Batten down the hatches!
Bar the doors!
For the storm looms above
boiling hot with natures wrath.
Stand tall men! Do not waiver!
Or run like the cowards you are
leaving me to tarry through the storm
wrecked by waves and rain
till I'm nothing but
splintered battered wood.
Sat by the jetty overlooking the waters
of Tombia
Waves and ripples as boats drive
pass speedily
Passengers and luggage alike all
disembarking
All by the Tombia waterside in the
riverine Rivers
Free from the hustles and bustles bedevilling
Port Harcourt
The mayhem and chaos in the Oil city all left
behind in the city
Yet such serenity by the waters of Tombia
Piece, quiet and tranquility quieten my
stress
Trying to be patient, but my patience is
running riot
Trying to stay and remain calm by the waters
of Tombia.
Roasted peppered fish and plantains my
consolation.
All by the waterside of Tombia.
He sat on this patch of turf,
and if not this exact place a piece of a place nearby.
Naturally, I try to feel his companionship.
Did he write a line of poetry on this small island
or was he simply being Walt Whitman,
honored guest,
a person he hardly recognized from his youth.
I feel his old bones not his youthful step
also, his spacious poetry,
that storied ever travelling imagery
passing-by
upon these Ohio river currents.
His sweeping insights navigating
slow wide bends,
and the churning history
of these waters.
I imagine his hand on the ground,
it heaves my body up from the deep grass
and quilts me to a shared terrain
a place where beating heron wings
count the pulse of two lives.
I feel the mutuality of crossed roads,
the cadence of restless breezes
as they ruffle a coat
he left draped over a rail
of this same wooden jetty.
My arrival beat the sunrise;
it was still dark at the small jetty.
I dried the wet skiff, mind alert
to the soon to be lifting light.
Nearby,
an unseen water bird
clattered into the darkness.
Startled, I looked up,
there above me
a hole in that lightless sky
a circle of glowing orange
surrounded by the dim dawn.
‘I am blessed’ I thought.
As I gazed, the heavens opened,
a deluge of blacked-out rain smashed down
upon the sleeping land.
I got under the down-turned boat
and lay down
as the Ohio river faded away
replaced by a raging waterfall,
one that obliterated
that same sunrise
that had yet to show up -
until at last
that early bird I had heard
flew back to my ears and minds-eye.
Emerging from my makeshift shelter
I watched a rare black swan
settle and preen, drying its feathers,
as if it was perfectly natural
for a river to drown itself
under a small, up-side-down skiff.
You could hear the sounds
of sideshow alley blaring out
from a mile away. The hollow,
metallic rasp of music
and glow of coloured lights rose
in a huge bubble
above the beach.
Adolescent dreams
would flutter the warm summer
evening like a mindless moth
revved up on hope. The clang
and clatter of rides, the yells
and excited screams sprayed out
of a whirling blur of lovely faces
wound your inflamed passions
ever tighter. The telepathic
signals you sent out
to catch an eye scarcely scored
a glance. Then poised on a chance,
your brain would freeze and hang
on your tongue like a lead balloon
leaving you gasping for air,
a hundred words away
from ruby lips tired of waiting
to blow you up.
Alone, at the end of the jetty,
all you could do was to let
the wind billow out
a swollen bag of unspoken words
and send them off winged
with a foolish hope. And then,
the long walk back, the sound
of sideshows subsiding
into the sad lament
of breaking waves, the smell
of urine soaked sand
wafting up from below
the boardwalk, the weighted
solitude of the bus ride home.
A short wooden jetty
where shallow waters lap.
Taking time
to live deep in the big sky.
Fish slow swim
through cloud reflections.
Osprey seek the gleam
of silver fins.
This lake floats my mind-boat
and for a long moment
that boat is empty.
There was that boundary
breached by a thin line,
a transparent nerve
linking two worlds.
My fingers could feel
the constant chatter
conveyed along
that tightened length,
the winds annoyance
and below, the play
of water telegraphed upwards
in a quivering morse.
I sensed
the sweep of currents,
the movement of weed
and the passing drift
of waste shorebound
from the gulf.
Yet something more
had gathered
to find voice there,
something not fitted
to any form
I could catch
and give a name.
A deep resonance
had taken the line
and crossed
that tactile bridge
and into mind.
I was no more
than its clumsy glove
wired to whatever
will it had and chose
to reveal.
The sun goes down, a theatrical exit;
it leaves orange rivers on shimmering roads.
Turns black birds blacker.
Cypress turn to grey ghosts
alone now in their shredded wedding dresses.
An egret rows across a shadowed creek
silent wings beat a last trailing light,
fish dart deep, drenched now
in a downing moonlight.
We take a walk over to a small jetty
holding hands like teenagers.
Her newly bought ring
digs into my finger.
I imagine her essence under my tongue
the salty-sweetness of her sultry presence.
Both of us look into a light none can see,
only we are locked into this intimate love-play,
we and a million others
who share the same stage and set,
while this discreetly late evening
bows low to our star-struck eyes.
