Long Coastal Poems
Long Coastal Poems. Below are the most popular long Coastal by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Coastal poems by poem length and keyword.
Snipe and Curlew are skating on the mist
they sing of the water
that sky-water which sways to their songs.
Flat is this land with no coastal margins,
here I am the peak of a mountain
my coated form
darkly winged with strange desires,
an ardor compelled to rain down
upon these wandering streams,
to babble and pour in the Wash is my pleasure.
Osprey skim between the worlds
as they plow the brume and drizzle.
Silver trout dangle in the air
hooked by the wringing and the wet,
the taloned and the dunking beak.
You gandering Grebs where are you gone?
O yes, you are swimming a soaking river
betwixt the two poles of this sodden world,
you wade and paddle, dip with a breezy ease -
with dauntless sweeps you divide the oceans.
The elephant in the room went out for a drive,
creating a scene in the scenic coastal town.
Large as a barge, roaming the hills and the valleys.
It was a bumpy road, mammoth and metastatic.
It was like letting the bees out of the honey hive.
Oh what the historic and stately place was shown.
Not normally seen, the victim from the alleys.
Causing accidents - it was briefly traumatic.
The elephant’s ride was towed and does now sit
out of sight. For his hide and tusk, it was quite a blow.
The elephant in the room, it was his last shot.
The affluent paid attention - for a time, it was quite dramatic.
By droves, as tanker-ton came through, they came out to see
the gray and stormy, with trunks and tusks, migrating.
His travails and luggage, his need for snacks, a barge -
the elephant in the room, they’d not allow a visit.
10/20/2022
end rhymes first two verses (drive, hive)
verse 3 rhymes with first words in verse 2 (sit, it)
with one exception.
verse 4 rhymes with first words in verse 1 (see, the)
The waters roll
on the beach's weather-beaten edge.
Seven times salt - like tears.
The multi-colored sun burns white
- this sunlight is a mood event.
Perhaps I’m overexposed, overstimulated,
and a little theatrically fragile.
In this heat, the aromatic herbs - wild thyme, rosemary
and oregano that clutter the dunes, rocky slopes,
and coastal paths, add a pleasant, simmering spaghetti
smell when the wind swirls off the land-side
poetry break!
trust not your feelings
though your grief is no less shallow,
this heat will dry your tears,
burn them off quietly before they can be seen
- liquid sentiment baked into passing for poise
What is sadness without the aesthetic payoff of tears?
reality break!
A little hopping tern inspects our cabana,
a tiny, opinionated heckler with feathers.
“You better go find some shade,” I told it.
but it didn’t listen - did it even care?
It hopped closer, a brave, social offender
testing my very human grace.
My mood evaporates in direct sunlight
so I’m exiled to cringing in the shadows,
reduced to the social observation of birds.
.
.
A song for this:
Summer of Love by The B-52's
.
tern = a rat-like seabird that steals chips & fruit off plates.
The huntsman and his peregrine
Woods was all his belongings
The huntsman's only pride and his holy livelihood
Flew an injured peregrine to his land one evening
Her quill feathers perfumed of mountains and coastal
She was somebody or someone of a kind like peregrine species of grass
He beholds an earnest affection for this creature
Full of dotes well up inside her injuries and wounds
One dawn when sun rises and it's scorching rays erased everything into ashes ...
'His love for her
Her faith on him'
And the woods inscribed-
Her blood of despair
Her thirst for life
Her soul sheds tears miserably
But the huntsman owes no mercy to his once beloved peregrine
Pain was all
Pain is all
Pain shall be
Isn't this Pain, how can be composed of such tinsy four letters word
Isn't this Pain, more hungry and greed for massive depth inside the broken soul
Isn't this Pain, stands injustice to the medicine called painkillers doses
Isn't this Pain, a tryst with life each breathe and those wounds just spiced up again!
The huntsman or my beloved man;
His peregrine or I was his beloved (once)!
Lake Wollumboola is intermittent.
A coastal dune lagoon, enclosed by berm of sand.
Its basin a drowned creek-scoured depression.
This tiny lake is perched above high tide, vulnerable.
Its survival lies at the whim
of wind-blown and sea-thrown sand.
It's long term fate short-lived as its filling up
with sediment, weed, detritus and muck.
This little lagoon among the dunes
is mecca for migratory birds.
The curlew and buff-breasted sandpiper,
The long-toed stint, pied oyster catcher and little tern.
These vulnerable birds depend on the vulnerable lake.
They arrive on-cue from long-hall flights.
Alight and feeds in the shallows.
Mate, breed and lay eggs in vulnerable places
on the open beach and shore.
They squat on eggs and fledge their young,
and when the time comes, migrate back
with young yearling in tow,
to whence they came.
They book return migratory flights to
Lake Wollumboola each year,
hoping it survives vulnerable
for another year,
and hoping its time is not yet up.
A DEITY
Sonorous
Rhythms from the belfry waft
A call of our votive worship to give.
In your sacred tent we besiege you.
For, to you our exultation to dole and your
Mercy on us to cascade.
The tune of the harmonica, our souls with your
Aura harmonized and in revere towards you our
Knees bend, for a deity you are.
The
Torrent of your kindness
The scale cannot contain.
