Morning fog was parting for the day's performance,
and an audience of just me sat cross legged,
waiting for ghosts.
They appeared slowly, one by one.
Old whalers, freighters and, fifty yards out,
slate grey bones scarred with burnt sienna,
a young trawler.
A Cormorant dried its wings on the wheelhouse,
primary feathers spread, glistening ebony,
tattered like a tramp's raincoat.
The surf whispered warnings.
February 4th 2016
For contest 'The Sea shore' sponsor- Craig Cornish
Copyright © Viv Wigley | Year Posted 2016
Tiny wavelets on the pool today, a gentle
breeze and raindrops fall with a rhythmic
pitter patter. The ducks and wildfowl pay
no heed, around the sedge bob and feed.
The Heron standing as if frozen, his
cunning eye a prey has chosen. And the
elegant Swan glides, the Cormorant
beneath the water slides. And the grey
clouds float on by on this quiet day at the
pool, the reeds sway and insects hide away,
dry wings are required to survive. The Otter
on its back dines on an unlucky Crayfish,
seems well at ease with his surrounds, and
the Water Vole enters a hole to the squeak
of hungry mouths. In the centre of the pool
a love dance, two Crested Grebes court,
ducking, bobbing, all magic to the eye. All
this beauty in the pitter patter, life goes on
it does not matter. Nature gives in many
ways, and as always this heart enslaves.
Copyright © Daniel Cheeseman | Year Posted 2010
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.
the rasping raking of the beach tumbling
pell-mell and headlong into the sea
stones spewed out as leftovers
in the next cold wave of grey water,
breaking in trails of white foam
along the coastline.
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.
to the plaintive cries of
a young herring gull high above the sea,
blown sideways by the gale.
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.
Copyright © Elisabeth Sheaffer | Year Posted 2013
Im sanften Abendlicht
Wehen die Blätter der Birke
Goldfähnchen im Wind
In soft evening light
The leaves of the birch flutter
Golden banners in the wind
En suave luz de la tarde
Ondean las hojas del abedul
Banderitas de oro en el viento
Wildgänse/Wild Geese/Gansos Salvajes
Im verlierendem Licht
Der schrille Ruf der Wildgänse
Vorbote des Winters
In a fading light
The shrill calls of wild geese
An early sign of winter
En una luz apagando
Agudos gritos de gansos salvajes
Precursor del invierno
Über tanzendem Schilf
Im hohen Baum auf der Lauer
Sitzt wartend der Kormoran
Above rocking reeds
A cormorant in his look-out
Lurking from a high tree
Sobre el cañaveral
En un alto árbol está al acecho
Un cormorán está esperando
Copyright © Gert W. Knop | Year Posted 2010
a flying cormorant
on silky water.
for the "Out of Water" contest
Read more at: http://www.poetrysoup.com/poetry_contests/member_contest_details.aspx?ContestID=6186
Copyright © Archontoula Alexandropoulou | Year Posted 2015
cormorant opens wings
like a crucifix -
Copyright © LINDA JACKSON | Year Posted 2014
Cormorant and I
Share tempestuous moment
Wide eyed ocean watch
Safely removed from spindrift
Waves, spume and spray batter shore.
Copyright © Delice Arleen Skelly | Year Posted 2015
I teeter on the brink of possibility.
The sun on the new horizon glistens
its rays on the undulating sea of change.
I gaze a while, drifting with a squawking gull,
or diving with a hunting cormorant -
lost in my imagination, caught in plausibility.
Sometimes a gust of wind unsettles my balance;
I totter into uncertainty, struggling to stand,
but you take my hand and steady me.
Now I only look ahead; no way back.
The chasm is inviting me to jump;
to take a leap of faith and ditch the doubt.
I place my baggage at my feet;
packages of responsibility and confusion
tucked in neatly and nestling with the past.
One last tug at the sleeve of my coat
as they make a last ditch attempt to restrain me,
and I have jumped - flying through the air, free.
As I land I see you there smiling and safe,
arms outreaching. The promise of the future beckons,
and looks inviting, exciting and full of hope.
Once I teetered on the brink of possibility
now it is a glistening reality. The sea is calm now.
And, as the sun sets on the horizon, I am home.
