Best Headland Poems
At day's end, I take in the last light
seeping into the dark waters
across the bay and keep it here.
I gather the sound of departing gulls
smudged on the sky, the quietening
settle of birds in the cypress trees
along the foreshore, the giggle
of a child high on a swing
being pushed by a mothers hand.
I hold here the gentle sweep
of waves soaking into wet sand,
the slow roll of seaweed, bubbles
bursting around shells, wings
low over the water.
I draw in the evening and keep
it close with its lights
sprinkled around the edges
of the headland,
emerging stars hung soundless
in the heavens, the blinking
passage of a southbound airplane
heading into a long night.
From somewhere, the smell
of honeysuckle spilling
into the waiting air.
I make my way home, filled
with all that I have taken in,
having little space left over
to fit myself.
an hour before docking
it was ice cold and freezing
as the vessel like scissors
cut clean through the swell
and the ship’s horn then sounded
and woke those still sleeping
startling the standing
and seagulls as well
and the door opened outwards
on a windswept and dark deck
as a lighthouse and headland
appeared to our right
while the radar was turning
mixing mist with the morning
as we looked over railings
still wet from the night
and the lifeboat above us
secured by strong davits
dripped north sea in droplets
from somewhere on high
and the noise of the engines
grew loud and then quiet
as the spindrift and windchill
danced wild with the sky
and the lights and the silos
of europoort holland
shone blurred with bright colours
as such paintings do
and we stood there transfixed
with our backs towards england
while dawn beckoned others
to stand and stare too.
Naked dunes recline and off the headland
Spume and dolphin fins hammer rocks,
Smithereens spraying skywards,
A roar of thunderous aftershocks.
Creeps in the tide and out again,
Leaving vortex swirls upon the sand,
Patterns changing, Neptune's scrawl,
Reclaiming atoms of the land.
The waxen polish on the surface
Holds the globules on the leather;
Droplet speckled transience,
Yet gripped in ever changing weather.
Grains of salt on lips that met,
And tasted ozone burning bright;
Devious undertow tugging feet,
Yet stand their ground in falling night.
With lighthouse tenacity, limpet strength,
Held each other, prayed for more,
And hewn of rock and ocean carved
Did yield instinctive on the shore.
A GUMMY FISHERMAN
By
Kevin L Fairbrother
The sheltered bay disguised what was to come
Around the headland we hit it head on
Four to five meter waves and breaking on top
And a wind that was building making lots of spray
A man takes many risks for a crayfish on his plate
For the pots needed to be pulled from the deep reef
Then baited with a fresh lot of stinking fish bait
Hoping to lure the wily crayfish into the pot
With the sea boiling the boat cut through the waves
Sending water and spray every which way
The fisherman holding on to keep their feet on deck
As the motors strain to keep a forward motion
The fishermen search for the buoys in the white water
As the rolling sea tosses them about like a cork in a bottle
The buoys know sighted make ready to haul the pots up
Hoping that they contain a few crayfish for their effort
There is no color in the first three pots, they are baited
Then tossed back into the rough and deep water
The last pot pulled and on the deck contains one small cray
Not a keeper, what a bummer, throw him back to grow bigger
With head down low kneeling on the deck
The rotten bait smells so ghastly get up my nose
Dry reaching, pale and feeling quite sick
I heave it up and let it flow over the side
Boy oh boy did I let the sickness flow
Breakfast, dinner and tea all in one go
I heaved it up my false teeth went with it
Over the side and into the boiling sea
Feeling miserable and quite ill, we headed back
To the bay and much calmer water
I thought about my teeth now in the water
Maybe a Gummy shark ate them up?
So now I fish the bay with a toothless mouth
And I target the Gummy Shark, hoping in vain
That one day whilst fishing, I will be lucky
And catch the Gummy that has a toothy smile
THE DEEP OCEAN OF THE MIND
The warm pebbles touch my foot, my sole,
In the turbulent shallows of tide and wave.
My waking self feels the moon and sun pull.
