Best Breakwater Poems
The harbour rests from the rolling waves
Of a windswept and tempestuous sea
Beyond the breakwater lay sailors graves
Where shipwrecks in eternal sleep rest free
Once lured upon the rocks they didn’t see
Now ghosts of sailors take their endless rest
With sirens haunting cries, their bemoaning plea
Heard in the wind and the waves foaming crest
Yachts now moored, as their owners misbehaves
In dim lit cabins with lovers on their knee
Pink gin’s at sunset and acting like knaves
While jealous husbands spy hiding on the quay
And lovers sit on their boats drinking Chablis
Other yachts sit forlorn not looking their best
Their days spent at sea, with the call of the siren’s banshee
Heard in the wind and the waves foaming crest
Fishing boats chug past, their crew now waves
At those waiting for their catch with impish glee
On the quayside, fish, their customers now craves
And the fee for their catch they readily agree
Then having a meal completely buckshee
The fishermen go home for a well-earned rest
No more trawling, hearing sirens or wailing kelpie
Heard in the wind and the waves foaming crest
Life in the harbour for some is all but carefree
Yet for others it may not be so heaven blest
As they sail troubled seas where sirens can be
Heard in the wind and the waves foaming crest
As I watched,
like a lion with its prey
the wave growled and snarled
while crouching, preparing to pounce.
Rushing up the sloping shingle beach,
it reached out and dragged pebbles
down into its lair.
I heard
the rasping raking of the beach tumbling
pell-mell and headlong into the sea
and saw
stones spewed out as leftovers
in the next cold wave of grey water,
breaking in trails of white foam
along the coastline.
I watched
the wind-blown spray
and the black clouds over grey water
threatening and evil;
a wave rose, a hooded cobra
striking the rocks of the breakwater
before devouring them.
I listened
to the plaintive cries of
a young herring gull high above the sea,
blown sideways by the gale.
But
full twenty feet from the shore
the black-clad cormorant sat securely smug
on a post, the predator’s perch.
A swift, triumphant swoop filled his beak with supper
and I watched as he flew away.
On one night,
is it because of a bewitched full moon?
while driving my rusty shaking junk car
I became Don Quixote de la Mancha
mounted on Rozinante holding a lance under the arm aslant,
and with a full gallop, dashing into the battle field, through the street where
the full moon was hanging thirty degree above the sky between forests eastward.
The trees standing both sides on the street
dyed by reddish-yellowish gray moonbeam in silhouette
were the windmill sails whirling their gigantic arms in air to assail me.
The red and green one-eyed giants
often met on the way eastward were the fat and ugly
demon-possessed skins of red wine that must have slain.
Flourishing lance to the right and left
while giving spurs to Rozinante again and again
to advance rapidly, I found myself in the middle
of enemy territory before becoming aware of it,
detouring annoying barricades, I was running through
the path between ramparts while ducking a shower of arrows,
came to the endless water front where disabled Rozinante fell.
When raging waves come and hit the breakwater
for the water cannot advance any further or is able to return,
the waves break up the hundreds and thousands of beads and
return to the bottomless water while flushing its silvery blue scales.
And when sprays of water that dived into the deepest sea
gush out from its bottom belching fire, it rises to the sky
and becomes a gigantic dragon and swallows the moon.
In the darkness where the dragon gathering dark clouds
after swallowing the moon the rain falls, the torrential rain
hits Mambrino’s helmet mercilessly.
Then, Don Quixote kneels to make the sign of the cross
while patting a breathless Rozinante lying on this desolated waterfront.
The cross he made falls on the sands,
the cross he made mourns while washing away in the water.
[Someday,
some may sing Don Quixote with the finest lute in hand.
Praise the gentleman Don Quixote de la Mancha
with silvery voice in one accord, with unforgettably kind remarks:
the one who lived true life of knight is
Don Quixote de la Mancha
the knight of knights, the hero of heroes.]
NOTE: The Golf Road runs from east to west on north suburb of Chicago, and east (ends or starts) at Lake Michigan.
