Best Inlets Poems
inspired by The Platters song, ‘Ebb Tide’
Rise And Fall
Salty tears ebbing away on moon’s tide
as whispered love echoes on ocean waves
across caramel sands where hearts reside.
Coves of sheltered inlets harbour veiled caves
that glistens with laced, seaborne aqua foam
as whispered love echoes on ocean waves.
I caress the shoreline where oft I roam
under wistful, silver of shallow sky
that glistens with laced, seaborne aqua foam.
Footprints merge upon sands of time as my
lover waits with arms of open embrace
under wistful, silver of shallow sky.
Bodies cling, like sea to shore, face to face
with the rise and fall on ocean’s tipped crest,
lover waits with arms of open embrace
and I wander no more at peace to rest —
salty tears ebbing away on moon’s tide
with the rise and fall on ocean’s tipped crest
across caramel sands where hearts reside.
Between frosty cobalt-cliffs, cruise-ship hesitates to pause,
Amidst ice sculptures echoing cheers of spirited applause,
Mesmerizing enthralled sights evincing awe-struck trance,
Lauding vast gelid expanse, hypnotizing eyes of romance.
Buoying on inlets, flaunting aesthetics of sculpted designs,
Dark blue glaciers rise for miles, as our ship gently aligns,
Watching seals resting lazily, ruminating on blocks of ice,
Empathetic of frightened sparrow decrying the crowd-size.
Gracefully ship circles around, as if staging a festive dance,
When in enamored glance, caressing hints of romance,
We praise motifs on water~ floating white cotton balls,
Where shards chromatic fall from frozen-tall bluish walls.
Miles of crystals adorning yonder, glinting cerulean blue,
Stack mounds of white contrast on distant emerald hue,
As Glacier Bay begins to fade retreating in rearward view,
When ship's whistle blows aloud, bidding a fond adieu.
A journey we treasure now in albums of cherished past,
Where moments unsurpassed, coveting-forever last,
Embracing precious memories evoking paradise on earth,
Glamorizing place-idyllic, luxuriating in cadence of mirth.
May 28, 2023
Placed 1st: This or That, Vol 18 Poetry Contest
Sponsor: Edward Ibeh
Title Chosen: I Know A Place
Glacier Bay National Park and Preserve lies west of Juneau, Alaska and can only be reached by plane or boat. Glacier Bay was declared a UNESCO WORLD HERITAGE SITE in 1979 for the spectacular glacier and icefield landscapes.
Amidst reality of my life two single things remain
inflection of your voice and glow of your tender eyes
held safe by this memory we become transparent rain
wild as the tidal waves of Bristol souls of no disguise
fluid as the ocean we are open inlets, giving rise
sepia moments of a little cottage hidden in the cove
the scent of sweet cinnamon and the taste of your clove
the cackle sound of unseasoned wood against the brick
we sucked the flavors of our passion, and called it love,
holding on to each other, like flames on a candle wick
molten wax and liquid centers with all I hold so dear
when the moon comes into view the stars turn into glass
willful moments arching as tender reeds adhere
we spiral down the staircase, of God's Mandir
we find the miracle of us, and know that it will last
caught between two soft spots we are cloaked in silk
like two lovers in heaven or two lonesome sacred elks
amidst the reality of my life, two single things remain
the taste of a kiss and the place from whence we came
you my first love, were always right as rain.
August 27, 2021
Sponsor: Craig Cornish
Contest Name: Vagabond Dreams
Listen to the tinsel in the wind leading to enlist love and peace through all inlets of silent nights .
inspired by Silent One's anagram 's contest-The word is Silent (silent ,tinsel, Inlets , enlist ,listen )not for the contest.
Amidst these inlets and islands
Lies a land of a patriot nation
Where clans decree their might
Together in mixed relation
From the Lowlands to the Highlands
Family names of a forgotten past
Deliver us to their present
For these surnames are here to last
Sunrises and sunsets have so greeted
Many a morn and an eve has been seen
To be born into such a nation
Through their eyes, you see just your dream
For to be born on the land of the heather
Through Glens of bracken and fern's
Birthed into one of their clans
Your first breath you have duly earned
Amidst these inlets and islands
Lies a land of a patriot nation
Where clans decree their might
Welcome to Alba, the ultimate creation
http://www.thehighlanderspoems.com/ed-unitsky.php
What story should I tell?
