Long Seaside Poems
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Written: September 12, 2023
Ocean Poetry Contest Sponsored by: Ink Empress
“The sea is an underwater museum still awaiting its visitors.” – Phillip Diole
______________________________________________________________
In the endless expanse of the ocean's domain.
Calm, circumfluous crystal collides coiling terrain.
A bed of iridescence behests the view.
Turquoise riddles, azure feral, and true
Humpback whales waltz on the horizon stage.
Their majestic demeanor, the ocean's sage
Waves akin to a shroud, coral reefs below.
In a cerulean ebony, enigma utopia to know
Tidal waves waltz ripples in a twirling thunder.
Foams that fizz and fatuous horses canter under
An aphrodisiac shore, paradisal and grand.
Where quicksilver spume kisses saffron sands.
Barefoot on the shore, spate, and pelagic breeze
The brine in the breeze, a savor of the seas
Seaside pearls and garrulous nautical dreams
A seamount allure, where kelpies do gleam.
Waves wreck as cymbals, water splashes spray.
Unplumbed bedrocks where sunfish play.
Blase naiads and abysmal gaunt cries
In the abyss, the embrace of diastrophism rises.
Swell of the abyss, corrugated, and red.
Balboa sails in pits due to intricate coastal spread.
Nebulous littoral shores, worldly and true
In Japan splurge, a seabed quells the view.
With a caper and a queen, the gulf turns alive.
Natal seaboard, where nexus coldness does thrive.
Beyond the gloom, where ocean waves are silver,
Moonlight pulsates, spritzes, and yelps as a river.
Whipping and splashing, an aqua symphony
The ocean's orchestra in idyllic harmony
From abyss to surface, the music does swell.
A symphony of water, where stories do tell.
In the moonlit dusk, waves waltz and sway.
Their silvery, pellucid shimmer steers the way.
With every pulsating and splashing sound.
Ocean's placate melodies and quiddity abound.
Abyssal symphony is a seraphic sight.
Where nature's cynosure beauty bears flight.
Waves, akin to dancers, gracefully behoove.
In a rhythmic squirm, their sapidity grooves.
Susurrus slipshod secrets of the steep
Splashes of euphoria, sojourn, and sweep
A symphony of splendor, a chorus of grace
The ocean's melody is in every embrace.
2nd place contest winner
Summer of 1990,
Ill winds had blown all year,
I was feeling kind of battered,
I lived in constant fear,
Mother died, left my cheating wife,
Lost my job, no more value to life...
My last lifeline was my father,
In deepest mourning too,
I knew how bad we were hurting,
I knew what I wished to do...
So that summer I drove him and I,
To Montauk, Long Island, under beautiful sky,
With the world's most beautiful beaches,
Restaurants, historic sights,
120 miles away...
Anticipating a bit more than fun
days and nights....
See, I needed no return ticket,
Planned not to travel back home
I would marry the Atlantic Ocean,
No more in pain to roam....
Walk down the wedding aisle,
into the deepest sea....
My only concern, my father,
How much more sufffering would there be?
But sometimes one's own pain,
Overwhelms reason and heart,
I was prepared to be selfish,
And take my chance to depart...
We had some days of fun,
But on my chosen day,
I brought a beach chair to the beach,
Tape recorder, bottle of scotch...
Sat facing the mighty ocean,
Hoping this I would not botch...
Spent all night, and next morning,
Sitting by, and staring at, the sea...
Scotch seemed ineffective,
Maybe too much on the mind for me....
Of course the music was comforting,
All from the 30's and 40's,
Music my father taught me to love,
My mind was racing nowhere,
There was no insight from above...
Eventually I grew weary,
Returned to my seaside room,
My father relieved to see me,
Somehow that eased my gloom...
See, there's still love for me out there,
And lots for me to do...
How could I hurt this injured warrior,
A man who had my deepest admiration,
Love, and true respect...
I had been foolish to even think it,
And later, when I thought about it,
For one to take one's own options,
Is to disdain God's gift of life,
To spit in his face, even...
Perhaps creating God's strife...
So, I survived, and learned much,
From that fateful day...
When all seems completely hopeless,
Somehow God will find a way.
Epilogue; Driving home, radio played the Eagles, "Hotel California"...a song
which has new meanings to me, and never fails to remind me when I chose,
at the last moment, to step back from death, and seek the magic of hope, faith,
and love.
tom
============================
I sat one evening in the park
upon a bench I thought my own
but as the dusk got down to dark,
I realized I was not alone
I hadn't seen from where he'd come
or got a strong look at his face
but he was there, green as a plumb
where had so long been empty space
He beamed a right polite 'Good day!'
but when I made to shake his hand,
he seemed from sight to fade away
like seaside foam into the sand
Then, as I stared in disbelief
down at the empty wooden seat,
his silhouette in bas-relief
appeared again, from head to feet!
