Long Piers Poems
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Perchance One Day?
by Odin Roark
Pick your war
So long ago
Living by reason became paralyzed
Birds soared into reluctant retreat
Knowing this was not the nature they were born into
Souls chafed against destroyed landscapes
Like listless boats against moorings
Their piers desperately inviting closure
By any means
Yet
Habit of no identity
Continues to proliferate dominance over the innocent
Where guns infuse might
To make right the removal of…
Hopefully in the future
A glance from behind shattered windows
Will reveal an undulating live symbol of
Peoples
Countries
Ethnicities
All the glorious colors
A white flag unfurling proudly can display
Not as surrender
But as a pronouncement
“I am a human”
Such might invite a long awaited embrace
Perchance One day?
Once again, I've spent my day
drifting among the drifting dunes
staring at colorful bits of ocean-tumbled glass
that shimmer, sparkle
and refract the still-warm October light
in my shaking uncertain hand
as though I was looking
into my very own past and future
at the same time
that was made from pieces like these,
pieces of joy, heartache, happiness
and little shards of leftover sorrow
that had repeatedly washed ashore
over a lifetime of trying to recall
everything that ever mattered.
And the gulls know,
for they know everything and see everything
from their airborne perch and they, no doubt,
know everything about this drifting drifter
now settled snug and secure
in the side of an ever-changing dune,
my wind-shifted haven for this wanderer
who comes here every day
scouring the beach and scouring the soul
for blue, green, frosted and amber gems
loosened from Neptune's necklace
hidden amid stranded seaweed and the twisted wood
of abandoned piers and long-sunken boats
that have been worn down in the dark briny depths
into otherworldly sculpted creatures
along this deserted beach of my sun-faded childhood.
What is it about sea glass and sand dunes
I ask myself and any passing stranger
who also believes in salt-laden breezes,
rock jetties, lighthouses,
old fishing nets, tarnished brass lanterns,
rain-soaked Saturdays
and the bellowing of unseen foghorns?
I quietly put my fragmented multicolored amulets
in my pocket and begin the walk home
amid patches of beach grass and goldenrod
to the endless sound of icy-gray waves
and the cries of my friends the gulls
who know I will be back another day
to drift and to ponder and to search
for even more sea glass and sand dunes
once again.
Set the sea and anchor detail sounded over the one M C
Soon there would be some time off for us all
Hustling the lines, securing the tugs
Port and starboard divisions awaiting liberty call
Hookers and con artists on the piers
New port of call but the crowd is the same
Going into town to have a few beers
Same old gang but it's a brand new game
Don't know how it happened but he must have got mad
Probably when I was hitting on his girl
My nose and his elbow met, I was bleeding bad
I tried to smile at her but my head was in a whirl
I guess I was stupid, but just having fun
Over a period of time I'd been in a few fights
At least the bleeding had slowed down a little
I'm glad I wasn't in my dress whites
Manners are important when you're out on the town
So I thought I would add a new twist
I said excuse me sir, there's someone I would like you to meet
Let me introduce your face to my fist
Before the introduction I heard something crack
When I woke up I was on my back
My shipmate asked what I paid for the black eye
He said it sure was a beauty
The cost was steep, ten days restriction
And twenty hours extra duty
He said man you've really taken the fall
But I knew I'd be ready again, come liberty call.
Absolutely fiction.
Billowing taupe clouds, hunker down and hem in the Peninsula,
The morning rips open
A glimpse of sun shone; a lemon curd slivers between slits of of silver illumination
The first hint of light glances up frothing crests of salted foam,
Waves slap mineralized milky encrusted piers,
A place she never goes,
The boats, the ropes, salted misty chalky vapors
All a mockery of thematic proportions,
Unduly deliver a set, a scene,
In which a broken-hearted woman creaks about over well trodden planks
With a mystery in her eyes,
A coat two-sizes too big
And a hint of faded spicy cologne
Envelopes her unconscious, the odor she is unaware of
She perceives a mounted flaking, patinated iron harpoon mere décor
A prop on the set of this distant sea,
An artifact for ancient ways of hunting, the heart of the whale she knew was the size of twenty men.
Old men begin to mill about from the shore they amble toward the beauty and the death of the sea,
The lulling sea
A salve for old men, a balm to quell the roaring mind,
Clapboard sided sea worn boats rise and fall not of their own accord,
But as slaves to the the great sea, slaves to the sea
They carry metal traps, hemp ropes
And the unforgiving memories of the land,
“Landlubbers” she muses. A momentary countenance of mirth gleams in her eye.
