The wind picks up across Small Bay,
it whips the sand against my face.
The kitesurfers in bright array
are carving lines through salty space.
A crowd of families line the shore,
their children's shouts like distant bells,
while Table Mountain, ancient core,
stands watch above the crashing swells.
I watch the bathers, brave and bold,
who dive into the icy deep.
I join them in the biting cold,
but feel my spirit's heavy sleep.
I plunge beneath the frothy white,
just going through the motions there.
A ghost beneath the surface light,
with salt crust tangled in my eyes and hair.
I slowly walk across the cooling sand,
the Western sky a fiery bloom;
To join the others on the strand,
and dispel this encroaching gloom.
But as I reach to touch a hand,
my fingers pass through vacancy;
The bay is still, the water's grand,
and I am all that's left of me.
Alone it dreams
The inner bay where the water is shallow
I rolled up my trousers leg and waded out to see
the small polished stones
With sunlight and the clear sea, the stones had
The appearance of diamonds to kill for.
I took up a few, but in my hands, they quickly lost their
lustre; threw them back, my feet were cold, it was not
Yet summer, when the inner bay would be full of bathers
who wished the beach were sandy.
I love the month of February,
The shortest and coldest month of the season,
For an array of personal reasons.
And yet, it feels like Feb is the longest,
For the events that happen haphazardly,
Amidst treacherous winter storm blasts.
Quasi everything is frozen and solid near the nest
Of the American bald eagles,
Except the Mardi Gras masks under the rumbles.
February is the season of love,
The month of Saint Valentine,
A quintessential paradise cove,
Where lovers take refuge. Pure, Pristine,
Snowy, short, Pure, dark, and lovely; Feb's now
The celebratory month of Black history,
One wonders why and how
We get the shortest one. It's another story
That we should let the nomad seagulls
Decipher. No bathers on the sandy beaches,
Solely, a few birds are perched on the branches,
Far away from the cribs of the bald eagles.
February is a month of a kaleidoscopic contrast,
Where snowfalls happen quite often,
And hardcore lovers dream warmth under a heaven
Full of hope, love, beauty, and ice.
Copyright © January 2022, Hébert Logerie, All rights reserved.
Hébert Logerie is the author of several collections of poems.
The sky and sea intermingled as a mist evolved.
Soon a moon appeared surrounded by tiny stars.
From the beach, a whisper of awe arose, all wondered
Onlooking the misty phenomenon of a beauty rarely seen.
Night fell and some bathers rested on the sandy beach.
Could the sky kiss the sea, most wondered musing a lot.
It was a sensation of wonder and mystifying occurrence
Yet finally most lay down into a deep sleep and dreamt.
A summerlike breeze swirled around them prodding dreams.
Most wondered what could one find beyond the horizon.
Many felt that beyond was a void, others dreamt of sunken ships.
But many dreamt of fantastic beings that hovered around.
Soon the sun rose from faraway. Ships sailed placidly
And on the horizon, a cruise ship manoeuvred to far off lands.
Towards the thaw
As the days of spring are here, I should be happy having made it through the winter. The April breeze brings regret, remembering what had been pushed aside, no, I was no mother’s favorite son
Recalling every detail, overthinking every word said, reacting with angry silence as a defense to hurts felt as a betrayal. No, I was not a sweet boy happily playing in a backyard with a toy
The spring breeze also tells me of an ending, my doctor’s remark of scaring bathers with dark blue blotches on my white body, it is like the process of death has begun when still alive
My anger keeps me going. I was dealt a pack of cards and did my best, bought the small blue houses on the monopoly board the affordable ones. I have no regrets and wait in silence
This advertisement by ETSY is inappropriate. It depicts a greeting card of a man getting excited down there. And it crosses the line in the sand of what's decent and what's not. This picture is definitely distasteful and sexually suggestive, especially on a site that promotes its self as being family friendly.
It's like I'm visiting a public beach that's sunny and always family friendly and are suddenly blindsided by the dark clouds of nude bathers.
It's not right. It's not right for the kids. It's not right period.
A disapproving voice(s) is needed here so this complaint weighs on PS' conscious, where the decision is totally up to them to allow their cash cow to frolic in a meadow of immorality or to censor the picture.
It's in their hands.
But I hope they use the same morality as they do in censoring a list of banned poet's word, which in my opinion pales in comparison to that picture.
connie pachecho
3/29/25
Note-I thought about enclosing the image of the greeting card but it falls under PS terms of conditions that doesn't allow pornographic cartoons ... the irony. A train wreck will do.
I love the month of February,
The shortest and coldest month of the season,
For an array of personal reasons.
And yet, it feels like Feb is the longest,
For the events that happen haphazardly,
Amidst treacherous winter storm blasts.
Quasi everything is frozen and solid near the nest
Of the American bald eagles,
Except the Mardi Gras masks under the rumbles.
