Long Seashells Poems
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"I have seen the Sea when it is stormy and wild; when it is calm and serene; when it is dark and moody, and in all its moods, I see myself."
- Martin Buxbaum
The sea rolls on and on
Serene and majestic
Water kissing my feet
Gentle waves lap the shore
Enjoying ocean treat
The sea rolls on and on
Boisterous, it devours
Stay away from the shore
Warning signs all over
Escaping ocean roar
The sea rolls on and on
It drowns the shining sun
And throws the seashells out
The deep draws me closer
What a great place to scout!
The sea rolls on and on
I can identify
Sometimes I am at peace
Other times I am mad
Like the ocean, my moods
They swing from sad to glad…
10th March 2022
Theme: Ocean/Sea
For Constance La France's "Form M - Monchielle - New" contest
*Image of Seashell On Beach Sand by Pixabay.
"A seashell should be the crest of England, not only because it represents a power built on the waves, but also the hard finish of the men."
by Ralph Waldo Emerson
Sally Sells Seashells, Rethinks Career
A shell lies ashore by the sea
freely moves about as waves drift in
the seawater playfully tumbles its plaything
the glistening sun reflects on it by the cresting sea
Seagulls filled, fed by the sea
wafting uplifted o'er the sea current
it hovers down suddenly, wings opened out
initially stares then prod the shell needlessly about
Bird prints traipsed the beach
shoved shell safe by pushing waves
like an army by divisions thrusting a seawall
as a prying feathered friend, surrenders to the sea
Lil' Sally sports run next wade
notes the shell immersed in the sea
her eager digits cradled it upward with care
she poured out sand and seawater from its spirals
Abrupts, those forces of habit
the same that excited the nosy bird
she put the polished part right up to her ear
hoping to catch past the shore and across the sea
Dismayed, looked at the shell
frustrated, release it from her hands
whilst sea reclaimed that seashell uniquely
as tax pays overseas calls, collect-calls unallowed.
2021 August 23
*2nd Place*
Writing Prompt, Oceans or Seas
~~Constance La France: Judged 2021 August 25
In draining sand I trace the line
the tide has made in bubbles, fine,
where scalloped wavelets sloped in foam,
halt the ocean’s wide roiling roam.
Pale seashells shimmer in bright sun
and tiny crabs sport sideways run;
whitecaps dancing, turquoise to green,
toss at my feet a glossed sea bean.
Solitude, loved quiet and calm,
give to my weary soul sweet balm.
The mornings that I stroll the beach
seem like heaven slips into reach;
I pause to rest on driftwood bench
drink in the sea, my soul thirst quench.
Copyright, August 21, 2016
Faye Lanham Gibson
July Joy
July arrives spreading county fair spells
Pink chubby pigs and roan cows with cowbells
Excitement grows in fields and through the dells
Gold medal livestock for new clientele.
Hear the music of the carousel
Take a ride on Ferris wheels air cells
Take a chance on arcade games as well
Knock down all the bottles then ring the bell.
Revel in corn dogs and cotton candy smells
Sweet corn and cakes – prize winning show and tell
Jams and jellies with blue ribbons excel
Crisp green apples coated with caramel.
Rows of prized roses and vases of bluebells
Honorable mentioned quilts shaped like seashells
First place red barn paintings, sunset pastels,
County fairs with fireworks sheer joy foretells.
8-1-22
Contest: Christmas in July or July Celebration
Sponsor: Tania Kitchin
Rhymes checked with www.rhymezone
Empty seashore
The seashore is empty!
In the sea breeze, a vision—
your form!...
a puzzle!... with the pieces of your absence
joined in the refrain of the lapping waves—
pebbles, seaweed, and seashells.
Upon the emerging pebbles,
your light tread!...
An Aphrodite passing by,
steeped in the brine of youth,
leaving behind—in the fading wave—
a note of a wild waltz for this refrain.
Amidst the tangled seaweed,
your embrace!...
tight against the body of beauty,
loosened in the storm of desire,
two rose petals surrendered to the foam,
a note of stolen love—this refrain.
Upon the broken shells,
a shared promise—
the vow of an eternal love,
violated in the shifting sands,
like a shipwreck’s keel snapped in two;
the empty shoreline—a puzzle piece.
Written: May 08, 2025, for contest by Brian Strand.
Art "Sitting at the Dock of the Bay' Oil, Plein Air Series, by Michelle Held. My Poem titled "Quiet Pier’s Lament" was written using this artwork as its inspiration. It's better to read the poem while looking at this artwork.
