Long Driftwood Poems
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Favorite Carolyn Devonshire Poem
History Rising from the Sea
Treasure from the sea
Golden doubloon
Sixteenth century artifact
By ancestors hewn
Earth's history lays buried
Beneath five oceans
As undersea tremors
Create violent commotions
Freeing from Spanish galleons
Precious metals, gemstones,
To greet early beachcombers
History on loan
Memories of bygone ages
Scattered on the sand
Finally kissed by sun again
While in a searcher's hand
I pursue this morning trek
With Atlantis on my mind
Seeking proof at last
In treasures I might find
When ancient civilations
Seem to disappear
Comb the beach, you might find
The evidence is here
For from a phoenix rising
New finds appear each day
And I'll not stop searching
Till doubts I can allay
Caroline and I shared of love of water - she the ocean and I lakes and Puget Sound. Her poems flow like tides - effortlessly - with bits of wisdom scattered like treasures of seashells or driftwood found on the beach. This poem speaks of our mutual love of beachcombing for treasures and the pondering of history brought to mind by life's flotsam.
The poem below represents my tribute to Carolyn.
Girl on a Dolphin
Stargazing ocean pixie
Rides the playful weathered waves
To surf the ocean tides
With laughing dolphins
Leaps to catch Delphinus
Starfarer in a star bound chrysalis
To ride this five star celestial constellation
On heaven sent lapis astral waters
Wearing moonstones like Apollo’s poetry
Where starry Aquila flies to Lyra’s music.
Salt spattered waves only gaze
At a girl – eternal sea sprite –
That sits atop a stellar dolphin
And feels the shell torn loss
Of feet that danced through tidal pools,
Delight and awe surging through her signature,
As time bound day searches midnight legends
To align in twinkling sidereal day –
A quest for remnant memories in verses
Of a star born spirit – girl riding on a dolphin.
For Carolyn
8-19-21
Contest: Celebrating Carolyn's Poetry – Not a Contest
Sponsor: Andrea Dietrich
The constellation Delphinus is made up of five stars and can be seen between the constellations of Aquila, the Eagle, and Lyra, the Lyre. It is named for two Greek legends based on dolphins one of which tells of Apollo setting a dolphin in the sky in gratitude for saving the Greek poet Arion. Apollo is the god of music and poetry.
Heaven is compassion where kindness is real
reaping the soul and its treasures homeward to mind
no clever book needed to uncover truth and the seal
just complete wholeness and essence softly entwined
No war to end all wars no Faustian hellfire’s smouldering
Phoenix can rest in Peace and Icarus requires no wings
philosophy reigns over all terror of Armed Forces’ soldering
pure reason dances with feelings from no attached strings
Infinite waves assemble driftwood and sea shells
into a beach hut of shelter for poetry rhythm and rhyme
good witches dance in whacky trousers feathers and bells
soft sand with no hour glass chants soft wind’s quiet chime
No abused virgins waiting for taking in sexualized plight
nails from crosses removed with wounds healing not scarred
Karma has settled recycling contentment not righteous but right
enemies befriended instead of being torched feathered and tarred
Deep conversations in silent all-knowing stream
no apps no fake social media only one gentle source
a chorus of solitude in strong union of thriving esteem
a blossom one conscious river effecting one cause
Whirlpools' sweet currents and currant cinnamon flavour
white Nirvana abound blue flag beaches wild waterfalls tall
rainbows’ prisms harvesting moons whole galaxies to savour
a canopy of one giant fig tree of guidance for each and for all
26th August 2018
Cast upon the driftwood shores
I looked upon the sea
one hundred billion grains of sand
and one of them is me
Thrown about with the tides of life
the grains of sand do move
to wash upon a distant shore
and its worth to prove
So much movement seems a waste
until you look behind
that every grain of sand you touch
may have changed it's mind
Some the gentle tides bring in
and some come in the storm
and when the seas become calm
a new life may be born
My heart may be a shadow
by others naught be seen
My touch may change another
and bring new life into being
Oh storm rage and turn another page
how can you ever your effects to gauge
COPYRIGHT © 2009 C. Michael Miller
via Duboff Law Group LLC
Clementine was gourmet fresh,
plump and glowing no matter the season.
A monumental bargain for those with taste
who did their shopping at the misfit market.
We all wanted inside her space.
A human buffet flavored for nibbling
and she knew it. I did.
I took her to parties just to get in.
She made comfy with everyone.
We played the same games.
Being a fruit, she got all the attention.
The disfavor of her sunny disposition.
There were no shadows where she repined.
Beautiful Clementine.
Not sure when i saw her last.
Looking buckshee, she had rolled her eyes.
She was making room for Magnolia.
Something about it being the proper conditions.
Sometime after the denunciation,
right round that time...
when a wan softness set in
she soon consumed all our senses.
I saw it happen in the darkness.
My interest had been revoked. .
By then i'd become like driftwood.
With boots on, carried off by the current,
i self sheltered in NYC on desolation row.
There were only shadows when she repined.
Beautiful Clementine.
Hopelessness surprised me with Clementine.
i made no attempts to rejoin the flock.
Taking the weather for granted
I acknowledged that those seasons had died.
I heard she passed away in France.
A victim of the Corona virus.
A winter swallow let me know this,
before Magnolia and her pigeons did.
Her posse had no flag or tags for it.
They spoke all at once about her demise.
No flowers bloomed past that time
and still they squatted in her garden.
I saw it happen in the darkness.
Beautiful Clementine.
A virtual mess, so unfortunate.
A tall order in the end.
I lit a thousand sticks of incense
their escape was ten stories tall.