I found this process very strange
but he explained as best he could,
he hadn't left, he'd only changed
his coloring to match the wood
We chatted when my wits returned,
his pattern shifting now and then.
He was a reptile, soon I learned
and called himself 'Cha-me-le-on'
As topics changed, I noticed that
his coloration changed in kind
and I could tell, throughout our chat,
exactly what was on his mind
Now, poker is my favorite sport,
I rake in fortunes with the card,
in part, because those of his sort
make taking babies candy hard
At that, I left but told my name
and address and the time of day
that I was next to hold a game,
inviting him to come and play
Game day arrived and he was there
but came in late to join the fun
and though he dived into his chair,
the show already had begun
I poured a scotch and dealt him in,
explaining how a hand was played,
then sat where I could watch his skin
and witness any change it made
Then he allowed us all to see,
a wealth bound tightly in a wad
that, awed, I vowed eventually,
would come round to myself, by God!
A patsy if there'd ever been,
I got him taught as best I could
but plotting, thought, "If this is sin,
then please, don't ask me to be good!"
In my delight, I failed to spot,
until the night progressed a pace,
my guest caught every other pot
with not one hint wrought on his face
and as he smiled, I realized
that though my friend no clue had shown,
I'd bet you twenty mint that I'd
supplied him plenty of my own!
Thus, Lizards Poker isn't fun
and you must hold your empty seats
if you meet old Cha-me-le-on...
He's just cold-blooded, plus - he CHEATS!
============================
Wordsmithing and living
are like communicating and loving
through a camera lens
when you could just lay down your language-camera,
to step into face-to-face space,
rather than stepping aside from present co-arising,
co-relational empathic moments of opportunity
and co-gravitating issues,
to choose instead to speak
sing
dance ex-cathedra
In what is an increasingly accessible
rhetorical climate moment,
but decreasingly LeftBrain reading
writing
rithmatic tic tic
emptying-out
echo-palace for noble and graceful
and unpaid poets
Our sageconomist gods
and musecologist goddesses
with their anthroprivileged sacred meanings
and mundane busyness purposes,
to chat amongst our win/win selves.
Only nature photographers
and soulful philosophers
take muses seriously
as performance artists;
not just under-commodified
and over-domesticated
giants of useless
unentitled industry.
Sacred ecology smithing
and synergetic economizing
are co-nutritional communication and deep life-loving
through bicamerally reiterative lenses
of Left Interior Ego Landscape
ecohosted by Elder Right Exterior MusEcology Landscape,
therapy for regenerative planning and development.
In EarthParadise
poets rule Interior Ego Reigns
while permacultural ecotherapists co-evolve governance
of Exterior CoOperative EcoClimates,
politically egalitarian
as economically co-op driven,
ecosystemic space/time synergy
here/now win/win balancing
confluently elational body/mind
neurosystemic energy;
learning to speak in mindful face to face
paced time '
and algae-surfing seaside rhythms.
Writing without experience,
outside experience,
beyond and abstracted from context contenting experience,
already takes God's active-verbal name
in panentheistic vain
pursuits of beautifully affordable correctness,
omitting primal wild
dipolar dialectic revolutions,
complex fractal-spiral regenerative icons,
metasystems of time's unfolding reformation
with fertile refolding eco-function,
flowing back to Golden Elixir,
Rule,
reproportioning Ego/Eco-Balance
face to face
Here in Now
like flowing river water identities
in salt surfing seasons
Of Earth empowering deep ego energy
in synergetic Sun's wide
wild museco enlightenment.
Oh dear, oh dear, oh dear.
By Stanley Russell Harris
The new mad author
Ho, ho, ho, the Christmas vandals have struck.
Where you might well ask?
Felixstowe,at the beach huts.
Three times now, those blinking vandals.
Have struck at my beach but there.
Is it not too much to ask them.
Too vandalise elsewhere?
I mean three times my hut’s been vandalised.
And it’s not cruel to anyone.
Mind you, I might be later on.
If I catch those vandalisers!
Doing what they do for fun.
I am slightly annoyed.
I am slightly perturbed.
I am also blinking mad.
You’ll have to take my word.
I will repair.my beach hut door.
It will look quite posh, you know.
Then, when I put up for sale.
Up the price will go.
Felixstowe may not be Southwold.
Where beach huts are worth their weight in gold!
But the amenities at Felixstowe are increased, so I have been told.
Children have a play area, it is very nice indeed.
There are posh toilets and a shower to wash off that sea weed.
Kiosk selling cakes and drinks coffee and tea I mean.
Another sells seaside novelties and lovely ice cream.
I think I’ll mention all this in my advert for my beach hut.
But I will leave out them vandals no publicity then I will give.
I only hope without the fame, they can really live.
I have the wood, screws and nails matching paint as well.