(note: to all my lovely friends who thought I was literally considering leaping into a chasm to
my death, I can assure that I am most certainly not!!! It is merely a metaphorocal chasm,
and I intend to stick around for quite a while yet. Heavens, I am just about to have a book
published, life is very good! Thanks so much for your concern though)
Copyright © Helen J Radford | Year Posted 2008
For all the night she trod the furrowed earth
As she has walked all winter in her wake
In seeking for the child she brought to birth
The maiden bride whom Hades chose to take
The gibbous moon is waxing to the bright
And shedding shifting shadows on the lands
One single moonbeam spills down through the night
Upon the rutted earth on which she stands
Made heavy by the weight of mother’s tears
The ground beneath her feet begins to yield
The imprint of a child’s foot appears
Emerging from the darkness of the field
The dawn is tinting grey the silken skies
The lifting mist moves gulls to take the air
She swears she hears these words within their cries
She comes, she comes, she comes, is nearly there…
Around the hill of Silbury swirl the springs
From many sources meeting there as one
Upon the fence a bardic blackbird sings
His songs of seasons ended and begun
The heron stands in wait down by the brook
The willows’ leaves weave rills upon the stream
The cormorant is fishing for the rook
Whose shadow shapes a fish from daybreak’s gleam
From alder trees drip drops of ancient dew
Like shining crystals, in to waters deep
The grey of morn becomes a brighter blue
New lambs are woken from the dark womb’s sleep
A muffled drumbeat pounds within her bones
Thrills through her feet and trembles in her chest
Draws from four corners people of the stones
To stand and lay the winter to his rest
Can it be so, she thinks, that she will come
And willingly escape the thrall of Hades
Be called by this fast beating of the drum
To dance among the wild lords-and-ladies...?
(See Part Two)
© Gail Foster 2016
Copyright © Gail Foster | Year Posted 2016
I sit by the waters edge
Sitting on the border of a concrete ledge
Surrounded by miss-shaped rocks
Formed by the years of repeated water knocks
I throw a line in the water
As a man sits next to me with his son and daughter
On my line I get a bite
The bait disappears with little fight
I reel back in and rebait the rod
And throw back out for the battle with the cod
Suddenly I see a school of fish
Hoping for every fisherman’s wish
I recast trying to get the biggest and weightiest fish
I see a cormorant tangled up sitting on a pylon
Wrapped around his beak is plastic or nylon
I get up to aid the injured bird
But it fly’s away as soon as my footsteps are heard
I go back to my battle with the underwater beast
Still confident my patience will result in a feast
The clouds come over and it begins to rain
This just exacerbates my frustration and pain
All of my attempts have so far been in vain
But still I sit but wonder if I am still sane
The rain begins to clear
Perhaps now the fish will appear
I can see a rainbow in the distance
My mind wonders despite my resistance
I try to focus on what I want to achieve
I quickly realise that it’s the bounty of fish I want to receive
It’s hard to fish with so many natural attractions
Whilst not unpleasant they are unwanted distractions
I ponder on these thoughts for a time so long
And eventually I conclude this is wrong
I reel back in my line with rod
And forget about the fight with the cod
I am going to enjoy just being here
Such beautiful sites at a near
The glistening of the sun reflecting on the water
The earlier image of a father and his daughter
The ripples and shadows the water creates
The way the bird flew and never hesitates
The way the fish refused to be caught
The way the rain and fish together fought
The rain gently dripping off my hat
The way the cormorant on the pylon sat
The way time seems to stand still
The way nature can make a person feel
I get lost in the moment and don’t want to leave
Some of the things I’ve seen I can’t believe
I should come down here without any fishing reasons
How beautiful it would be in the different seasons
I find myself content at the water’s edge
I have never felt so comfortable sitting on a ledge
Copyright © Craig S Bury | Year Posted 2007
Hand in hand with the breaking pink light of dawn,
A light east breeze dances on tiptoes upon the water’s surface.
I stand on the wooden deck, looking out onto the quiet bay,
Scattered boats gently sway in their moorings.
Making me feel like I am flying amongst them - a bird on a wing,
Flocks of terns swoop and rise in graceful circles close beside me.
Dexterously stepping over the green covered rocks on the shore, three white egrets are here too;
They keenly pick out their breakfast in the lapping tide.
With a swoop and fall, a cormorant dives deftly into the water and disappears,
Moments later the bird emerges several metres away as if out of nowhere.
In a display of alternating flashes of grey and brilliant white,
Plovers so small and so swift turn and glide in controlled unison.
I glance northwards towards a distant gentle hum,
There great ships are silhouetted in the waking harbour.
I stand and breathe in true appreciation;
Oh, the magnificent beauty of this new day.
Copyright © Eleanor Fox | Year Posted 2012
No citadel’s too tall for mortals like you.