And hidden in shells are beauteous oyster pearls
Of a magical lustre seen in watery dreams:
Galleon bullion from a billion seagirls.
But in murky muddy layers, the hates and loves
Of embedded past events undisturbed
Cloy the skeletons in cupboards of past lives.
Pressing my sleeping soul on the seabed dark:
Beyond the headland and my protective shell,
Cold-blooded reptilian monsters lurk.
In this unmanned land far from the help of mermaiden,
Tentacles grope up from the bed trying to reach the surface:
Threatening to expose what’s hidden.
Grand dreams are ground down, drowned, and end as sands
In a dark land oft-sifted by watery muses,
Where new events sink to be added as new oozes to old beds.
In these sands of time of the weighty deep sunless,
The tide of current events has no pull.
Only memories exist : the fossil remains of my history timeless.
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
(Form of this poem is tercet with slant rhyme)
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
The sails snapped in the wind as the yacht changed tack
soon to refill as the yacht skimmed over the sea racing onwards
riding the large waves with adapt aplume slicing them apart.
Dolphins playfully following as they leapt for pure joy
spinning several times before diving down deep.
Ganging up on a lurking shark they soon send it away.
The screech of pulleys as we prepare to tack once more
as the boom crashes past to be brought up sharp
when it takes all of the free lines and sails puff up.
The ocean is sparkling in the sunlight with white crested waves
as we round the headland and now can sail with the wind
the yacht leaning far over as her gib sail speeds her on.
Now it is time to add more canvas as we flash by
the winning line now in sight and with a great cheer
from the yacht club Casaroba crosses the line in first.
Can you get my point and drift?
It’s in my free verse and also rhyme.
They say ‘Life’s a beach’
I say, “All the time”
and there’s a beach for everyone, and all!
It accepts incoming the tidal withal.
From flotsam floating of every noxious kind,
Where you will beside the innocent the toxic find,
From grass,to plastic, garbage bags and all,
also the rancid sewers dark outfall,
And I see the littered beach
All covered & disfigured, spit headland and shoaly reach,
Then raised up with rampart fey
the most humongous tidal wave
And it is definitely and gravely shoreward bound,
Oh dear Lord, have mercy, I say,
For all of those who live nearby, and in the way
in Their lowly shed or fancy high-rise buys,
Already they suffer to live near this
Please avert your catalyst
oh!‘No’ says God, its course will run
its bounds and goals are set
As I set everyone,
Too much for me! my eyes I close
i just won’t look at scenes (that I suppose)
i await the crash! its deafening loud,
and I imagine the chaotic screaming crowd,
I wait ….. I wait….now look I must!
Before cold melts ice and rust becomes dust.
And What! before mine eyes a sight, the beach,
All pure grains of white, (are seen)
against verdant mounds of beryl green
The background sheds and townscape now stand serene;
The wave was a vision of God’s cleansing hour
Wrapt in an instant of unbridled power.
For the antiprigoligarchist was sent,
And the veil of worldly waste was rent.
There also is a literate beach
Where the antiprigoligarchist will also reach.
As antidote for pedantic bias, attention & thought
And scalar vision with true value nought
so with devoid headway misused opportunity
and selfish sway away! and
before the drift becomes a roar, better to
Clear such wasted ways from the literary shore.
Hartlepool , My Hometown
St Hilda's bathed in sunlight Is a sight i love to see
The Marina with it's many boats, that’s the place for me
Back down to the Headland for Verill's fish and chips
Hartlepool it's my hometown
We have the shopping centre, empty units galore
And I think of all the great shops we had in days of yore
Blacketts, Sages, Robinsons, bargain by the score
Hartlepool is my hometown
I grew up on the Central Estate everyone knew everyone
Now everyone keeps to themselves, so sad the Central's gone
The town i knew it is long gone, this is sad but true
Old Hartlepool, I'm missing you
Bring the ocean to the forest where flames lick the dead.
Banish hot scalding lava with a surging polar flow.
Tug the mountain from its roots. Shove it onto the wet earth,
ordered to suck the torrent and spew it into the sea.