February is the season of love,
The month of Saint Valentine,
A quintessential paradise cove,
Where lovers take refuge. Pure, Pristine,
Snowy, short, Pure, dark, and lovely; Feb’s now
The celebratory month of Black history,
One wonders why and how
We get the shortest one. It's another story
That we should let the nomad seagulls
Decipher. No bathers on the sandy beaches,
Solely, a few birds are perched on the branches,
Far away from the cribs of the bald eagles.
February is a month of a kaleidoscopic contrast,
Where snowfalls happen quite often,
And hardcore lovers dream warmth under a heaven
Full of hope, love, beauty, and ice.
Copyright © January 2022, Hébert Logerie, All rights reserved.
Hébert Logerie is the author of several collections of poems.
sun's wrath red rimmed blaze
bathers bronzed
dolphins arcs graceful
You had our meeting
as a chat
like midnight bathers
haplessly skinny dipping
you had it to a fine art
I gave my best shot
like the brightest CV
I rendered my soul
and was found wanting
May I ask you
what are you truly looking for
like a jet plume in the sky
you jettison the natural order
whilst Rosy sleeps
A long line of waters
Deep in hearts of bathers
A lifeline of growth
Weep of salvation brought forth
Waters of life over a mile
Outrunning a thousand stile
Gifts of life in piles
Surmounting torments of viles
Dreams on waters slate
Streams of sages proliferate
Sun beam of neon flickers
Teeming waters on pickers
Wishers with panoramic views
Dreamer of waters purviews
Like well-wishers throwing coins over heels
Eye-openers on picker wheels
A river full of life
A river lull of strife
Outpouring a thousand mile
Outscoring a thousand smile
On this river of hope
A bigger dream to scope
A kaleidescope of scenery
Grandeur over tapestry
One day the said river dried
No one ever wondered and belied
Gold in pieces on the ground mounted
In the hearts of gold sprouted
Euphrates...
A river
It is a Renoir she said.
I was in no way interested.
The only artist I feel is less interesting is Monet.
But I liked her, so I agreed to go to the art exhibit.
One of Renoir's paintings intrigued me.
Captured a bit of my heart and soul.
I sat and stared at The Bathers for a long time.
Ready to go? She asked.
Not yet.
Cursive Consolations
David J Walker
Heartlessly pressing words into wine
Our feet are blood red from the crushing
Our heads flowing in faint rhymes
Into dry riverbeds genially growing
An ocean of poetry waiting
Waves bathe the salted bathers
On white beaches lying
Side by side naked in the sand
Sunning themselves in the afternoon
Toweling themselves of pungent prose
After the sun rose the following morning
I remember the rhyme one will say to another
Who has fallen deep into a sleep of poetic meaning
Are you listening one says
No, I’m dreaming he replays as starfish cover his eyes
Creating cursive consolations
***Summer's not quiet here yet, but I live in Florida...***
Summer
Earth awaken as a plethora of whales disembark from distant places
Frigid storms dashed into the skies destined to inhabit empty spaces
Sea captain tell seadogs to hoist skull and bones then fire pirate gun
White wings outspread dazzling albatrosses herald the season begun
Bodies swathed in lotion fervently absorb bronzing rays from the sun
Pushing crusted pails and trowels children tossed pebbly sand for fun
Bathers in the nude deny nervousness while bravado displays finesse
Footprints upon shores pay homage to the gods of true summer bliss
Penned on: 01/14/2018
4:53 p.m.
West Palm Beach
Florida USA
the Yanerbie Highway
The Yanerbie Highway
Is paved with white silken sands
Stretched between water’s lapping fingers
And the feet of towering dunes
The Yanerbie Highway
Runs at Southern Ocean’s side
Forever exposed to her turbulent moods
And the ebbing, flowing tides
Choose a spot
Under broad blue sky
And pull over beside
The precession of surfboards
Fishing rods, and bathers
Dogs with wagging tongues
Some chasing four wheel drives
Cruising the highway at a leisurely speed
Against a back drop
Of rolling waves and distant red cliffs
Four wheel drives with awnings
Awnings that shade smiling faces
A friendly wave, passing traffic
Possibly stop for a chat
Sometimes between friends old
Sometimes new
The Yanerbie Highway
Its silken white sands
Run along Southern Ocean’s side
Stretching into adventure
Blinded by shining shards of sunlight
reflecting off sandy summer shores,
give pause to wonder what unworldly sight
hides beneath ocean’s watertight doors.
The Sun, father of the shoreline
instructs his lazy children to light the way
for beach combers and bathers-in-the-brine
who worship the Sun and sand as play.
Burned flesh and scorched, fire-red eyes
accost non-believers shaking their heads,
bemused that the Sun’s brilliance belies
affair extraordinaire with the sand he beds.
The Sun and sand a reflective twosome
combining their charms and beckoning
unsuspecting lovers to a garishly gruesome
show of frivolity and a day of reckoning.
In other words:
Sun and sand, such teasers,
conspire to cruelly tempt and torture tissue –
faux pleasers.
Enthusiasts
promising romantic issue –
nets cast.
Beach waltz,
promise anew –
false
Sun and sand, such teasers,
promising romantic issue –
false
Edited 02/05/2021
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