did it come from?                                       

Copyright © Elizabeth Brown | Year Posted 2015

Details | Prose Poetry |

Siren's Song

I long for the open sea while gentle waves call to me in my sleep
Dreams of salt air and a boundless horizon
No words ride the night, yet I hear her song and know her voice.

Stand I here at waters' edge while the moon bids her rise to greet me
To embrace her as she beckons me to follow
To become one with her, or perish in the striving

Marooned, here I stand on this island in the sun
Afraid to plunge into the depths, I am rooted…captive
Denying myself passage to that distant horizon

O happy tide, would that I were as free to leave

Copyright © Christopher Thor Britt | Year Posted 2013

Details | Prose Poetry |


He comes, a seaside golem,
walking like Frankenstein’s monster
because sand has filled the crack in his
behind, and his feet are shod in at least
two pounds of beach.
He carries his pail and shovel.

“Mommy, I have fun!” he chirps.

And I love him in spite of his sandy behind,
in spite of the leaden feet
and the grit in his hair,
in spite of the fact that I know who’ll be
removing the sand.

I love him because he’s my golem,
and, well, he had fun.

Copyright © Mary Oliver Rotman | Year Posted 2015

Details | Prose Poetry |


On a bright day
I will be
Grabbing a drink at the bar
Brighton Beach, it seems so far
Coney Island is where you'll find me
Sideshows and Hotdogs
Where I need to be.

Copyright © Jillian Sabecky | Year Posted 2015

Details | Prose Poetry |


When you first said you were in love, we were standing at the edge of the sea, just you and me and the sand beneath our feet, staring out over the water to where the sun and sea meet. 
You said you were in love with a girl who had shipwrecks in her smile, and eyes like a storm. The kind of eyes that every once in a while, would clear into the bluest of skies, and you could fly away right into them. 
I couldn't bring myself to look up at you, so I just looked at the water that kisses my toes, because god only knows that a boy like you could never be talking about a girl like me. But then you said my name, and I swear no one will ever be able to say it the same way you did, and I couldn't stop myself from looking at you and smiling just a bit. And you just had to say the worlds that stopped my heart for the second time that day, "there it is, that shipwreck of a smile..." And in that moment in time, everything was just fine. 
But baby, if only you knew what a shipwreck the rest of me was. 
Because I loved you like the ocean loves the shore, a love that makes you constantly come back for more. And you loved me the way the morning sun loves the dew on a leaf, in the brief moment it's there, the sun makes the dew shine and sparkle like something brand new, but all to quickly, it dries up and is gone.
And now I realize that I could never make you stay. 
Because when I showed you more than my shipwreck smile, and you saw shipwreck that was my soul that had sunk to the bottom of the ocean, you knew I was far to broken... And you left me here, with sand in my bed and a hurricane in my head. 
Because I loved you with every drop of water in the sea, but you never took the time to learn how to swim... Instead you crawled out of the surf and walked down the beach, just out of my reach, until I was left alone with my shipwrecks and sand castle home.
So my blue eyes have turned back to gray, and I'm back at the edge of the sea. But this time there is no you, all there is, is me. And now its bittersweet, that I can feel the same sand under my feet as I dive into the waves and swim away to the place where the sun and sea meet. Maybe I'll find you there, at the place where the sun and sea meet.

Copyright © Allie Rosenthal | Year Posted 2015

Details | Prose Poetry |

The Beach

The beach is peaceful this
Autumn evening, the odd
screech of a seagulls
jealousy as it scraps for
pieces of flotsam.
The soft slap of the tide
as it paws the shell and 
shingle, grey slate clouds
lumpy, uneven, as if 
someone had stuck egg
trays all over the ceiling.
On the bumps were tinges
of orange and scarlet, the
remnants of a recently
departed sun.
Whispers of sailors lost
and the love of Aphrodite
mingled in the ozone,
borne on breezes that
had kissed foreign shores.
A heartbeat of tranquillity
brings the memories, with
every kiss of the wave, the
walking , holding of hands
the leaning on craggy 
outcrops, those never ever
forgotten words passed in
the innocence of love.
And so in the ambience of
whispers and kissing waves
I walk on, knowing this 
beach is not as secluded
as I first thought. That tide
may erase the footsteps of
the past, but the sands of
life are there to walk again. 

