Long Limpets Poems
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We had most fun we have ever had on the River Boat Dell Queen
Cousins Limpets and the Hoppers, more than you've ever seen.
Frolicked, jet skied, threw our sisters and bros in the water.
What incredible fun for each grandson and granddaughter.
We have never seen you act this way, the littlest one said.
named Sheila, she belonged to Lilly Putin and son Ted.
We picked her up, swirled her and threw her in with a plunk.
Me too yelled a big cheese sandwich eater name of Big Thunk.
It was the craziest, most fun family reunion we had ever had
You can ask my most serious grand Uncle– Timothy Thad.
We were arrested, hauled away for our behavior that fine day.
Grandma said next time we won 't let those damned cops chase us away.
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Waves eroded the stones
on the shore line where
for ages the days and nights
had been subject
to the tides of the sea.
Such habits of the sea
the high tides
and low tides
make the hungry visiters
here caustious
they gather here in morning
to harvest the crustains
for breakfast
somemussels, periwinkles, limpets,
and oysters, naturally live and cling
to shoreline rocks in intertidal zonede
puration or purging
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Pateuxent County Md.
I'm not much attached to this body,
it feels like it's on a short leash
while the brain drags it around
like a reluctant old dog.
Long cantankerous years
have pummeled it into a shape
it never used to own, never saw coming.
I am by no means special
we all acquire these 'special' parts,
that cling to us like limpets and lichen
many are visible only to the mind.
Tree's show their scars on the outside
internal excrescences run deeper.
Wasted landscapes never repopulated
are sutured integral with still verdant fields,
still workable earth
but we know
that vehicles this unwieldy
have no fail-safe switch
even if we could find it.
Morning mist like ghostly specter
Eddies and swirls in dizzying array
Hovering over ocean and dunes
I walk shrouded in mystery
Listening to the sound of waves.
Ebbtide slowly reveals
Kelp and small crabs entwined
Ocean has a particular smell
Provoking thoughts of the deep
Like distant horizon I know is there.
Rockpools entice curious minds
As morning sun burns mist away
Red sea anemones cluster
Sharing pool with razor clams
Desperate limpets cling to rock.
Turning, there are the sand dunes
Sculptured by a master's hand
Decades of nature's creativity
Marram grass gently waves
Quite beautiful in an abstract way.
Silence
There's clamour all around me,
the roar won't let me out.
We have to hide ourselves away,
but we're it's chosen prey.
Yet touch silence,we must.
Though,at times, a void,empty,frozen ,falorn
or refuge for thoughts unwanted,thoughts despised
that cling like limpets to servile rock,
I hear the beauty of a longed for dream,
the burbling sound of a far off stream,
the secret spell of hallowed dawn.
Silence begs me in to cleanse my doubts,
to ease the pain of jibes and shouts.
To truly see,not journeyed hopes of A to B.
Just for one precious moment,cradle in your arms
that sweet nothingness.
Robert Parker
Calmness wasn't expected today by my overwhelmed spirit marveling,
I spot linden's branches with their yellow flowers brightly floating
as ships lost at sea; from which river did they come from?
Did someone break them off or was it a summer' storm?
Curiousity makes me look further down...discovering shiny limpets,
in conical form, stuck to tidal rocks and visited by water lilies;
a lizard watches my facial movements...I hear a male voice,
"Sub rosa...in loco citato!" shouting to his gal so voluptuous...
Latin spoken these days? I stumble upon a familiar phrase
that some of my classmates used to whisper to girls wearing sunbonnets,
making believe they were practicing the liturgical language of priests;
and if they learned quickly, they would surely get a blind date...
The lotus' fragrance induces a sudden rejuvination of the imaginative, uncontrollable senses;
a laison for those unsavoring women and femmes fatales...
laying down on sandy beaches with gazes upon moonlight, with mellow faces
being stroken by manly hands, and hearts being fascinated by capricious words...
The flaunting moon infuses the dreamer's innermost thoughts;
passionate verses adhering to the walls of the poetic heart as the shiny
limpets stick to the tidal rocks, making their ivocation to the invidious sea,
which glistens with its green and blue gemstones that reflect my sweetheart's eyes...