Pour cement on the headland, freeze the cold mud solid;
hold back the squishy slide, let rock embrace the shoreline.
Shout to the cowardly sun slipping into wispy haze;
send the hawk from its nest with talons to rip the screen.
Run o'er the half-baked moon picking up pieces of the dark;
cast them off the forward bow or stuff them in mud-duck's ear.
Shore up the timbers of home, bar each window with steel;
order oaks to clutch their limbs, thrust down extended claws.
Strap on a double edged blade, strap it high upon your thigh;
meet the invader with courage, leave him begging for mercy.
Turn the chaff deep down under, call forth the rich black loam;
plant seeds ready to burst. Renew, renew the ravaged Eden.
The headland bush is paradise,
especially through the week,
there's rocks to climb; a couple of caves,
and a shaded running creek.
Ron and I have found secret spots,
where we can hide our fishing poles,
and we don't need no swimming gear,
when we swim in the fishing holes.
There are no roads for cars and such,
just tracks on the forest floors,
so we seek our destinations,
on trails made by wombat paws,
And we're lucky when it's lunchtime,
for we can sit down in some glade,
then feast on oranges and apples,
after sandwiches that Mum made.
We're loving what we're doing here;
our knowledge seems to grow and grow.
We've learnt all about conserving.
We catch a fish and let it go.
We’ve been bit by angry bull-ants,
that gave us pain to send us numb.
We rub the stings with bracken fern,
because we couldn't tell no one.
We know the names of all the birds,
and the plants and pretty flowers,
or where the sun sits in the sky,
at the finish of schooling hours.
For when we're in the headland bush,
we really only break one rule;
we're learning what we want to learn -
we're just not learning in the school.
headland harbored primitive biota abut
mint for exotic sole terrain sustaining
sole terrain sustaining seeds, spores, spermatozoa, ova
seeds, spores, spermatozoa, ova , et cetera gut
preserved within mine follicular pores, sans
I secured per woof and meow wing warp organic matter
heir in to fore shielded from elements akin to thatched hut
aware wrenching kamikaze eradication
of countless critters from many Godaddy longlegs;
creepy crawlers, hops scotching,
shimmying with schmaltz, moon walks, et cetera
lost when germ warfare obliterated vast majority
since advent of civilization ordained Proletariat and Plebeian Primate
(cherishing, fostering, insulating bon mot infinitesimal dot re: future mutt)
dogs and also cats off limits
asper demise of other creatures decimated – tut tut
atop thine noggin housed (within thimble size nut)
rare and near extinct flora and fauna, what
species of plants and animals, whose preserve comprised
equivalent of indigenous village people huddling within microscopic yut.
Thus, this bipedal simian angst riddled at experiences
forced at figurative crossroad
when itching scalping a dead giveaway clue
to lather up hirsute growing via bald faced code
at further expense invisible life forms such action would erode
fast dwindled diversity, hegemony, longevity
i.e. population except *****Sapiens who didst goad
forefingers needed to massage and scrub thine scalp
as like a field getting hoed
sometimes applying solely cold water knob to un load
a healthy plethora, where gushing shower head would send them
down the drain perhaps displacing their meal times,
or feasting on louse see pie ala mode
aware that survival odds regarding
getting thru water treatment plant, premonition aye node
and greater chance to avert total mortal kombat avoided
if I trekked to Antarctic anti pode
so...similar to other occasions necessitating me
to lather 50 shades of gray –
as if subjected to being snowed
quite aware many people would avoid me like the plague
(which reaction eagerly embraced) if knotty,
oily, straggly natural headresss
hence, this outlier surrendered and got gently toad
value of hygience – and lost as if playing tictactoe x/oed.