This is the tale of how the lonely acorn fell
far from where the mighty oak had stood
cut by the hands of man, felled for its wood.
The mother-father tree lay across the laid bare land
cut down in the forest no more to stand
and the branches stretched out along the dirt
releasing the acorn from its berth.
This acorn scratched and bruised, browned and torn
slipped into the streamflow of new rivers formed
and floated out to the open sea
she rode the tides salted and found herself - free.
The gulf stream path sped north into the wintry chill
as she cut across the sands where tidal waves were spilled
and a gull eyed her glistening shiny coat
and scooped her up but not down into her throat.
Pass the inlets, along the earthen roads
the gull dropped her beyond the manmade folds
where fertile land had long ago appeared
and squirrel and chipmunk vied for burrows cleared.
Buried deep in fertile soils blessed
this acorn was welcomed as the forest began its undress
with autumn fall and winter tamed,
she was awakened by the sun and rain.
This acorn found a place in the northeast spring
with hairy roots that began to form and sing,
of an acorn that was newly born.
escaping the outer shell coat torn.
She began to grow far from where she fell
and as life took on its hold in sapling meld
the newest oak began to watch history unfold
and knew then she was not the last acorn in the mold.
As time and historic years hurried pass
she knew she was not nor would be the last
with nature's watch and thirst
she was, the very first.
4/24/20
for John Lawless contest
The Last Acorn
In the folds of night, as a wave, you came
Charioted in a filmy dream
All night you were with me
In love’s uncharted land, we roamed
You sang to me sweet rhymes of love
Echoing the lore of romantic lovers
Your voice choked and moist with passion
Overwhelming me with an ecstasy so rare
You fondled me with infinite tenderness
Opening in me all inlets of pleasure
Our hearts with divine furore filled
And we knew love’s sweet benediction
In the seclusion of that silvery night
Looking into the corners of your love lit eyes
I saw an ocean of rising and receding tides
And took a dip in the whirlpool of love
All night I inhaled your scent
Knew the warmth of your breath
Siphoned the sweetness of your lips
Alas! With dawn, you faded away like dew
The Cartographer of Maybe
© Ashok Jahagirdar
The map I was given is fading now,
Its borders, drawn in another’s hand,
Are bleeding at the edges.
The roads, so straight and promised,
End abruptly at a cliff
Overlooking a sea of questions.
The legend’s key—a child’s sure script
Of “always,” “never,” “wrong,” and “right”—
Dissolves like mist in morning air,
A topology of borrowed light.
A Dizzying Freedom
I am drawing my own coastlines,
Tracing the capes and inlets of my becoming.
The compass spins, a dizzying freedom,
And north is wherever I plant my feet,
A little lost, a little wild,
Charting the wilderness of maybe.
The Shedding
This new parchment is my own skin,
Stretched taut across the ribs of hope,
The ink, a blend of scar and dream.
I sketch a bay of Solitude,
Where tides of thought can ebb and flow;
I dare to mark a mountain, Failure,
Its height now something I must know.
The Equinox
Let the old chart curl and blacken,
The map I was given is fading now,
Its borders, drawn in another’s hand,
Are bleeding at the edges.
The roads, so straight and promised,
End abruptly at a cliff
Overlooking a sea of questions.
I am drawing my own coastlines,
Tracing the capes and inlets of my becoming.
The compass spins, a dizzying freedom,
And north is wherever I plant my feet,
A little lost, a little wild,
Charting the wilderness of maybe.
Below earth, streams release the arteries
of the undersea teeming with precious
abalone, granite and shells,
as a roulette of lotus defies gravity
soaking on the chlorine of a wind
only piles of sand can bestow…
and gentle the wavelets murmuring
hymns of serenity , somewhat delicate
as ocean mouth is to fish lips in the moist pulse
of swelling spaces for wooden fleets
to beckon the blue.
Like so, guardian of water observes the cruise
of a ship rustling a masthead…
intrusive vessels are aliens
to the underworld: greedy eyes, black hands
that rake mothers of pearl and babes of dolphins.
Fierce dugongs roll along, shaking the basement
of hunters’ boats on inlets
to pound doors of Neptune’s bed,
reflecting mirrors of an island scented
with coconut and tresses of women
bathing along coasts of such innocent gulfs.