Copyright © Daniel Cheeseman | Year Posted 2010

Details | Prose Poetry |

God With Us

"What is your heart called, Elizabeth?"
'My Heart is called, Grief.'
"Why? Why is your heart called grief?"
'Because it's yearning, has been yearning, and will forevermore continue to yearn.'
"Your heart yearns Elizabeth? What is it like? Elizabeth, what does yearning feel like?"
 A lake, a river, an ocean, mountains, and trees were all around. The clouds, the wind, that heavy sense... I stared off into the distance.
'It's like out of empty darkness the sound of a sad, shattered, broken heart crying out. Yet depressed in silence and is in solitude. It sees all the secrets and lies... that lie in the dust.'
I turn to the little girl. 'How do you heal a Broken heart?'
"That IS deep, Elizabeth. Your pain.., now I can feel it. But--but you are single-minded Elizabeth, not knowing Emmanuel.' "
 The wind picks up my long dark hair revealing a tan naked back, and I once again look out at the ocean. 
'I know Emmanuel not, because--because I've become unfaithful.'
"I have heard of the pure in Heart' before."
I look down at the little girl, oh so beautiful. 
"And it's those who seek God."
The little girl looks into my eyes with those eyes, I cannot remember what color they were.
"And God they shall find."
I gasp.
The little girl then holds my right hand. "Elizabeth, dear Elizabeth, 'Pure in Heart' does not mean free of sin, but rather knowledge and understanding."
But my mind doesn't think of this. I can't let go of the thought of why this little girl talked with so much wisdom yet appeared to be about the age of seven. And then the selfish thoughts all come back to mind once again. Placing me in the deepest rabbit hole. To sudden terror, to extreme darkness. I hear my heart mourning. I can't take it any longer, I free my hand from the little girl, clash my own together and I fall right down to the ground in front of her, at her mercy.
'Can you!? Can You please free my Heart!? I have died already, I know I have! I wish some of the things I ever did never happened, I'm Lost, tired, angry, confused, selfish and bound in chains with every step I take! Please tell me what I must do to unleash myself! Please, I am willing to do the good, for the God I left long ago that I believe in so much.'
 The wind blows harder then ever at that moment, and takes my hair across my face. I see nothing but I shiver. And the shivering becomes trembling. I felt like I was being held, I felt like I was being cradled, I felt like the sea was rocking me back & forth, and I felt sand be...

Copyright © Elizabeth Brown | Year Posted 2015

Details | Prose Poetry |


tho  i sweat
you can bet
i like it wet
the beach
the sandy feet
the sun love to run
in the hot sun
am a hot weather bummer

Copyright © kurtis scott aka curtis futch jr | Year Posted 2014

Details | Prose Poetry |

The Bridle Coo

My brother liked to steal my cloze
I said I like too wear my socks two

He had a girlfriend named rose
That he'd bring home when our parents were aweigh

He'd say to her "I love you deer"
And give her a flour or to

One day I said "I want a girl that listens to medal"
He laughed and told me I was cereal

But I mustard up the courage without mintsing words
And i said to his girlfriend "you should merry me"

She said "yes" and my brother could only grown
But he'll be my best man when me and her get married at the beech

He'll be wearing socks and sandals by the see
And I'll be sockless but merrying rose happily

Copyright © K.M North | Year Posted 2015

Details | Prose Poetry |

Staying Afloat

When doors close, there's more to it than denying you access to what’s inside. We often think that what’s inside is something we cannot live without.
So we feel disappointed, disillusioned, dispossessed, disabled, depressed.
Sometimes, we are overwhelmed, feeling shut out, as if no other doors exist.

