Cresting Poems | Examples

calypso

compelled each day to plod that beach

        her dazzlings - quite beyond my reach

            those eyes like jade and deep as death

    that whispered “come” in witching breath


soft-danced, those briny bullions rolled

        bright cresting swells with coins of gold

            that she claimed hers to snatch and save

    such wealth, that girl beneath the waves …


that wealth now gilds … her lovers’ graves.





Copyright © 2025 Gregory Richard Barden

Who villa private pressing turnout?

Languaging the place is happening 
A voicestro of ideas
And involvement
Obstructing legislation 
Command and finance


The handling of its own press
Pressing solutions
In the middle of a fraud
Yet in all time
A take part type of gal and guy


Suppose a person asked a city for funding around rent for themselves, an office, range of ten thousand a month

Today cresting 5 billion in debt of unauthorized hijacking of home development law

THE THRILL OF THE PLUNGE

THE THRILL OF THE PLUNGE*
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
steel tracks twist and dive,
a serpent of metal coil
fear and joy collide

hands raised to the sky,
trusting the rush of the ride—
in thrill, our hearts soar

cresting the high peak,
the world drops away below
time bends in the loop

screams mix with laughter
hearts race in the weightless air—
then the silence falls

back on solid ground,
echoes of thrill linger still—
brave hearts crave the next

*Note:This poem was written for and published at Writer Monk for its weekly Poesy and Poise contest,  August 18, 2025. This is my original poem.

Waving

Troughing and cresting 
Cresting and troughing 

Going down a bit, to rise again 
Feeling the jolt but not yielding to the strain

Riding through and roughing it 
Steady on the board and rising through it 

Not staying low for long 
Just riding through, sturdy and strong 

Gathering momentum to catch another crest,
Owning the board, rising no less 

Not getting too comfortable while floating above 
Steady on the board is key___
Owning it and riding free with love 

Feeling the splash and the zeal
Embracing and embodying the thrill 

Cresting and troughing 
Troughing and cresting

With each wave, keep learning and besting

She Comes and Goes with Your Tides

Some have watched her rising
from an ocean of time.
Her sightings return at the pull
of each luna cycle.

No clamshell boats for her,
after she rises from the waves
she and the shoreline disappear
she's only to be seen driving a classic
Chevy convertible or riding
a gayly adorned donkey.

She is sister to desert nights,
and all the dance moves
of the free roaming winds.

You have seen her, you know her,
she is the one that comes to you at night
on moonlit slippers.
She's neither old nor young,
Venus is always for your best years.

When the moon begins to starve,
she returns to the sea
vowing everlasting love
to the constantly cresting waves
of your heart.

Grief Lives Within Silence

A surrealistic silence hangs sluggishly in the air,
as I sit upon your violet clawfoot recliner,
sorting fuchsia dresses into melancholic piles.
An opal ring glistens while the sun drapes over your portrait,
reflecting splashes of kaleidoscopic colors on barren walls.
Dust cakes the creaking floorboards as I place belongings into cardboard boxes.
A faint lullaby gradually infuses this somber undertaking.
The scent of floral perfume permeates—grief crashes over like cresting waves.
The wind whips outside, rattling the bones of a bitter house,
while a heavy heart sinks, drowning in agonized saline.
Tin plates and yellowed photos decorate mahogany tables
antiquated keepsakes, solidified moments in time.
The cerulean dusk creeps in, and the world softens.
Yet grief cloaks nocturnal restfulness,
as your sentience has been reduced to ash.
Merely confined within an engraved urn.

The Moment of Spring

The Moment of Spring

The valley at last in full bloom
Frosty nights 
And wind machines in the morning
Flowers all calling 
Buzzing bees in the day.

Everywhere greens have emerged
Fresh and moist and innocent
A wave of Life cresting 
Before summer’s heat
Makes it all tired and dry
Dashed upon the beach
In its inevitable fall to winter.

But in this moment  
There is only the spirit of renewal
The promise of abundance
And unbridled enthusiasm
Of Life simply living life.

(4/23/25)

What beautiful decay

As sunlight paints all in gold
A cresting wave 
Along a distant bay
Gulls cry high into a clear sky

Its tyrannical son burns all away.
Summer has come
What beautiful decay 
As evening dies on horizons blade

A splash of crimson 
Deep in forgotten May
Amber n indigo lay lazy on the shores
Autumn lingers behind the day

What beautiful decay
A chill frosts the burnt ground 
Ice is deep into tomorrow 
Brittle leaves are death shroud

Broken branches reach 
Winter’s shadows a frozen sound
What beautiful decay

Call to Create

This restless, ever-cresting urge, 
that pounds, incessant, in my breast, 
much like the ocean's pulsing surge 
that never seems to pause for rest, 
will have its way. 
I must obey. 