With my fishing vest and waders, and a found long wooden staff
I walked along the jetty, on a rock-piled curvy path
The day had grown to darkness, with no light there to be found
When something unknown had startled me, when it made a screeching sound
Afraid of it, I started walking fast, almost in run-mode pace
Scared to death, and loss of breadth, and whiteness on my face
For every step that I had taken, this thing had taken one too
So scared of it, I was, it almost made me poo
A nest of string all full of weeds, I had to laugh a hoot
To find out it was a fishing line, that was wrapped around my boot
It must have clung onto my boots, when the ocean ebbed low tide
So, I had a breath to breathe, and I laughed like hell...inside
A Funny Memories Poetry Contest
Sponsor: Natasha L Scragg
1/12/22
The darkness retreats as the sun rises.
Tai chi on the jetty, moving with grace.
Waves crashing when the tide comes in.
The spray splashes upon my body.
Deep breaths in and deep breaths out.
Embracing the energy of peace.
Connecting with my emotions.
Healing and renewing.
The air was pure and bright. A sea-salt tingle
hovered in an easygoing offshore breeze.
In mesmerising rhythm, wavelets sloshed
and swished along the timeworn jetty wall.
The bay was sparkling in the morning light
as early gannets hungrily patrolled
their crystal-clear domain.Slight movement now
within the overnighting boats, safe moored,
serenely sheltered at the break of day.
A swan flotilla, now near fully grown
and all in a row, in silence glided by,
exploring weed and tidal offerings
under a careful matriarchal eye.
The year was moving on, the midges gone,
and still the little ferry ploughed its course
across the bay, its passengers intent
on finding peace and personal content.
The cafe at the pier, with clinking cups,
was heralding the day, with early starters,
few in number now. The summer throng
dispersed and homeward bound, to feed
on memories. For some, like me,
a fitting epitaph might be
“He lived his life in thoughts of Arran “.
Blue
Why is it, if people are sad,
we say they are blue,
when blue is such a happy color?
Blue are electric skies of October
that bring cool breezy weather,
and find children joyfully
jumping in piles of dry leaves,
playing tag on the playground,
and munching crisp juicy apples.
Blue are the eyes of the little
blond girl with golden curls
who smiles up at me from
a tea party with her dolls.
Blue is the sparkling ocean
on a hot day in summer,
waves making little slapping noises
as they hit the rocks of the jetty,
calling swimmers to jump in,
skip flat stones across the water,
or search for pieces of beach glass.
Blue is hyacinths that perfume the air,
and iris and forget-me-nots
in the garden in spring, and
elderberries and blueberries
and blueberry jam for your toast.
In the marsh a great blue heron
steps majestically toward dinner.
There are blue frogs, blue mussels,
blue claw crabs, blue butterflies.
All are delights of nature.
How can we call blue a sad color
with such a myriad of happy blues?
The sea stops here
But waves splash hard against the jetty
Seagulls lingering
Before flying away
Ships docking at one moment
And departing at another
Shedding cargoes and loading again
Sea breeze blows in
And land breeze blows out
Departing passengers shedding tears
But arriving passengers wear a sweet smile
We never understand the feeling of a port
Nor do we understand a mother's feeling of
Letting her son
To go far away beyond the sea
For pursuing his ambition
And as soon as his disappearing into the horizon
She is already waiting for his coming back
To her
One day
The ocean beast leaps forward,
Then slinks back, lying in wait.
It tosses its billowy mane, and,
With a snarl, springs up and pounces
On the slippery black rocks of the jetty,
Frothing at the mouth and
Pawing at the slick wet stones,
Sending a shower of salty spray
And spume foaming over the seawall,
Drenching the cars creeping by
And the slicker-clad pedestrians.
The sea, raging in its fury,
Reaches me in that secret place
Where anger and frustration dwell.
I stand on the shifting sand,
Wave my fist and shout into the wind,
And the untamed wildness shakes out
My carefully tended hurts and slights
And tears open scarcely mended wounds,
Washing them clean with antiseptic
Sea and salt and sound and sight.
Tomorrow my wayward thoughts,
Just like the beach, will be swept clean.
The sea no more an angry beast!
A newborn day will find the bitterness
Dissolved in early mists of morn,
And my spirit once more lightened,
Free from petty gripes and fears!
The sea will sparkle in the rising sun
That glitters, dancing, on the waves.
And, deep within, there will be peace.
Miss Ocean wears her blue-green dress,
Sprinkled with tiny crystals beads
That sparkle in the morning sun.
She shakes her ruffled petticoats of white
And shows off for the passers-by.
She dances on the jetty rocks
With seaweed hair that streams behind
Before she dips her head again
And swims far out to greater depths
To play with dolphins, whales, and fish
And mermaids in their hidden lairs.
She sweeps the ocean floor and brings
Her treasures to the sandy shore,
A trove of scallops, slipper shells and
Mussels clinging tightly to the kelp.
Empty conch shells, pink and clean,
Pearly stones and worn green glass.
Miss Ocean wears her blue-green dress
Embroidered with tiny crystal beads.
They sparkle in the morning sun.
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