Often, it takes a little time, the kind that heals all wounds, as new doors open.
Coveted things inside the closed door loses their appeal as we were healed.
We discovered our life’s purpose down the hall or across the street;
Our phone rang with a new opportunity, as we sat  for a bite to eat.

Some doors are meant to be shut, because there is nothing for us inside.
At first, it’s painful to the face; but later we realize our life has meaning.         So we lift our heads with that same face, and smiling we say, “Thank you”.
“Thank you”, because often, only ‘doors in your face experiences’ can bring epiphany.

A job change left me away from my family, living on a borrowed 50 foot boat.
One stormy El Nino night, I rocked and rolled; by God’s grace I stayed afloat.
Life’s not always a treat, nor is it a retreat on a sunny beach;                       but life will always reach out its hands, offering to teach.
03222016 PS Contest, When A Door Closes, by Broken Wings

Copyright © curtis johnson | Year Posted 2016

Details | Prose Poetry |


Salty air breathed from crystalline peaks
I breathe in And catch a glimpse 
of the dancing, bowed bodies.

They perform a graceful ballet;
like arrows shot from an archer’s bow;
they leap, breach and roll.

Their eyes have seen ages of brine and shifting sands.
I wonder if they really are the “Watchers”; 
like the “Dogon” stories portray them.
Did they once have legs instead of fins 
and can we really be their children?

Perhaps that is why they are so quick to help us;
Why a child who can not speak can suddenly come to life?
He won’t be silenced again, 
after all, he swam with the dolphins.  
Could it be the magic of the dance that heals?

Odd, that they are always there when needed
And can transform a stagnating life 
into a miraculous moment of rebirth!

Copyright © M. L. Kiser | Year Posted 2014

Details | Prose Poetry |

These Salty Waves Pt 1

What am I supposed to think? What am I supposed to say? All these lies you bottled up come sweeping, crashing with the tides. My footing's gone, the ocean real, but how am I supposed to feel? And here I am, a drowning mess, a loveless lie, I do protest. And here I am a drowning mess. So all those things you said to me? Where they just lies out of pity? So all those things you said to me? Or am I lost in salty waves? Yes I know my future's grave. Or am I lost in salty waves?And now the panic in my head, when I should be tucked up in your bed, reels and reels right here instead.I'm going down, a sinking ship, funny what name drips off my lips. It is not God, or Angles plenty, or even that I'm just damn ready To let go of the hell and the lies. I'm wishing for your gentle eyes. Or at least the way they always seemed, but perhaps that's just this salty dream. I have no clue what I'm to do! A drowning hopeless mess, for you-- think it's cute, and oh so funny, but here's the bitter truth now honey. I'm going down. There is no help. I can't be saved by God himself. I put my life, my whole world of trust, and you've thrown it away for lust. Well what the hell's a girl to do? I'm just so entranced by you!

Copyright © Erika Raiken | Year Posted 2012

Details | Prose Poetry |



When I’m gone
remember me in tamarind season
reflecting the bitter
sweet of life we shared

Raise eyes 
to the ambers 
and blues of Caribbean skies

Listen to the thunder
and hear my soul 

In the searching winds of time
look for me in the ebb and flow
of  the tides:

Frothing the shores 
with salted memories.

Copyright © millard lowe | Year Posted 2015

Details | Prose Poetry |

On My Beach

I've missed watching most clouds floating past
during this life,
probably better as a spectator sport
than an insider's game.

I've missed most summer-fertile ferries
available in my life.
Usually watching from the shore,
passed by to wonder how it would feel
to see and smell and taste more
of exotic destinies and times,
tropical paradise
thick jungles and majestic ranges
feeding hungry oceanic eyes of other visitors
on this spinning miracle of life.

Perhaps in my next life
I will become a ferry
bringing those who say Yes!
to ancient plateaus of earthquake riding delight.