So I go, in meek surrender, 
find a quiet place to hide, 
and placing pen to paper, render 
poems from the swelling tide. 
Though sweet release, 
a transient peace. 

The work complete, I pause, but find 
no sooner is the pen replaced, 
than flooding words wash through my mind, 
my playful castles are erased, 
and I, once more, 
am as before. 

If I, a child of God, would be 
so strongly moved to write, create, 
I wonder, is His poetry 
the art my heart would imitate? 
(His words, I hear, 
made worlds appear!) 

I realize earth may never know 
these fleeting works my soul has given. 
Still, from mystic depths they flow 
and rise like morning mist, to heaven, 
where His ear 
at least, may hear.

Supercalifragilisticexpialidocious

A rainbow has appeared in the sky
Such great beauty may pass some folk by
Truly an extraordinary sight
It’s wonderful and gives me delight

Delight in this arc cresting the sky
Sight of a rainbow can make me cry
By giving my heart such a good lift
Sky now blue, is mother nature’s gift!

After the rain, I love to see sun

Memory of death

Once sanctuary.
The uninviting undertones bellow in mourning.
A soured fate.
They say the deads sleep is endless, as my toll chimes, wakeless.
Still unsighted eyes.
With sickly bloodshot yolk, cresting as if to rise reborn.
Tarnishing sleek silvered rumination, in anniversary of the best forgotten.
Another empty plot fills a space better kept for the rigid, the disciplined.
Hands worn of time for nothing other than keeping bones wrapped. 
In unbound duty, spreading dirt, not to cover but expose.
Treadless stepping over and over the ghosts trampled in greater haste.
Who's borrowed words are sung as tribute,  in service striking back in self reverence.
Now hollowed breath exhumed.
To treat a lasting patron, the unintroduced, bares the yet collected as for tolled is all.
Reserving another debt to be owed in exchange.
They march with purpose they march for purpose, not in step. 
Peace will never reclaim them, for they know not peace.
Sleep remains a wistful dream.
Not to be conquered.

Consequenced

It was after the times of mules
Irish slave contracts
Inside of the states of minds
Of those who fled from effort
Abandoning life in infancy
Creating devastation
And fermenting grew, cresting above skies
Literatures from slaves
Unwilling to begin Roman tongues
A time before the Republic

Ballad of war

Last night we all might have had something
   concerning the marksmanshiping of war.
 The waves then might differ
   pulsating, cresting, rising and falling both in tides
   and others?.
 Last night the something was thither:
  If  I said poetry, might not be alone;
      if said naïve things naivety, might holden back the rule.
 Now, how many things were like bubbling through
    the woods?,
    how many things were like swerving flower or swirling
   to dell last night?.
  I think war was a seasonal tree and was somehow fully
    alive or it sometimes shedding it's leaves or recently
   has become magical?.
 War was sometimes completely dry ,
  is not that sometimes a kind of encounter? 
 how like peace is an love fresh and tender tree?.

Emerging From The Woods Onto A High Prominence

The trees crowd in along the broken trail,
sunlight tries to push through, but mostly fails,
straight trunks spread out and obscure distant gaze,
there’s eyes out there, watching, afraid they’re prey.
Ahead a break grows larger with each step,
cerulean against the forest depth,
the summit rock cresting half of the peak,
this vantage sought by many weary feet.
Red squirrels chitter and dash as I emerge,
I want to shout, but I restrain the urge,
swellings of peaks spread out like tapestries,
their secrets hid beneath the endless trees,
a slash of gray where earth cuts through in stone,
Mother Nature is lost without her bones,
then rips of blue, a ribbon swaggers slow
to wild ponds saved by being remote,
marsh meadows near sometimes reveal a moose,
but today only mallards are in view.
Beyond this lies a scar, a bigger lake,
fringed by cabins and docks, stretching out straight,
above it all vultures fly on the breeze,
their slow circles effortless and lazy,
to think such birds get this view every day…
Who knows if again I will pass this way.

The Pond Gulls

The town pond was drained,
revealing minnows
wriggling in the residual water
they milled and turned
in silvered arabesques
choregraphed by a rippling wind.

Large ocean-going gulls
descended out of a troubled sky,
they walked among the writhing small fry
plucked out the little fish
employing just the tip of their great beaks
as if sensible of the delicacy of such morsels.

Dark clouds foretold a storm,
strange but the gulls did not fly off
to feast on Lake Erie’s plentiful bounty,
they lingered here on this little pond
like diners at a buffet
skewering only these bitsy sprats,

while squalls fermented the Great Lakes
and much bigger fish flew unmolested
through those high cresting waves.

Little ponds it seems,
do not at all mirror
the courage of the free.

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