Even acclivity of mounts fear of bipeds like you.
Adam’s ale in its ampleness has lost its meaning.
And only with your condonance,
do the flowers un-bud and birds do sing.
But let’s see, if this almighty can pass in my little catechism;
And a test it is; shouldn’t be misconceived with any criticism:
So, in the unfolding, will you also make the butterfly to unfold,
its hued aileron as per your yearn and control?
And As per your hankering, will you as well repaint,
the black calamus of the cormorant?
What has been quenching the thirst for years,
will now go from blue to black?
will you do all this to everyone and
Then save yourself the flak?
Will the new clock scoot a tick?
The viaducts have no brick?
Will the berdas rumble and the cougars sing?
Will the off-springs dummy up their begetters in the forthcoming?
Succumb or give an answer, are the only ways you’ve got!
Cause’ what you’ve been doing, I dub it as prying.
And there exists no amnesty for what you’ve been trying.
You’ve been a fine jeweler for the prime;
Validating the originality of a corundum’s been your style.
So how come you changed your vogue; negative appraisal is all you report?
Since when were you born with the power to transmogrify?
One could not get to azure, if you ever denied?
It’s never too late for home, even if you start back today,
You’re never too late for home, if you grow into a new You on the way.
You’ve been vexing the orb for years and yet go on, cause it owns no speech.
Narcissistic you are I hate to say; You never did as you preached.
But you still get a chance, to outweigh all your flaws,
Capitulate to the architect; cause he’s the only one who knows,
How the orb would relearn to live and the art for the orb to re-grow.
To bend is not for the anemic; But for those who aspire to learn.
Meek you’re not but strong enough to have ‘to be transformed’, as what you yearn.
Believe me when you reach home today,
they will get to see the stronger You.
For yes, I’d still like to admit
No citadel’s too tall for a mortal like you.
Copyright © Raadhika Sharma | Year Posted 2012
At first light every morning
And before dusk every night,
All looking for a handout,
And quite sure they'll find a bite.
Of suet and some birdseed
And some honeyed water too,
And the feast is laid on
Every day at Uncle Frankie's zoo!
Resplendent in their rainbow coats
The Lorikeets appear!
The royalty of this feathered world
To none do they show fear!
Their subjects sit and grumble
Round the fence and in the trees,
And wait noisily for their turn,
And for the crowd to ease.
My cheeky black-backed Magpie
Arrives with her demand!
Self-service isn't good enough,
She must be fed by hand!
So Pussy's dish gets raided
To get a scrap of meat
So cheeky and her bigger mate
Can have a bite to eat!
Two slits of jet in yellow orbs,
A furry ginger coat,
A furtive movement in the grass
Might very well denote..
The cat is out there watching
And would like to try her luck...
A malevelent island in a sea
Of feeding ducks!
Down by the dam, a Spoonbill
Seeks his breakfast round the edge,
Sifting small crustacions
Through the bullrush and the sedge.
And sleek in brown and white
Atop a single rock nearby,
A cormorant preens her feathers
With her wings hung out to dry.
And up behind the aloe patch
With stiff and stately strut
A Royal Ibis pokes and prods
Hunting for god knows what?
I wonder what the day will bring?
It will be no surprise
If it's like all the others here...
Perfect, with sunny skies!
Copyright © frank halliwell | Year Posted 2013
your wings spread
to dry enough to fly
to cry myself dry
I too may be
light enough to fly
Copyright © Maureen McGreavy | Year Posted 2017
I think about the moment when we'll vanish
on the doormat of an empty house
because I know some day they will come -
the malignant conquistadors and their mooncoloured hounds
when this century of the sleepless will come to an end
so I'm trying to unravel the missing monologues
while indulging in many contradictions
stranded on remoted beaches
seeking redemption with sand in my hair
like a famished cormorant rambling the landfill
in a very weird mental state
it's becoming clear...
that time has shunned this godforsaken place
and as I'm following the familiar landmarks
following the strange candlelit pathways
I know that your bedroom is in a saltwater heaven,
far away from the angry masses
becalming myself in my transcient refuge
while you're deploying your crying talent
we went loose from our moorings and you refused the safety buoy
now tide of our sensations is coming up fast
turning us into these crampled wrecks
left to rust at the shallow bay
these sleeping islands...
