The Lone Beachcomber
evening sunset, all are gone, I am alone
I enjoy this loneliness
tonight, the sand is mine.
Symptoms in sand
from my passing footprints
ocean is sick in waves
As I sag with water
while the salt burns
symptoms in sand
A dizzying sprite
haunts the shores of yesterday
from my passing footprints
The tide lurches
still... for my heart
ocean is sick in waves
Endless pulse of ocean's dance
carries flotsam to the sand.
Every day another chance,
prodded by an unseen hand.
Such a love I've never known—
waves crest on his brilliant mind—
after many nights alone,
sure there was no love to find.
The gentle wisdom in his voice,
urging wind-tossed heart to mend.
Remember, love is not a choice,
it finds its harbor in the end.
Such a kindness in his eyes—
passion sets my world afire,
and once more, to my surprise,
his whispers with my hopes conspire.
The sea has washed this love ashore,
and I, the beachcomber, unaware.
A glinting pebble, lost before—
just walking, I have found it there.
BEACHCOMBER
You comb the beaches
Detailed to the inches
At least you might be fortunate
To get even a wanton mate
Your line you carry
You look like one in hurry
But your eyes are sharp
Ready to the unlucky one map
The bait is appetizing
Drooping with mock rejoicing
But microbes it sports
Found in promiscuous ports
But sailors on it fall
And purge their worries -- all
After paying the toll
Then you automatically smoke them over the rack
With ss behind your bare back
You examine your levy
And say, They die of envy
Your heart is never heavy
But your speech is wavy
We live by the sea, just we two, you and me
It offers us all that we need
From our heads to our toes, you make all of our clothes
From sea grass and sometimes sea weed
If our ocean provides it, you will utilise it
I so like the way that you think
Our clothes made from stuff that you found on the beach
But your feet, well they surely do stink
Those earrings you made from a couple of cockles
That pendant you made from a shell
Your bikini top is a strap and two scallops
But your feet, they surely do smell
I keep us well fed from the sea and sea bed
While you keep us suited and booted
You’re my Wonder Woman it has to be said
But your feet, well they really are putrid
We sit on the shore and we like nothing more
Than watching the waders and dippers
But we can’t stay long, there’s a God-awful pong
For your slippers are made out of kippers
[For the uninitiated, kippers are butterflied, smoked herring.]
The
mud larks
seek pickings
on a dirty
shore
A
sea pie
provides a
picnic on the
strand
A
twitter
of waders
amidst tidal
wrack
haunts
the strand-
a turnstone
uncovers a
shrimp