When you are watching the surging water
rushing to a breakwater by Lake Michigan
under the dusk gathering reddened sky,
and the water flies in the air for a moment
to form the spray and hits the lake’s surface,
it returns to the depth of the water where it came from
then, the passing time that is drifting on the water
pushed by the heartless surges turns its back to see
the trails left behind, the life somewhat lacking something,
and as time swells to yearn for its past
the oncoming time draws nearer to swallow the past
with the waves of oblivion
and when past time sinks into the water
you’ll hear the singing dirge followed by
a procession of wordless spirits and the blindfolded future
carried on a funeral bier.
While watching the sunset glow
I was thinking with a thousand thoughts crowded in my mind
and to my surprise, with my waning shadow
I can still recognize myself through my eyes.
Although I was always victimized because I am
such an insignificant being to others’ eyes. How should
I accept the fact that I am still allowed to face the days.
I’m going to comprehend my rhyme
Breakwater below your feet
Psalms I scream
For his brainless thoughts, are not his fault
So please absorb, guzzle or swallow, this free verse
For I speak to a ghost
Each second, I see your eyes
Philosophize the beat to my heart
Has I scream out your blood
Hoping you’ll disappear
Before I finish breaking water below your feet
And, no you may not have a seat
Delilah Ventura
Technically, not a sea at all,
Lake Superior churns up its share of sea storms.
There is not a lot to do in Marquette, Michigan:
Except for high school drivers to "buzz the gut",
Or cruise past a courthouse where "Anatomy" was filmed.
You could smoke dope or drink underage
Under a disused, fourteen story ore pocket dock.
Rusted off shards of flat black paint
Fall on the gently sloshing waves.
There is a breakwater of dumped cement blocks
That has a chain-linked fence and sign that says,
DANGER! NO TRESPASSING!
But of course, the young ones do.
And better yet if a sea storm comes.
Maritime law forbids including those who drown
As sailors lost at sea.
Sitting on the breakwater,
long before first light,
I was met by gifts
and messengers.
First, a small bird
to warn me to be
ready.
And then, knowing
before it happened,
that a shooting star
would appear,
right where I looked,
followed by the ecstasy
between land and water
the sky and I, and
from somewhere,
a mantra,
"Don't be greedy,
don't be greedy."
All will come about
in due time.
Be happy with small gifts
from the universe
The Life of a Breakwater
A walk on the sharp shingle led to where
The dry, smooth surface felt warm to our feet,
The pale grey stonework embedded in the beach.
Those steps so broad and long led down into
The calm sea. We paused, luxuriating
Where the Summer sun caressed the concrete
And the water washed languidly over
The next step, a shallow paddling pool
Of sun-warmed water. But then, the cold sea
Brought a shiver as the sun hid its face
With dark clouds predicting a future state.
After long years, seen only at low tide,
There are jagged teeth covered in green slime;
This monument, discarded by progress
When the old beach was sculpted and renewed,
Lies hidden under the restless waves.
High tide splashes along the shoreline and
The smell of the sea air never changes.
Shuffling this scope of limited perceptions; their visions..
Crossing her celestial, scintilating skies; deep inside tubular
Chimes lifting amid the breeze to these, tranquil orisons ? Subliminally
Marked emotions rising in state; bay windows dismissing chains; silvertone's rustic tides
Receding, from time's shores before my eyes; portent clarities bearing a Spirits wings
To fly beyound their breakwater whirlpools, vortex designs ? Breathtaking
Inversions encapulating this heart as solipsism flees and the eclipse of but once
Paradoxic's moon, now utters her revelations touchstone moments ? Beckoning myself
Aneath certitudes apex in parallel's reasons; these, realms about love's cloistered heavens
Wherein beauty does, so reside ? Tubular chimes lifting amid the breeze; subliminally marked
Emotions afore bay windows and her silvertones, scintilating skies; bearing, wings to fly....
Beyound His colour splashed canvas of pastels, immortal stardust ? A twenty-first century love song.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Shuffling this scope of limited perceptions their visions
Crossing the celestials scintilating skies; deep inside tubular
Chimes lifting in the breeze to these tranquil orisons
Subliminally marked emotions rising in state; bay windows dismissing chains....