are just relics of my hopes, diaries of fading sunlight
after we carved our scriptures on dormant rocks
creating museums of our own memories
at the very edge of despair
and I think that we'll never be missed
you, me and my companion of delusions
but remember dear, there are no boundaries
be sure that I'd row my soul over the vast seas
to see you standing on the abandoned shoreline
and our handprints will fossilize in the interim
imprinting fatal visions to rocky soil
Copyright © William Greco | Year Posted 2016
Driftwood benches stretch along the shoreline as far as the eye can see
While purple and green kelp stain the wet sand like messy
brush strokes a child would make
Amongst the rocks and tide pools, a myriad of sea life abounds
Tiny bullheads zip and dart around, miniature crabs scatter along the bottom
Flowing yellow and orange anomies tease and tempt with their
elegant fingers with the changing flow
Seabirds dive and wheel on invisible currents for play and position
Every so often a cormorant will pitch and dive straight in, with the precision of an
Olympic diver, deep in search of an afternoon snack
A small tugboat slides along the pale horizon in silhouette,
pulling its load westward against the tide
The late afternoon sun sparkles off the waves as twin otters
submerge and amuse themselves amongst the ripples
As I sit on the sand with my back to the
tall grass and conifer trees
Watching all the life and movement I am struck with a sense of awe
All in all, this is meant for me, for us, for everyone
and yet only I am here to see
To see life at a different speed in a different way
As it was meant to be
Copyright © Christian Collins | Year Posted 2007
I got my first duck feather today,
First one for the season of spring,
Standing up proudly, I couldn't walk away,
To me, feathers are gifts, straight from the wing.
I watched as the turtles all swam about,
And saw a cormorant perched on the rocks,
With little blue wrens, so tiny and stout,
And behind the bushes lurking, was a red fox.
I have walked this path many times before,
So many massive pine trees so royal on the way,
I will always come back to this place I am sure,
Just to sit and watch all the majestic trees sway.
But where have all the rabbits gone from last year?
I think the rangers poisoned them, to make them disappear.
Copyright © White Wolf | Year Posted 2016
Expelling breath, pursed softly love,
My sibilant tongue expounds the phrase,
Of Eden found and feathered words,
Flown weather thieved. Carried on
A nomad breeze, perhaps to die
Unheeded upon the lake shore
Mud flats. Or picked apart by
Cormorant beaks and swallowed down,
Digested in an acid tract composed
Of oil and water gulped. Or sonar burn
An aural canal, drilled, drizzled
Raindrop patterns sizzled course
Through natural pathways, morse and air
To crystalise the creeping smile that
Other eyes decipher not;
Creating your cognisant guise
A Mona Lisa semblance.
Copyright © Tony Bush | Year Posted 2005
Every four years, the Lions roar.
They roar for peace, or
they roar for war.
They roar for less, or
they roar for more;
we recall, that
and they roar,
and they roar
for it all.
They roar to protect
their cavernous den.
They roar to warn
others of the doom that
They roar for dominion
They roar to abscond,
Every four years,
they emerge, from the brush
with saunter and swagger
and muscles that awe,
wide scanning, eyes;
The steam from their roar
shrouds the tuft of their mane.
The force of the spit, mists
like power’s rain.
They emerge in all colors
and manners of mane.
Pray never forget -
all Lions, the same.
Pray never forget
a law, even Lion’s must abide -
that when the Elephants fight
it’s the grass that dies.
Every four years, the Lion roars.
They roar for peace, or
they roar for war.
they roar for less, or
they roar for more.
we recall, that
and they roar,
and they roar
for it all.
Copyright © Mark Poe | Year Posted 2017
She sits in silence bu the sea
And thinks about what might have been
She sees the waves crash to the shore
And wishes she was one of them
But as the Dunlins strut and the Cormorant dives
She wonders why she's still alive
The beast within rejects her call
For death to come and end it all
She remembers youth, a distant friend
Why did the good times have to end
Age only brings great fear and pain
And a trip to the unknown again
She's lived the life of all it's got
Taken, laughed at all the knocks
Now she beats her head against the rocks
And as her red blood stains the greying sea
She cries with one last breath I'm free
To live again
Copyright © david stansfield | Year Posted 2008
Strawberry night to morning
cormorant lifting water lillies
madness gone way beyond.
the moonlight becomes
the chocolate night
Our magic bracelets
can swimmers rise
where friends lie
pallid and corporeal
where lovers swell
to be alone,
they take the ride on wishes
Go on down that river
waken to a friend.
like a broken
I sip the brew
strong and bitter
in the dawn.
Copyright © Johnette Loefgren | Year Posted 2006