Combers Poems | Examples

Barefoot Earthling

It's taken me sixty years
Of evolution
To realise the simplicity 
Of Earthen electricity 

My naked feet, like freshly cleaned
Battery terminals
Strolling in hilarity 
To observe correct polarity 

Electrons flowing in and out
As I freely shuffle about 
In hippyfied insanity
With toes embracing nudity

The science is effusive
So wonderfully conclusive
My body craves perfection
In each pedantry inflection 

So to join the sockless roamers 
The grass lovers and beach combers
I will earth myself completely
With each step I place, so neatly

Is it magic or just factual?
Like a nature deal, contractual
Or perhaps we were never meant
To be disconnected, discontent

And maybe it's progression
To dismiss the shoe of intercession 
Returning to natural citizenship
Of barefoot - grass relationship

Reject the concrete, 
Resist the vulcanised persistence 
Embrace the beauty
Of a sole-full existence

Daddy Rooster Laughs

Hens are not meat eaters
They do not like it at all
But the giant sixty-foot hen had the beach combers running that fall

She strutted back and forth
Giving them all the evil eye
I think it is hilarious that they think they are going to die

Her daddy the rooster laughed when he heard the tale
It came from the man who delivers the mail

My daughter is a jokester, that is for sure the old rooster said.
He loved that she scared humans into thinking they soon would be dead.

Ticking Time

a mystical flying marauder
soared in from space
ten thousand years of time
throughout my two hours
fathom out the lake, icicle has risen
an utter lack of pulse and recess of air
we were both hence unmoving

I rant dawn and not despair
scattering pearls to steer in combers
walking yesteryear to retrieve origins
as global traces through inner spaces
in pulse to vanish, back to beyond
with a period not pressing boldness
then unfolded undeniably further

1st Place Contest Winner

A BRIAN STRAND INFORMEL Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Brian Strand

Masked Isolation

Fire lust of the angry clouds doth cover envy
To fork the stars upon my ever-changing view.
The crestling being i endure to hold of many
Foreign thoughts to translate a bonafide rue.

Carnival of lights leave me starstruck
In a haste no more than that of my gloom.
No one who knows of this life are stuck,
In a waste of bittersweet cloves that bloom.

As I sink down to the combers of lies
Nevertheless leaving my soul to him.
This monster of foreign carnage dries
To a crisp, no longer able to freely swim.

Finally feeling a soft touch upon my flesh,
Where is this pale longing rose of red I dread?
This flying repent of lustful notions is all I thresh.
Please let me fly with you in this land of the dead.

Denies of my request shows to me how I feel,
Still though, carrying me much higher and higher.
This resentful flock of gloomy encumbers peel
My skin I weary of angry clouds doth burn a fire.

Sun and Sand Minichu

Blinded by shining shards of sunlight
reflecting off sandy summer shores,
give pause to wonder what unworldly sight
hides beneath ocean’s watertight doors.

The Sun, father of the shoreline
instructs his lazy children to light the way
for beach combers and bathers-in-the-brine
who worship the Sun and sand as play.

Burned flesh and scorched, fire-red eyes
accost non-believers shaking their heads,
bemused that the Sun’s brilliance belies 
affair extraordinaire with the sand he beds.

The Sun and sand a reflective twosome
combining their charms and beckoning
unsuspecting lovers to a garishly gruesome
show of frivolity and a day of reckoning.

In other words:

Sun and sand, such teasers,
conspire to cruelly tempt and torture tissue –
faux pleasers.

Enthusiasts 
promising romantic issue –
nets cast.

Beach waltz, 
promise anew –
false

Sun and sand, such teasers,
promising romantic issue –
false

Edited 02/05/2021

Last Year's Nests

Tide out ...

Swells break far and creep slow,
sweeping tender 'cross washboard flats
where they used to dance -
where they lauded the ebullience of life
in purpose ... and pairs.

Beach ballerinas, flaunting perfect line ...
toothpick legs busy as Baryshnikov 'midst the billows,
leopard mantle still as stars
while they streaked and pattered forth-and-back,
never touching the hem of the combers.

Nature has no humor, they say ...
yet 'twas a game they played with the ocean's edge,
the sand they pranced was just as cold -
just as wet and wobbly and wild ...
it served no critical purpose to shun the wash in such diligence.

Yet they were masters of the art, and graceful,
as tho' it had been thus for eons ... and of course, it had.
That very game and dance is what I miss so dearly now,
tears disguised in the salt spray on my face,
as I pull another clump of plastic ...

From last year's nests.





~ 4th Place ~  in the "Last Year's Nests" Poetry Contest, Craig Cornish, Judge & Sponsor.