RIP beautiful girl.
just thinking … that emotion is the new reason
unadulterated feeling removed from the brink of
a showcase of intuition relieved and narrated by
the heart at the threshold of sentiment and passion
conscience on the royal road to magic sensations
when the hyena of analysis morphs into a dolphin
a unicorn pokes the terrified bubble of the mind
and driftwood flies to the tune of a universal soul
recycled trash dissolves the mental heap of tips
of an iceberg polar bears and penguins transcend
madness as cure for insanity and crazy bedlam
if you discard the straightjacket of conjecture
refute the shackles prise open trapdoor’s springs
refuse to mediate between prescriptions and levitation
encourage the sleeping giant to rise to the challenge
stop to engage with a dangerous theatre of rationale
when bells and whistles chime and synapses jingle
and an inner pied piper heals the rat race of cogitation
the cogs of internal hamster wheels come off the trolley
spin on an axis of intuition and alite from just thinking
30th December 2020
If not burned
Hellas is burning the Athens is surrounded by invading fires
no modern weaponry can stop this brutal onslaught.
Greece is far from here, where the Atlantic breeze is cooling
it doesn’t concern us, should it?
Further afield, people have too much water the drown and
become refugees trying to find a safe place.
Are there any safe places left?
Those who think their country is secure will not share
it with the driftwood coming to their shores.
California is burning villas made of timber are matchboxes
for the rich to feels the heat, but does it make them kinder.
Of course, it has nothing to do with us, we who live in a place
where the breeze from the north Atlantic is cooling.
In this time of life, the pandemic is just the beginning
of a total breakdown of the world we knew, the day may
Come when Afghanistan is a relatively safe place to go
as it has no flooding to speak of but has plenty of drugs
to pass the time while waiting for a fire to reach us.
A sea of tales:
calms and gales,
sardines and whales –
fishy with scales,
children with pails;
shell-homes of snails;
pirates, and barrels of
ales – a young boy's
imagination...
Incoming wave, flooding
village moats – drenching
all: Save the women!~
cats, dogs, pet rats; then the preachers
and teachers – Save the Popsicle skiffs!
The handkerchief sails on driftwood
tall-ships....
Could it be Columbus
started this way? Perhaps
Captain Hook? Stevenson's
popular book? Anderson,
thinking that a little boy's
finger could save a village,
perhaps point to a better
way – one tiny small hand
with just as small feet. His
royal-seal, a cigar-band –
learning of powerful tides,
beach...and of hourglass-sand –
Their children would run ahead of them
as they walked along the shore
because next to the sea there’s so much to see…and so much to explore.
It’s where they found their imagination…the children would later say
discovered in the stories they’d invent about the things they found along the way.
Of the many shells they found on their walk…be they small or fat or thin
they would make up stories of who lived in them and where they might have been.
They’d talk of the different rooms inside the shells…
what was hidden behind their doors
what country this shell may have come from before finding its way to this shore.
If they happened upon a starfish…they would immediately mourn the death
of the star that fell to earth after taking its last breath.
They would hold it up and wonder how brightly it must have shined
and they would search the across the heavens for the hole it left behind.
When they’d find a piece of driftwood…they’d wonder about its trip.
Was it part of a row boat, a schooner, a yacht…or better yet…
a pirate ship?
They’d dream it was from a pirate ship…that sails the seas no more
and wonder if those pirates buried their treasure…somewhere along this shore…
Their parents have long since passed away…
but now it’s their children’s children who adore
discovering their imaginations
on their walks along the shore.
Dear mother,
I lost you a long time ago,
and over the years fervent feeling of gratitude
accumulated layer by layer in my heart unexpressed,
I write now, hoping it will reach you where you are.
When we got uprooted from our native place,
the anchoring alcove for the driftwood
you made for me with copious care,
provided a sanguine shelter of protection,
so no surging storm of distress I faced,
the strewn shards of life from debris I could gather.
In torrent of turmoil when the family was afloat,
you toiled so very hard day and night
to once again grow our ravaged roots in an alien pasture.
To my deprived uncertain life adrift,
you gave a gift, a secured nest,
from where I spread my wings in seamless sky of future.
I flew high in the cover of your protective wings,
wild winds couldn’t blow away my soaring aspirations.
In your everlasting enveloping shadow I live even today
with your undying love, memory immortalizes.
I still feel the touch of your affectionate hands,
that sculpted me and made me what I am today.
You used to tell me that angels live in heaven,
and with celestial pristine beauty they glow
as the sparkling stars in the far away milky way,
but I know they often descend on earth,
for I’ve seen the radiant aura of your heart
as appealing as the aurora of angel’s face.
You left me for your new home decades ago,
but when in the dismal ebony night
I walk the last mile,
see the northern star glisten,
I know you shine as the star in heaven with the angels
to guide me to the final destination,
where by your side I will once again find me,
your loving son.
The blue hills rolled down embracing
the verdant slopes in rhythmic dance,
to the cradle of the humming hamlet
where my childhood home was once.
With formless flotilla of cloud clumps,
floating free in seamless cerulean sky,
my teenage exuberance soared high
with the colorful kites I loved to fly.
The cascading brook of aqua pearls,
flowed down in flamboyant grandeur,
girdling our house in a latticed loop
of horse-shoe contoured meander.
My rainbow tinged paper boats glided
on the curling current’s rippling trail,
on these to distant shore of dreamland
I felt entranced my fervent fantasy sail.
When the storm surged from nowhere,
the kites flew away, and the boats sank,
an uprooted tree, I turned to driftwood,
the boats I search for, stuck at river bank.
Written : August 7, 2020
June 21, 2022
Contest : 2022 Poetry Marathon Mile 4
Sponsored by : Mark Toney