Such a funny word. An erstwhile chuckle engages her lips as she knows now the seriousness of life, whereby in bygone times mother warned: “Love will make a mockery of us all”
pier-perfection
measured stroll to its length
flipping into mirth
landing on the sailboat’s deck
and holding on…for dear life
pier-perfection
strong sun, beholden wind
horizontal spray
leisuring at an angle
hang-on-baby amusement
pier-perfection
observers as beached whales
by no means diving in
the sea chopping off their legs
piers wooden pegs bending wills
pier-perfection
becomes a water slide
bums not having fun
turbulent waters teal blue
nothing to show for their lives
pier-perfection
floating away, perfect sail
for the dead beats…
the hang-on-baby crowd
seasoned-sailors on beach towels
7/2/2023
The Blackpool donkeys have given up,
they have boarded jumbo jets
as emotional support animals.
Once they used to plod between
the Blackpool piers
half a mile up, half a mile back,
day after day,
carrying whooping kids and adults
as they heavily jogged along;
fat thighs clapping sore ribs.
In a dulled daydream the donkeys moved
with downcast eyes,
backs spavined from gleeful bums and knees.
When they could carry no more -
they were trucked away
to be neglected unto death.
Now the donkeys,
when not flying business class,
surfboard in Hawaii,
their Bermuda shorts billow
as if tailored for four-legs.
Those that once rode them
on that uncultured English beach,
now take river cruises
to the more refined European cities
never wishing to see a donkey,
but if they should come across one
I hope that for a moment
they feel a knobby spine
again bruising those broad buttocks.
~~~~~~~~~~~~
https://www.blackpoolgazette.co.uk/news/abused-donkeys-not-licensed-work-blackpools-beaches-572591
“Lake Shore Drive”
by Positive Mark
I sat the sun on a roof while I re-tied my shoe, and told it to rest up right there.
I quickened my pace, with a mask on my face, just in case all the others might care.
The piers on the inlet hold envious midgets, fake preachers, and lovers of dope.
Societal beatings, anonymous meetings, and new comrades help restore hope.
I shoe shine and grin at the trouble I’m in, as I live my unmanageable life.
The gardens are fed with the faces of dead men who died by the gun or a knife.
The stingray approach, and they glide by in pairs, while the deep thinkers welcome new moons.
The young people sing of the madness life brings, while the old fiddles bellow new tunes.
A preacher just lost his handsome grandson to a substance that long held him for ransom.
I wonder if we’ll ever win.
I picked up the sun from the top of the roof, and started my running again.
.
Do you hear my voice? I sing with a voice, I did not know I had
I chant a song. I am one of many that hum in the air,
filling the void of the past, in a land of famine and waste.
Here she comes, the seidr-wise woman, long past her fertile years.
She holds her staff, taking her place among the piers
Our music vibrates, solely for her ears.
She sits on her platform, while we sway and dance.
She keeps her eyes locked in hypnotic trance.
High on the platform, she lives in two worlds.
She foretells the future, reaching into the vast.
She is filler of the sound, while seeking the past.
She brings back to the Fjord fish for our tables,
Healing and guiding....she sees what we can't.
As our song quiets down, her voice is a whisper.
Like a far away land, is quite distant, a gasp
Coming from something strange, from something long ago told.
She heals, and has the power…
Sits as mountain of spirit, so bold
The cold offered me, lays out there, far,
among the wasted barren land, and into the stars.
I hear the others chant, as I offer mine
The rain has sent me often songs.
Other ballads the wind brought me.
The waves carried them to shore.
Birds shaped words into tones.
She sways and hears the piercing bird calls.
Sounding like cackling of old hags.
Growing fierce of four legged creatures.
All disorient is the scent of the earth that pours from our mouths.
And talking sound as if from the crowns of trees.
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For Debbie's contest "The Shaman's Way"
Based on Northern European Viking Shamanism
8/11/16
Looking into a mirror
With smudges and smears
New things each and every year
Across the hemispheres
I'll tell you what, I no longer care to hear
About any theory of if you think the end is near
I'm being sincere
Across the entire frontier
Got to take it to the next gear
As opportunites appear
Thinking wise, it's all so clear
No need to fear
Seriously try to be successful with your career
Otherwise the results just may be severe
And you'd be lucky to be left with a souvenir
Believe me, you've got to persevere
And steer
Regardless of if you ever want to contribute and volunteer
As meteor showers and falling stars premiere far away and close to here
Pay attention, listen and use your ears
Among forests with deers and by the piers
Anytime and place, below and above the atmosphere
Where humans any anything else has and hasn's pioneered
By: Dalton Ogletree