And if I see those vandals!
I could nail them down as well.
I’m booking all my expense; it could be quite a lot.
So when those vandals are caught they can pay for it, I certainly will not.
Of course there is no CCTV, and witnesses there are none.
Of those dear blinking vandals, having so much fun.
And as Christmas is coming and if they caught you know.
I’m sure the magistrate will be lenient and let them blighters go.
Personally I would lock them up and throw away the key.
Then my beach hut would be safe from the vandals, do you agree?
Mine was not the only hut they did vandalise so.
I’m sure they had a good time at the seaside you know.
Playing kick the door in, smash the windows too.
Trying to find something to steal, I hope it wasn’t you!
No, poets are nice people, they really are you know.
And on that note, I must finish as it is now time to go.
Form:
"Alms, alms, alms...
spare me a piece of bread..
spare me your mercy..."
Wandering solely, all alone
Along the streets, everyone knows
Cartoons and tabloids, he stows
Lights with so little glow
He stood ready to go...
Roaming around from trash bin to bins
Searching, looking for something hot to eat
His eyes fixed and excited
For at last!
He has something to feast: a leftover burger
At once! he took hold; walking happily ahead
Heading to his favorite place: the seaside
There, he sits and quietly eat
Time to time he looks up (innocent eyes)
Beholding, the sun rising in the east
As he remembers how life has been
Three years past when still he has his mom
By his side, hugging him so tight
They had been two helping one other
From first hour of the day 'til night
Poorest of the poor they had been
Yet, so rich with the love and care they have
Until one quiet evening...
A mob came to their place
Taking all what they have
Even her mama's breath of life
He was barely seven then
No father since birth
No found relatives to be with
Now, no mom even to hug and kiss
And his life became a day to day struggle
On his own
All by his own
All by his own to survive
As he finished his breakfast
He went near the sea
Taking some water on his hand
Splashing, cleansing his face
From his plastic taking a pair of worn out clothes
With a smile, he stood ready to face the day
To the mountains of bread and butter, he went
Picking up, cans and plastics to sell
Under the prickly heat of the sun
Amorous smell all around...
He did not care
As he picked up and select
Picked up and select
Picked up and select
Fast as he can
Before others,
Come to pick and select as well
When his sack is filled
Confident enough
He went walking away to sell
Frantic at that day!
He run and run
Then before he knew...
A rushing car hit him hard
Throwing his filth body like a teddy toy
Blood oozing fast from his head
Lying half dead on the street
He heard sirens from somewhere
Voices of persons he did never know...
"Alms, alms, alms..
Spare me a piece of bread...
Spare me your mercy..."
by
olive_eloi
12:41 pm
revised: 03/20/2014
CONTEST: LATEST POEM
SPONSOR: LEONORA GALINTA
2ND PLACE (TO GOD BE THE GREATEST GLORY.. )
Carefree in leisure time, one blasé tourist,
almost happy, I once had collected a complicated stone;
after the sunny hours had ended and last opportunity
for keepsakes began.
In my hand the stone had kept all of its mouths sewn shut,
holding its amalgamated story, and likewise in the car,
on the plane, through US Customs where it was not
in the least suspected.
A thumbnail identity I now should guess at, marking an old date,
and fixing it to, with reasonable estimate, a map location:
Plot No. 243, East end of the island, slave sugar plantation,
the stone from the corner of a ruined windmill stair—
broken free by my criminal hand, having liberated a vine.
The stone looked like a bleached out mini-monolith, square-rectangular,
able to be stood on end, leaning back and swollen at its center
like a pulled cork.
What could have moved this sequestered world to opening?
That was not for me to discover, except what came on Christmas Day,
two days after my returning.
Slave watercourses, the sight of innumerable Dutch ships,
ballasted with human flesh and hewn rock for sugar works buildings.
The drop at arms swish of the Driver’s bullwhip.
Flecks of spirit splayed on vegetation.
A mongrel dog barked beyond the windless wall of sugarcane
in centipede and mosquito heat.
Seaside, beautiful seaside impressions;
distant coral light shadows, etched deep azure;
snowy colored breakers that pencil-marked the sea.
The staid, vibrant, mocking power
of visual symphony backdrop.
So little of aid for the slaves, but for those dangerous secrets,
unhoused in the fallen coolness of the night:
demonstratively crystalline heaven of stars;
a ragged moon, clouds scudding eastward toward Africa
before freshwater rainsqualls came. And there
Orion’s Belt, mid-sky, illustrious bright, with its three
centering star points in rational line, as if
Hope could have flung such a rope anchor onto Life
engendering sanctified resistance.
Christmas morning, 5 a.m.
I had awakened from a stuck place, shapeless and dark,
half in dreaming and half in knowing I was in no dream.
I was sobbing, yet strangely, because there were no tears.