Copyright © Gerald Dillenbeck | Year Posted 2016

Details | Prose Poetry |

A Child's View

We went to the beach, but it was different. 
The sand was black and sticky. The smell made my eyes water and my throat burn.
I wanted to go home, but then I saw him. 
At first I thought he was just a rock - a big, black, sticky, smelly rock. 
But then he shivered.
I showed my mom. She gasped. "That's a seal" she told me.
I think she was crying.
We fetched my red wagon. The seal was very heavy. 
Mom said be careful, he might bite!
But the seal was too tired and sick to lift his head.
We took him to the Sea Life center. We made a strange parade; 
A mother, a kid and a filthy red wagon.
The lady inside looked tired. Her sweater was crumpled and her blouse was buttoned wrong. 
She used warm water and dish soap to clean him. She said he was covered in oil.
 It would take a very long time to make him better.
Every day I came back to visit. At first he was too sick to notice me. 
When he breathed it made a barking, rasping sound. 
The lady said the oil had burned his lungs. 
Slowly he began to look more like a seal and less like a dirty rock. 
One day I came and he was swimming in a small pool. 
I asked the lady if we would take him back to the sea now - I had my little red wagon. 
She looked sad and shook her head. 
He could never go home. 

Copyright © Rose Whelan | Year Posted 2016

Details | Prose Poetry |


That's her name, 
a small silhouette of her shame.
The simple games she plays; a smile worth nothing
certainly she isn't worth anything.
Trim and clean, no, not what she seems. 
The straight edge of her hair,
oh, ever so fair.
Each cut tells a tale. She beckons in her unclear haze,
Is home, but it seems not so.
That's her walk; simple, well dressed.
The tip of her tongue, stayed from guilt causing speech..
Her teeth pale the calmness of her person,
Oh a smile worth nothing.
Every move she makes has some form of purpose;
she knows where she's ending up.
Anger-less, with searing shoal of blue waters. 
Sensitive, what is an ocean of blue without rain followed by a smile?
Happy to say the least, loving to a fault,
tempered to the point of understanding.
Evil like the good that comes from some clean fun.
Awful at her best,
yet the worst compares so much better. 
She walks in withered past and crumpled future.
If she falls no-one will pick her up,
yet her smile is worth nothing.
If she could talk she would tell her story.
Yet she can't speak,
her voice is gone.
Her love is shattered.
The lightning strikes the shore,
the sand wells up into glass, only to shatter,
shatter like her heart.
She thought she could swim,
the water how it cared now about her plight,
simply to toss her back to the glassy sands that cut her heart.
Here it would be,
she would cry without her voice,
her only defense, where,
as it was,
her pale smile.
Couldn't she see him and how much he cared; 
He wouldn't know the knife had slipped,
or that sirens buzzed with retribution.
How long does a dark day last?
How long does a dark night last when even the day is dark?
Both could only last much to long for her,
yet, here came he with flowers to meet her at home.
She wasn't there, with which he carried heavy heart- 
seeing the tape and the crying man.
When would daylight break?
Would the night ever set on her calm reprise?
Now they've sent her away; he's hung his head,
she's died inside, her apathy grown, how could she cry?
Mid morning, the light in the room was still the same.

Copyright © me Me | Year Posted 2015

Details | Prose Poetry |

the beach

              the beach

whitecaps overlapping the ocean
listening to the waves  come in as
the sun shines brightly on a new day
it is so inviting and
everything seems much better 
with the ocean roaring
it’s brand new every time
feel the sand beneath your feet
as you walk along taking it in
wondering where it all
comes from and where it goes
yet it does another dance
as before inviting you to
sit, walk, or just stand
and watch the most fantastic
show you will ever see