Like so many times when us youngsters reigned
We got up to so much that we forgot to refrain
Instances, confrontations, non immaculate we be
C'mon, c'mon, come at us you'll soon see
Then it went tit's up as we now look back and tell
Bravado at the time, drinks, drinks, we're swell
High fives abounded, knowing we'd rid the scum
It's now the morning, reflecting, how we'd become
It was his bullying Officer, bullying, all down to such
Each and everyone of us, drunk out of touch
We'd had enough, he'd pushed us to our tether
In panic worried union, we'd suggested together
To a peaty marshy headland, headlights our guide
No thought to he's now lost, to no longer reside
Us, a scraping of shovels, as cowardly tears fall
All down to bravado, whilst the worried still call
Written 02/03/2019.
Leaking pontoon predicts my departure
Impatient yacht chases nautical next
Mislaid terrain erases my history
Grim authorities in obvious places patrol
Timidity prescribes aghast of tranquil abiding
Windwaken, I'm admiring the Sea of Revolt
Remarked upon in wonder, venture presents
Treasure indiscernible beneath tumbled tumult
Bold abandon condoned by bow of rationale
Faithful lungs serenade the speed of sails inflated
Turning back causes hair whipped vision to opaque
Potential's yell propels me from return's persistence
Society's twine allured by Twitter lunacy
My social media expels expiring bubbles
Sunk with rusty ruins of past governing
Continents are considered impediments
Ballast beckons ocean of observation
Jubilation journeys my adjournment
Angels guide navigation wide eyed
Fleeing seabirds call for recognition
Wave over waves of sweeping search
Unlikely dream festered in slumber of time
Shaken awake by inspiration's finger nails
Carries message of necessary momentum
Voyage for knowledge graces me
Extremeties are empty, planets drift
Virgin space accommodates galaxies
Originally written April 2020
Submitted for John Hamilton's
Free Verse of 2020 Contest
Upon a whim arising on this sunny springtime morn
hearing birds perform their songs at the crack of dawn
my knapsack packed already with a tasty picnic lunch
bread with cheese and wine
oh such a scrumptious tasty brunch
so full of joie de vivre am I for the day ahead
a slow ascent upon the bus as we reach *Beachy Head
then on to Belle Tout lighthouse where I alight instead
for on this glorious sunny day
in springtime sunshine I’ll make hay
Catching the light in stripes red and white
warning all mariners of dangers at night
a beacon of hope in a cobalt blue sea
her beam shining out majestically
Meandering gently nature's gifts I espy
a host of golden cowslips as if sprinkled from the sky
perchance if Wordsworth had beheld such beauty as have I
his host of golden daffs would have a rival for to vie
wafting gently in the breeze their lemon coloured blooms
a more stunning sight is seldom seen on sunny afternoons
I wander through the woodlands approaching Birling Gap
uneven ground negotiated, avoiding a mishap
then I espy the smallest orchid I have ever seen
with purple blooms and spotty leaves
exquisite flowers I could gaze for hours
secreted for her own protection
her subliminal message for all…
‘Please do not disturb me as
you stand here to observe me
for my beauty - my shape - my hue
and please leave me in situ, for all who pass just like you
as they pause awhile admiring the view’
Written April 2019
Contest Strand any form any theme
Sponsor Brian Strand
1st PLACE
*At 152 metres Beachy Head is the highest of Britain’s chalk sea cliffs, attracting nearly half a million visitors each year. The name ‘Beachy Head’ is believed to be a corruption of the original French, meaning ‘beautiful headland’. Some of the flora and fauna to be found at Beachy Head are purple and bee orchids, bluebells, primroses, cowslips, oxslips and hedgerows crowned in white - baby lambs and wild seas and so much more - just stunning!
I see the sea.
The odds at sea,
Sound’s Greek to me.
As the channel frees
a shepherd abandons
his flock shone a barren
headland aloof promised land
were wild vegetation
grows thick as wool.
Color blindness tame
the wolves, convince
the sheep transcend
and stay for a while.
There will be peace
up on the headlands
now and up till ...
"Big Ben renamed: Eiffel Two
Decadence at Windsor Palace
Wolves in sheep wool
Decadent Palace of Versailles
Sheep in wolf's fur."
~~~IDYLLIC: Rumours Of Wars~~~