Hear the crow of the cock,
See the sun hastily rise,
Hear the nightingale sing,
See, the lilies to the luring melody
Of the wind dance, all in wonder of your mystique.
On you eternally the aureole will rest for a deity you are.
But
For the torrential reign of darkness,
In sobriety the votaries sit, for firm root
The heinous ones take.
See, the rivers maimed, the hallowed groove
Denuded and the cedar usurped.
Our joy darken and our hope vague.
See, a once tranquil earth an orchard of hope
Now a vale of nadir where anarchy reigns.
But in trance mother earth till doomsday you
Will not remain for a deity you are.
Our
Filial obligation we paid
An errant, mother earth you are not
For the knell of darkness, for you we wait to sound.
Wipe the gores of the proselytes, for runnel of tears
Your sacred tent they make.
Make a deluge of light our darkness parched earth.
For the dawn of your sagacity, mother earth we await.
Though the earth somberness enshrouds, mother earth
Enshrined your divinity is, for over you sullenness falls not
For a deity you are.
(Dedicated to the goddess mother earth)
Written for the people of the Amazon and coastal
regions(Niger delta) of Nigeria.
The aftermath of climate change will last:
global warming will be devastating.
Worldwide, ocean waters are rising fast
while short-sighted lies keep circulating:
some islands might be a thing of the past.
Coastal cities contemplate building walls:
but I'm afraid, it's too little too late.
Politicians hedge when disaster falls:
chairing committees that secretly debate
drastic options while the government stalls.
When the rain ceases, irrigating crops:
millions of people will face starvation.
There will be empty shelves in all the shops,
and worldwide trade will slow to stagnation:
once the global financial market flops.
Mass immigration will not be allowed:
any shred of decency will be lost.
Armies will be deployed to cull the crowd:
borders will be guarded at any cost,
and our world might end in a mushroom cloud.
You were empowered by striving
for an ideal nature potential to another,
more intuitive, your inspired psyche.
A dualistic inner child.
A sister if you will,
or brother, of conscience.
The fragile critic of your ego
twinning being and discovery
wicker work woven into identity.
Jungian campfire archetypes
and coastal forest epiphany.
Dawns chorus, dew walkers
wise dumb, and moon guided.
Myth whisperers and sacred smoke diviners.
You have become one with the tribe of
Anthropologically informed Atheists.
Book readers and thought provocateurs,
engaged by the zeitgeist.
You don't want to play at the game?
You seek no comfort in their death cult.
For you the apocalypse is a shattered dream.
Reflecting their allegiance to delusional rapture,
while clutching self-fulfilling lists of disasters.
You are a threat to their device.
Enraging them by your very existence,
by networks of increasing number and influence.
An abuse they contend is their God's given to prevent.
Yet you persist? Offering humanitarian precepts
as the alternative for generations of:
genocide, war, and thought persecution.
Rebel defiance enforcing struggle and community.
Breaking through the concrete of their institutions.
Seeded in cracks of commitment and enlightenment.
Poet's words swept by love and dissent
across vast tracks of sterile pavement.
A cool September day
We came to La Magdalena of Santander
Next to the Beach of Sardinero
To see the penguins and the seals
And the galleons "Ana de Ayala"
The "Cantabria" and the "Quitus Amazonas"
Stranded in the air
In the blue of the sky, in the sun
Waiting for the sailors to arrive
Who have abandoned them
Carrying a chest in their hands
With a mermaid's heart
Found on the high seas
By the sailor from Santander, Vital Alsar
Singing to sincere love
Like water poured into a basket:
-Be careful, children.
Do not cross the hedges
You may meet pirates
Gentle and cheerful
Who sing to the fire of a skull
That is not known whether it is
Emeterio's or Celedonio's
Who crossed the Pacific
On an oceanic adventure:
“Peninsula of La Magdalena
With its Palace and Royal Stables
Full of green meadows and coastal views
Where Federico García Lorca sang
With his Company La Barraca
Ramón Gaya, Ponce de León
And Santiago de Ontañón
The "Entremeses" by Miguel de Cervantes
"Fuenteovejuna" by Lope de Vega
and "Life is a dream" by Pedro Calderón de la Barca”.
Before going to eat at the Restaurant
“El Mirador de Suso”
On Sobremar Street in Suances
We will go down to the beach of La Magdalena
In front of the Isla de los Ratones
(Mouse Island).
Afterwards, we will go to Bikini Beach
To see if we can see Victoria Eugenia
And Isabel Garay wearing these clothes.
My father gone these forty years,
my mother gone twenty, I remember...
the acrid smell of tobacco on my mother’s rough fingers,
as she sat, silently, in a predawn Texas coastal town,
my head in her lap, the short-wave radio crackling with static.
She strained to hear the chatter of shrimpers in the Gulf of Mexico,
yelling out to each other in Cajun French, Mexican Spanish, accented English.
She stroked my nine-year-old hair,
her middle-aged body aching, hungry, worried, sleepless.
Far from her roots -- stranded -- in this strange,
dry, totally foreign place.
Her imaginings of my father’s struggles
with the sea and its weathers filled her mind.
She knew, all the while, that even
if he were safe, we would still suffer
the poverty of the displaced and desperate,
whose minor, occasional comforts were only,
onshore, the cold beers and noisy camaraderie
of the others like him, like her...like us.