Copyright © Jerri Ward | Year Posted 2010

Details | Prose Poetry |


Be like waves which crash on the jetty

Washing all our impurities away

Waves like a crescent curtain dangling in its fringes

Unearthing sunken precious stones

Hurling them up above the elevation

Hanging on dear life right ahead

Waves that don't crush us because we wish it

Waves that surface and in turn are subdued

Waves we are in this depth of consciousness

Appeal to and unearth your Godly wisdom

Uphold and hang in the untimely crush

Be strong, be heard, be known and be well

For all will suffice at the end of the spray

Copyright © Coty Benrimoj | Year Posted 2014

Details | Prose Poetry |


The individual bits are nothing but added together, and the sand stretches on. It feels like fire and it feels warm perfect for your bare legs and not yet enough for your covered arms. The blue bag is tossed aside the ribbon that used to mean something floats, trying to catch your attention; begging you not to give up. But your stare is calm and determined - towards the empty sea surrounded by faded sand trampled by invisible beings -as you get ready to throw the gifted disk, now meaningless, into the empty sea where it will become heavy in another medium surrounded by faded sand trampled by none but you
Bre Varzena - Nov 23, inspired by Eve Roper's oil painting 5

Copyright © Bre Varzena | Year Posted 2015

Details | Prose Poetry |

Desire to be Better

That day like all other days
I stopped at the cigarette shop
To light up and blow away the blues
The packs have bigger warning pictures

At sundown a friend offers a drink
I readily agree, saying to myself:
why can't I give up?
why can't we just meet?

I should do this
and ponder on...
I end up performing rudderless
wandering in the wide sea.

The chains are removed
there are no blinkers
it can travel far
Into every nook and corner 
it is unstoppable 

I want to check
I wish to do...

Copyright © Gautam Shankar Banerjee | Year Posted 2016

Details | Prose Poetry |

Fleece Quilt For Curious Stars

Gentle ripples float about his wheels, searching inquisitive around spokes, questioning apparent lack of motion, now the little fish turn their backs and swam back. Eyes intrinsically profoundly fixated on innermost thoughts, where loud voices debate the time away in warm orange evening glow, fleece quilt for curious stars Ears catch finest nuances in vibration inside, the soft rumble ebbs into loud roar of high tide and first waves leap and lap at his numb feet with never ceasing hunger As if with sorrow, he pulls the rims and wheels himself out, thoughts collected and arranged in fluctuations Undulations and arranged back into working order *** February 18, 2017

Copyright © Darren White | Year Posted 2017

Details | Prose Poetry |


How alive the light appears--
bending with the water--
sliding from points of crests;
making one wonder
if light is only above
or somewhere in depth of sea
a spirit spark swells
until it can do but one thing-surface!

This is not morning sun rising;
or moon or starlight
tempting one to dream--
it is the light that men follow...
even onto the cross...

Copyright © Joe DiMino | Year Posted 2016

Details | Prose Poetry |

zil zil zil I am so cool

Sat under tree,
Near the shore;
Heard whispering sounds, 
From the lake;
Kil-kil-kil I am from hill,
My mom is cloud,
Dad is mount;
Tip-tip-tip drops from clouds;
Conceived by mount,
Like a seahorse male;
Then makes, 
Tiny spaces for my flow;
Grow wider and wider,
Finally, reaching land,
I shape into massive lake;
Zil-Zil-Zil  I am so cool,
Flow like dancer, 
Sound like lyrical song;
I really read what in your mind,
You sit here, 
But flow in different world;
Seems, you're lonely sad;
Feel my beauty,
Cogitate through your ears and eyes;
Sound of mine heals your pain,
My flow as dance,
Cheers your mind;
Oh! My love, touch me once,
Zi-zil-zu! I am so cool;
Comfort your lone,
Give you feel, 
Someone there sharing, 
Your emotive pain;
I'm selfless liquid meant for you,
Meant to quench your thirst,
Enemies, friends together drink,
Remedy for all your needs;
I live as moisture, 
And breathing breeze;
I as gas h2 and O,
Flow in chill sky,
Yet on earth flow as liquid lake;
Water, Aqua, eau, natlie, 
What you wish you can call;
Seek protection from forest, plants,
Save them to save moisture land;
If I dry up or die,
Life on earth too will die;

© sadashivan nair 

Copyright © sadashivan nair | Year Posted 2016

Details | Prose Poetry |

Genius Sorta Smells

Welcome to the integral states of up and becoming polypathologists,
deep MindSense/BodyFeel ecologists
listening graceful co-mentors before gratefully speaking
ecoconscious evolutionaries.

