Best Beachcombing Poems
Early morning
and I walk the shoreline
of my waking mind,
picking over what has been
washed up, the tidal spoils
dislodged from a dream,
scattered memories,
the flotsam of time.
These are what I lay
upon a page,
the beach strewn litter
from a throw away age
and weathered sea shells
that speak, murmur into
a listening ear the incantations
of the deep.
Clouds floating across the azure blue sky like sailing ships over serene sea on a sunny afternoon
Two barefooted boys beachcomb the warm sandy beach leaving footprints behind
Unaware that there is another world around them
listening only to the resonant sonorousness sounds of the sea
cold sea air rolling inland ruffled their hair
Calm waves silently creep leaving a slight spume over the golden tanned sand
then slowly drawing a breath, taking their footprints back into its turquoise depth
The boys seem to take pleasure
daydreaming of visionary fantasy of hopes
scanning the sand for treasures
that has washed up upon the shore
Perhaps a treasure map in a bottle written long ago
or a carved figure mounted on a pirate ship’s bow
cocoon in the sand only shown when the waves roll back
Soon the sun will draw it curtains close
and the night will yawn a whiff of cool air
exposing its sublime moon
Two weary boys walk away from the beach leaving footprints behind
carrying a handful of seashells and stories to tell
12/8/2016
The painting above the poem is an oil painting of my son and nephew painted by me, I call it, " Beachcombing".
Waiting, watching, listening for the storm to reach the shore.
Swirling the waters cauldron; lifting the ocean floor.
Relocating and destroying - beachcombing aft the wind has blown.
Walk the sands of turmoil - collecting cuttlebone.
Ah, wish I were gone beachcombing...
... among the fewest fondest words
conjuring up simple, sparkling joys
in a seemingly pointless pastime
when the whole world of waged work
wants me to do only that which is
cost-effective, truly ensuring ROI:
never mind divine artistry on shells
and the tide that must have kissed
the shores of distant continents;
just trudge to the jobsite enduring
bone-snapping cold, blistering heat,
...and the indignity of "No ID, No Entry!"
Ah, wish I were gone beachcombing.
I grow sands with you;
More than time slip by...a kiss—
From my world's ocean.