Below earth, a divide between friends and foes
is honored; that beyond words,
a sea keeper rises to acknowledge
the kindness of strangers,
if they are kind enough to respect the gift of privacy.
10/2/2015
Chase Trevi's Contest:
Open Sea - Sailing, Creatures, Treasures
At times, Spanish becomes
An incomprehensible
Tangle of strange words
Like strange woods
And unfamiliar sounds
That roll like hills
And confuse my senses-
English is my natural
Habitat, but to my lover,
English is a new land
Which still feels altogether
Unfamiliar under his feet...
So in the moments
We cannot find enough
Common ground to
Communicate with
Spoken words,
We've learned to
Read eachother
Like maps-
He doesn't need labels
To recognize the shape
Of my expression;
He uses the curve of
My lips as a landmark-
He has studied the course
Of my tears like inlets
And the sigh of my breath
Like waves against
The coastline, since
I swore that my arms
Would always be
His harbor-
He has traced the planes
Of my face with his fingers
Until he knows them like
The back of his hand...
His hands are as familiar
To me now as
As my own backyard...
His palms are traced
With lines that wind like
The rivers of Guatemala
That he swam in as a child,
Or like borders,
But they are always
Open since his hands
Are like a compass-
When being lost feels
Like loneliness,
They lead me into
His arms-
When the world keeps
Sliding around like
Fault lines, they
Lead me back onto
Solid ground-
When a storm blows me
Off-course, they lead me
Back home...
It's funny how
Being with him
Is like reading a map
Of a foreign country,
And yet...
Will still lead me
Home.
Tears shed from lost love
Flood the inlets to our hearts...
Creating islands.
Timothy I. Brumley
Swimming frantically in blistering sun
I finally reach an island’s sandy shore
Fear faded; I realized life had just begun
A tropical retreat with coconuts and more
There was little chance to explore
As the sun faded and a full moon rose
“Déjà vu,” I thought. “I have been here before.”
But only in dreams did such splendor expose
I shed my clothes, lying in crystal sand
Far from city lights, the Milky Way appeared
Great peace I found in this star-brushed band
I strolled the moonlit shore; ‘mongst winding inlets I steered
Palm trees shrugged gently in the southern breeze
And I felt great joy in knowing I was here alone
This moment in time I wanted to freeze
No TVs, computers or even cell phones
I’d never known the peace of solitude
A castaway’s life seemed perfect for me
At times the key is in how things are viewed
And somehow I knew the best was yet to be
*For Gail Doyle’s “A Tropical Theme Under the Moonlight” contest
by Carolyn Devonshire
The praises of goddesses Juno and Venus have been confirmed
from the traffic causing attraction of your shape
such countenance which can make night overlap the day;
updating the perception of beauty for it to turn inside out
is a true reflection of my unthinkable fortune.
The smooth self seductive line which is in between those fleshy monuments
and the spread of its huge fences to widen its width
wirelessly command hormonal rush to get me executed
through the slaughter of its erotic blasts.
A freak is created, anytime its surrounding squeezable mountains
are well camped by my needy hands and lips.
Such a line, so hypnotizing and domineering
is a channel of sexual irrigation with two lovely inlets,
an upper small protective and a lower large inviting.
I give prreference to the invitation
which has an incredibly wet reception
because that is where my intimacy with you is constantly refined
taking our physical contact to a supernatural satisfaction.
Shellfish at high prices are what the fish store sells.
People pay a lot for those scrawny hard shells.
Catchers flock to the waters of the Jersey Shore.
They go to catch those blue claws they adore.
You see people with their wire mesh traps and string.
Crabbers are at bridges looking to get something.
They throw the traps into the water over the side.
Along the bottoms of the inlets is where the crustaceans hide.
Crabs turn red only while they cook.
A greenish-brown color is how they naturally look.
New Jersey folks think the crabs taste quite good.
There is no need to go to Maryland. Crabs are right in the neighborhood.
IT FEELS LIKE
keyboard
deep breath
thought break
dead end
and then…
the words sprint
in blinding
flash lightning
too quick
to comprehend
try to break it down
words of singular
splashes and
channels of dashes
that one unique line
of something sublime
poetical console
staccatos
inlets of fjords
announce
the square sum of
nothing
© Kim van Breda—20 December 2015