Copyright 2009 by Andrew Crisci
P.S. Translation: Sub rosa...in loco citato/ In secret...in the mentioned place
Femmes Fatales/charming or seductive women
Seashore Sweepstakes
northwest rocky beaches
waves disguise cache of prizes ~
jellyfish parade
Clams and Gooey Ducks
hide in sandy blanket homes ~
no taste for chowder
hold your breath then dive
Abalone glued on rocks ~
opal sheen of shells
clusters deep purple
swinging from rocks of fool’s gold ~
Muscles hold strong
always on the move
Hermit Crabs – house on their backs ~
looks for vacancies
Oysters together
bedded down with family ~
maybe hiding pearls
Limpets with strong foot
clings to rocks and to fingers ~
teal and turquoise hats
trophies from tide pools
lucky tickets under stones ~
beach shore lotteries
Vashon Memories
A song to sing itself –
A birthing voice,
Shouting then whispering
Of fields and quiet harbors
Of blackberries and sunlight on smooth waters,
Of boredom, rest and restlessness
In tidal pools
Hunting hermit crabs and limpets,
Sticking on all fingers,
Avoiding jelly fish and barnacles
When pigtails and freckles
Fly through misty bracken fern,
Evergreen Madrone leaves,
Hemlock and the Douglas fir
Shading meadows
Of green apple trees,
Fat blackberries -
Huckleberries red and blue
Eluding nettles reaching out
To leave their sting
Then rest beside
Old logs
Wrapped in pitch
Stacked up by mischievous waves
To dot the shoreline
With drifting wood
Of mysterious shapes
On pebbled sands
Warmed in the welcomed sunlight
And drink in afternoon tea
Steeped in curiosity.
My grandparents had a summer home on Vashon Island. We would spend several weeks on the island during the summer.
Everyone hates my poetry
Because it doesn’t wear makeup.
Because it stares too long,
or not long enough.
Because it mentions the body
like a room that remembers
every man who left his name in dust.
Because it’s too sad,
too loud,
too holy,
too raw—
because it does not ask permission
to bleed
where others would politely weep.
They say I should whisper.
I scream in stanzas instead.
Line breaks like broken bones —
each one healed wrong on purpose.
I rhyme “fxxk” with “forgiveness”
and call it a sacrament.
I flirt with ghosts.
I give grief a seat at the table.
I write what I can’t confess.
And then I press send.
And wait.
And wait.
And wait.
?
Go your own way, they say.
But I was never theirs to lose.
I won’t be your throat,
your mouth,
your Sunday-quiet muse.
Dance in the avalanche —
I’ll be drinking full-blooded wine.
You butter your toast,
I’ll bleed ink and call it divine.
I’m Dracula,
you’re limpets —
clinging to shores of should.
Sinister mercy monsters
with teeth made of wood.
You won’t take mine.
I’ve bartered them
for metaphor.
For myth.
For the kind of flame
that never asks to be understood.
I sit on a throne
shaped like an electric chair,
burning truth until
only the bones of beauty remain.
You?
You live in living rooms.
You collect pretty things.
I braid your betrayal
into a lei of lunacy —
my madness in bloom.
Say I’m too old.
Too female.
Too much.
There’s something in the water.
Damn right.
I am the water.
I merge with ocean light.
The moon kisses me goodnight.
Why do I need your approval to feel seen?
Must just be a throwback trauma dream.
Your eyes — not galaxies,
but black holes,
sucking the light from my becoming.
I offered constellations,
you brought collapse.
But still—
I orbit my own flame.
Still, I rise in ruin’s dress,
sequined with scars.
I chew the fat
with better men than you,
men who don’t flinch
when a woman burns through.
Men who sip my fury like wine,
and still
ask for another glass.
You?
You watered me down,
then called me “too much”
for the mess you made.
?
And still I write.
Now where does one start to write
To find the courage he has to pluck
And write a poem for a contest
It's all about things that suck
Out there, there are so many places
Where this word can always be used
There are octopuses in our seas
And their suckers are used so true
Even in the medical world
They use leeches to reduce blood swelling
Their active anticoagulant
Is a marvel in their telling
There are women of ill repute
Nothing like sucking on a sweet
A hard neck never deters them
Vampire bats do it to eat
There are others in the animal world
Yes, limpets when they grip their locked
And back to the ladies and ********
Yes the sweetie I meant was rock
Then there are the ones who are gullible
Like a vacuum they become sucked in
There is nothing wrong with the word suck
Using it, is never a sin