Silvertones rustic tides, receding from the shores before my eyes
Portent clarities bearing a Spirits wings to fly ~
Beyond the breakwater whirlpools vortex designs!?
Breathtaking inversions encapulating this heart as solipsism flees
And the eclipse of the once paradoxic moon now utters her
Revelations touchstone moments....
Beckoning myself aneath certitudes apex of parallel reasons these
Realms amid the cloistered heavens wherein, beauty does so reside ~
Tubular chimes lifting in the breeze, subliminally marked emotions afore
Bay windows in silvertones scintilating skies; bearing, wings to fly beyond
The colour splashed canvas of pastels immortal, stardust....
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
.."?A 21st Century, 'Love Song!'"..
The breakwater protected bay
This mole of rock please hold
Mole on my face bid you goodday
Not welcome_ you I've told
Hugh mole bored through massive mountain
Vehicles travel straight
While I travel real fast again
To dermatologist
Decision to end job as mole
For new mole malignant
As a woman somewhere dies I'm told
From mole mass alterant
today too, I visited again that empty bench by the lake
alongside on the pathway where billows hit the breakwater
in the autumn’s chilling air a spray of water I become
The Linda-Marie
I venture on down to the harbor, smelling the salt of the sea
Where waiting in anticipation is my sloop the Linda-Marie
In silence she sits while I board her, and cast her lines aside
Like a colt running free in the meadow, she strains to be untied
Slowly we move through the water, heading on out to the sea
I thrill at the freedom that grips me, on the sloop called the Linda-Marie
The wind is stiff from the starboard, the breakwater now far astern
The ocean is waiting to greet us, we hear the shrill call of a tern
As we address a headwind, filling out the sails
The Linda-Marie meets the challenge, as against the whitecaps she rails
Yawing to hold her position, she rises to meet each new swell
We hold our course at eight knots, a speed she handles well
Time I'm afraid is fleeting, and to soon we must return
Ending our adventure, once again the ocean spurned
We bump against the pilings, making sure she can't break free
I relish the time spent together, just me and the Linda-Marie
Morning broke clearly over the earth,
loving hugs and kisses amid the "Business as Usual" atmosphere.
The quiet hand of God raising another beautiful day,
As the anxious hand of the assassin prepared to deliver his blow.
Thousands set their life course on the wave of human endeavor,
man's handiwork beckoning to them .
The gleaming towers embraced this fold,
Just as the beast pounced on the innocent.
Those first ripples of fear,
Gained momentum as a tide...
Crashed down upon the breakwater of our hearts,
Carrying with it the memories of friends and loved ones.
The hatred of freedom and peace,
Raised its ugly head only to see the devastation.
Hiding now in the land of once enlightened men,
Knowing its life worthless in the company of civilized society.
As for those who remain and remember the innocent,
The pain will still linger for a while.
For loved ones gone in an instant of madness,
The prayers of a tearful nation are raised to heaven.
The anger of these deep emotions,
Must be tempered by the forgiveness of the heart.
Justice will prevail one day,
If not soon, then in the righteous time of the Almighty Creator.
Until that time comes...
VIGILANCE is the watchword.
DETERMINED RESOLVE is the promise,
With FAITH that tomorrow, the quiet hand of God will raise another
Beautiful day.
Mango
It’d a bitter childhood like a girl
in penury.
It could defend itself against the molestation
by pests.
It didn’t succumb to the
hot rays.
Now it’s ripe, and its chubby cheeks
are so charming.
It’s a forbidden fruit, but Chami’s impulse
is vehement
as the monsoon waves leaping over
the breakwater.
His teeth wound its soft skin. He sucks its
sweet syrup
from its soul, and rises up to the heaven.
Slowly he
falls down into the hell of fatigue
and drowsiness.
Again, he repents of disobeying his
diabetologist’s advice.
First published in Scarlet Leaf Review, Canada, and then reprinted in my book, Kanoli Kaleidoscope, by PunksWritePoemsPress,US.