***********
seagulls fly to the sky
over broken planks and rusty nails
searching for what has been lost
they sift through seashells and sand
scavenging for leftovers as I
look for traces of you
river drips its brown-blue hues
at low tide. I hear the water hum
and cries of birds
as I search for you among grains of sand
at the end of rickety pier
a girl stands on one leg, arms stretched wide
balancing ~ as quiet as a breath
` patient as death
her pterodactyl thoughts
soar on the sunlit wings of pelicans
or plunge into the depths
the strong bodies of eels
this life, a feeble pier
anchored by shallow utility poles
cut into thirds, like hot dogs
still hovers over a muddy bank
with each storm, new scars appear
the wind is gusting left and right
weakening what I hoped would endure
crushing under the weight of every fresh verse
now it's a relic, floorboards askew
washed away by relentless waves
with nothing to hold up my old desires
my thoughts drift away each night
yet, each month I sit in the same stiff chair
struggling to share anything new
All I am is an aging pier
with gulls perched on my rotting posts
Common Ground
They would emerge
sandy grisly looking beings
mysteriously become a presence,
a part of a momentary event
Following the scent of happiness,
creeping past the invisible sentries,
blending into the fabric of time’s
need for companionship.
They carried the rudiments of fun,
a smile, a stick, two seashells,
a bucket, a bent shovel.
The borders shrank
then grew to include all,
the moat around the castle spread,
new towers were erected,
soft stones were placed as tribute
to “seaweed” demons.
As the sun faded the surf approached,
slowly, innocently, inevitably.
The grisly beings withdrew,
wraithlike in their disappearance,
returning to their roots,
withdrawing into time’s shadows.
I would remain with my son
to watch the surf erase the evidence
of the mystical castles
built by un-named, bright faced
children drawn to the scent of happiness,
building togethercastles in the sand.
11/15/2016
submitted to – Privacy is like piracy yet copy cats are unlike authenticity – Poetry Contest
Written: April 13, 2025, for contest Sponsored by: Constance La France
Quote: "Let the water settle and you will see the moon and stars mirrored in your being," By Rumi
******************
Oat flakes float over the pale golden sky,
A white moon floats easily over land awry,
A shining reflection waltzes in your brown eye.
Your golden shade suits my dulcet face,
Glaucous clouds wrap seagulls as they pace,
Roses chilly hands ignite your heated place.
Soak it all in while I built a sandcastle—our empire,
A soft, wild cry from the coast, where we fire,
Seashells, salt and sand spats, our hearts wire.
Postcard-worthy memories cram my halcyon mind,
I'm catching a glimpse of moon face from behind.
Now I am taking a walk along the shore;
I can see the blue sky and the sun
Painting a golden haze over the water;
I can smell the fresh air;
It is always different when you smell along the shore;
The sand is smooth and I can sense it
Cuddling my feet;
There is a Tip Toe – Sand Affair
As I walk and leave footprints behind me;
I see a seashell;
I bend and pick it up;
It is white with some creamy lines;
I enjoy its smooth surface,
In the tip of my finger;
I am taking it with me today;
In fact I am here just for them;
They are small,
They are elegant,
They come once in a while with the tide
And I enjoy picking them up;
In fact there are times,
I wait for days to pick one of them;
It takes long,
But when I have the seashell in my hand
I enjoy it;
It is like sniffing the perfume,
I enjoy most
Or splashing earth color in the palette;
Some days,
I wait for days,
To pick up a seashell
But when I do, it is worth the time;
I felt the sea on my pulse,
the salt in my brunette,
pebbles underfoot,
the net dragging me.
I felt the familiar ebb and flow,
close to shore,
tippy-toes.
The coconut permeates the dawn,
its scent infiltrating,
its oils reverberating.
I feel the palms bending low,
so low I can touch
their feather fronds;
and fronts clashing.
First drops of the storm,
so tender-pitter-patter,
light thunder,
soft lightning.
Nearby volcano erupting,
you think I’m dreaming
about your lava eyes.
Beach blanket soaked,
settling into muddy sand,
its tartan, tanned
and connecting
with the waves,
overlapping.
The island’s going under -
the thunder, ecstatic;
its lightning erratic.
Surrounded by water,
a dugout
with flapping wings -
the canoe is land.
Lily pads on steroids
float upon deceptive waters -
so pretty I can touch them;
and caiman too.
All that’s ever been
resides in sandy eyes;
I’ve collected seashells
in my mind.