Past Yang political Angers 
recreate Future Yin-Fear of hated economic decomposition,
depression, etc....


Past Yang-Truths
recreating Future YinYin Fertility
of WinWin healthy regenerativity.

Let us check our polypathic receptors together.

What do monocultures smell like to you?

Like death maybe?

What about monopoly of ownership and power?

Smells too hot-humid-sweaty for me.
And, not that fresh sweat either.
That old dried-in rank
building up in some dark closed airless
locked up silo of uncirculating fat deposits
for months without acknowledged end.

What about monochromatic?

Like death racing supremacist skin 
and gut-burning ethno-arrogant fire.

OK then, now to brighter options.
What does polyculture smell like to you?

Like rich fertile soil
under sweet wildflower meadows
surrounded by lavender bushes
and wild cherries in my mouth
and on my dripping hands,
while stomping grapes into wine
that smells as rich and fertile as maple's spring sap.

How about polymorphic fragrances?

Green grasses 
and wooded forests of trees,
yet also bloody metallic-boned noses
and surfing seas
and a faint whiff of well-fed farty asses.

Hmmm. Polyhedral?

Fragrant fractal fusions of surfing saltwater
on a warm sunny day
with a cool pacific breeze
caressing my nose and eyes and ears and atlantic hair,
noticing horizons as clouds
yet also other seasonable opportunities,
reasonable dialectical dipolarity,
the equivo-ambivalent center of surf Yang Inhale
with Yin Stretching Out concave...

Sounds like a good day at the beauty beach?

No, that's the smell of polypathy,
total genius
smells like money that's been sea-salt stored
in a very special place
by a very special someone,
wanting to invest totally in me,
each Other,
and Earth's full Tribal health.

Polypaths smell like healthy cooperative wealth.
To me, anyway.
How 'bout you?

Copyright © Gerald Dillenbeck | Year Posted 2016

Details | Prose Poetry |

FEEDBACK on Baltimore

A few soaring trees 
Here and there
On a green earth
Flowers with flesh in girth
The costume bear
No wear and tear

Air going out in BMW
Air coming in seven hues
This show is likely due to
System in a capital skew

In front of them
Is the waste land
 Marshy messy meadow
Dull bushes in shadow
Looking ugly and small
Staring at the marble hall

“Can’t we get 
Some healthy sunshine 
A little shade by a hand divine
A tender touch of love
To get rid of 
This wheeze and whine?”

But apathetic capital 
Pays no heed
Day goes and night comes
The vulture is sure to return
Peeved mass of despair
Inflammable in the air

The other day came the headlines
Two fleshy plants molested
Raped and confined
Turmoil in the spine

The force opens fire 
A gloom dies then and there 
Tale of tearing tears everywhere 

Grousing   gore  
Whether here in this shore
Or in Baltimore

Be that as it may
We shall overcome
In the long run
May be it will take
A lot of decades.

We have stars as our guide
And dream inside.


Copyright © Probir Gupta | Year Posted 2015

Details | Prose Poetry |


                I LOVE YOU

I love your lips when they’re wet with wine
    And red with a wild desire;
I love your eyes when the lovelight lies
    Lit with a passionate fire.
I love your arms when the warm white flesh
    Touches mine in a fond embrace;
I love your hair when the strands enmesh
    Your kisses against my face.

Not for me the cold, calm kiss
    Of a virgin’s bloodless love;
Not for me the saint’s white bliss,
    Nor the heart of a spotless dove.
But give me the love that so freely gives
    And laughs at the whole world’s blame,
With your body so young and warm in my arms,
    It sets my poor heart aflame.

So kiss me sweet with your warm wet mouth,
    Still fragrant with ruby wine,
And say with a fervor born of the South
    That your body and soul are mine.
Clasp me close in your warm young arms,
    While the pale stars shine above,
And we’ll live our whole young lives away
    In the joys of a living love.

Copyright © katie kirkland | Year Posted 2015