Only Twenty Years

ONLY TWENTY  YEARS 

Who  can know the future of  twenty years
And discount the dim offerings of Gateshead?
What  12 year old can imagine
The emptiness of prairies in Montana
Or  smell from fifty miles away Russia’s boreal forest  
Or feel the rocky fossils of Donegal
Resisting the Atlantic combers
Or standing on a windswept Gateshead  corner   
Can hear the beauty of old Quebec French
Or collecting coal pieces in cobbled streets of Teams   
Can feel the blueness of flax fields in Alberta
And crossing the Tyne bridge     
Can see over the Roebling bridge 
On the  Ohio at Cincinnati?

In Old California 2

At Peralta the combers break but low,
and boats do carry mates ashore with ease.
Yet they are safe since waves are no big foe.
The harbor's deep and wide with gentle breeze;
in winter, weather's mild - there's no raw freeze.
Soft rain falls gently, seen without a force,
and people show short sleeves on streets, such please.
Religious holidays abound of course.

Hernandez's Peralta's alcalde high,
all people say his rule and sway are fine.
The shipping line's alcalde's own and nigh
to shore and hide house underneath his sign.
Cow hides must be kept clean of salty brine,
and wait for place within a vessel's hold.
From sign to shore there's sandy steep incline
to to place where water's free of spray that's cold.

In Old California

Chaucer's Stanzaic Form
Iambic Pentameter

In sunny Southern California late,
when grandiose Dons rode their charging steeds,
and women deemed that males should rule their fate,
vast cattle ranches great supplied all needs.
Ships came from foreign shores with trinkets, beads
to take away the cattle hides well dried
for Boston market leather stores' strong pleads.
Within these ships large fortunes often ride.

At Peralta the combers break but low,
and boats do carry mates ashore with ease.
Yet they are safe since waves are no big foe.
The harbor's deep and wide with gentle breeze;
in winter, weather's mild - there's no raw freeze.
Soft rain falls gently, seen without a force,
and people show short sleeves on streets, such please.
Religious holidays abound of course.

Vikings

VIKINGS

Erik  went east  to Yamal peninsula’s spring  
For Russian hides and terrifying antlers
From the world’s biggest  reindeer herd,
In April  crossing the thawing  Ob River, 
Safe from predators :  good hunting  
And  fully  laden longboats.  Now,
In a Bergen June, waiting at quays 
On a clouded  grey grave dawn,
Anxious eyes strained  to sea.
Men home from o’er the horizon
In a still tiny  longboat buffeting
Through the  hurling combers,
Sail disappearing, reappearing.
Glad to have them home
From the deep unknown 
Where only an  oak plank  
Separates life from depth : 
As she crosses the bar
To ease down on 
The gravel.

Return of the Boat

RETURN OF THE BOAT

Waiting on the quayside at dawn,
Anxious eyes strained  to sea
Their men home from o’er the horizon
In a still small boat ploughing
Through the mighty rough combers,
Now disappearing , now reappearing.
Glad to have them back home
From the deep unknown where
Only a wooden plank separates
Life from the depth,
As she crosses the bar
To ease down to the quayside.

Voices

VOICES 

  
We fill the silence with droning voice absurd,
With words not from the heart   - shouts of empty silliness:
They drown out our soul-voice in the silent stillness.
Heedless of more honest sounds  without word.


Trust the babbling of the forest brook small.
Rough sea’s crashing combers tell of storm due;
The words of dry snow’s hiss warn of cold true.
The whispering of the trees says it all.


The laughter in a baby’s babbling  - a sound of joy;
The purr of the cat; the hiss of the snake;
Mother’s tearful cry  -  are always true;  never fake.
Are an honest  expression  - not mere ploy
………………………………………………………………………………………….

Note

Inspired by the poetry of   MARIE   LAFORET,   French  folksinger

A Summer Sigh

The lush of the land lies as velvet moss green carpet
The river rushing its morning wash
rumbling as it spins twisting and turning its tidal path
over the chance carried stones to the seas
Where the coastal sands of time are met
Meeting waves pulled by undercurrents
Finding rocks, kale, seaweed and moss covered
Just as the hair of cherubs faces foamed
Then gently adorned with shell and mollusk jewels
and salty sea air crusts crystal formations alongside
In come the tides bringing with them oceanic treasures
Driftwoods, wreckage, salvage, 
that have crashed and bashed the cliffs along the way
To finally rest ashore and be renewed
To become beach combers delights
Trinkets gifts or items for the home

The Letter

Walking barefoot on the noon shore
Oblivious of the combers
With their new metal detectors
Her head bowed low as if in prayer;
But at a closer look we see
That she is holding a letter.
Her grimaced face stared long at it;
Then dropped it on the glistening
Wet sand and stood there a moment
As the returning salty wave
Washed over its ink scripted words-
Words now lost forever in time.
Its message known only to her
And the blue eternalness sea.

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