I had only put the stone inside my pajama top onto my heart.
by Mark Miller © 03/19/2014
Waiting beside the seaside absent who never arrives after graven payment-
Standing by Stan's shadow of ascent looks for loners promise repents,
Sullen watch golden sold feelings lost upon darken silhouette in trusted innocence
Filling pockets of soothing felon who battles lonesome fear
Shadows sun drifts waves bye cold ice through body's prickly pears -
Tweekers forsaken memory our hole moments lost in years of chemical romance
Lies come, lies go, lies become no where shown
Lighthouse shines pattern in sky open of holes beckons my fall
with our backs to the wall, our backs to the wall, fighting for places against the wall
Fade away stray's away tomorrow never stays against grains of yesterdays pain,
with our backs against the wall, our backs to the wall, fist pounds against the wall
Cyclical lows follow spiral highs prance lunatics folly dance
Through irons bars I travel the minds labyrinth highway boundless soundless
Anger fueled adrenaline courses towards heart's of absence play lost under-ground
Stagger by strangers of mechanical anguish ways in wasted days abound
Lies come, lies go, lies become where none shown
Lighthouse shines pattern sky's open holes beckons my fall
with our backs to the wall, our backs to the wall, fighting for places against the wall
Fade away fades away tomorrow never stays against grains of yesterdays pain,
with our backs against the wall, our backs to the wall, fist pounds against the wall
Voluntary death whose to choose as hollow soul turns foul drink soured fruits
Greeting back and forth harvester sewing panic mistaken grief in quiet relief
Lie to me plead with me fly in me hope lest loss haven't got belief
Sigh to please me be me dye me in sorrow's gray pain receiver
Bury my burden beside child inside minds secret lie
Lies come, lies go, lies become where none shown
Lighthouse shines patterns sky open holes beckons my fall
with our backs to the wall, our backs to the wall, fighting for places against the wall
Fade away fades away tomorrow never stays against grains of yesterdays pain,
with our backs against the wall, our backs to the wall, fist pounds against the wall
Serendipity came into play, when I stumbled upon a gallery,
I was a tourist in a seaside town, shopping midst a vast array
while blinding rays of sun’s reflection, caught my close propinquity
In one window, several seascapes, bucolic seaside scenes
but, one small painting called to me,..a harbinger of all my fantasies
I cupped my hands around my eyes...and that was when I sighed....
It took my breath, and I was kept a captive by the artist's pride...
A lovely landscape of a town, the village of my dreams
This very street now, whence I stand, but from a different theme
Redolent of days erstwhile of scenes, from time quite long ago
Before the tourists trampled ground, and shopped for souvenirs
This village poised, beneath the hills...turned back two hundred years
Where cottage homes wore faded frames, on efflorescence sands
demesne spreading wild and free, and skies were azure bands
Narrow lanes branched far away from roads that went astray
dipping down to petrichor dunes, where grasses bend in wind
A general store and a blacksmith shop, and summer never ends
Seagulls glide with angel wings, against the afternoon
The peaceful lift that lives within, how wonderful it looms...
With a dalliance of my own epiphany, ..my thoughts are wild and free
how ephemeral it would be if I could freeze this day
If I could pull it out to see and visit it...again,
If I could bring it back when I am down, ...this peaceful afternoon...
Where leaves would never fall from trees, so ancient in their sway
And the gentle slopes would never know cruel storms of winter days
Where tears would never fall, again, and age, a timeless thing
If I could paralyze this town, the way it was back then
If time could be my captive prize.....if only for awhile…
I'd smile, if once I were allowed, a chance, to step inside
___________________________________________________
3/15/16 For Contest: "A Day In A Town" Sponsored by Nayda Ivette Negron
Required Words Used:
1.Bucolic 2. Dalliance 3. Demesne 4. Efflorescence 5. Ephemeral 6. Epiphany 7. Erstwhile 8. Harbinger 9. Petrichor 10.Propinquity 11.Redolent 12. Serendipity
Driving along a coastal road
The top drawn down
On a magical seaside day
She, thumbing through a magazine
Reaching for the stereo dial
"Stop," I say, she smiles
The wind, dancing about her hair
Waltzing, she seems so, astonishingly beautiful today ~
Her reddened lips, her darkened eyelashes
Her blushed cheeks, and, her perfect nose
I try to sing along, with Peter Gabriels song
"In your eyes, the light the heat...."
I smile, as I gently caress her brow
She, lovingly leans into my hand, and my heart is warm
I look back ahead, and then toward the west
Thinking about....thinking about....thinking....
Her precious voice ~
"Can we dear," she says, "can we"
I smile again, as she softly kisses my ear
My eyes glance toward the mirror
A tiny heart, that still lives there today
Next to a cross, that she once did wear
Lost in thought again....
So magnificent, this moment it seems
As I glide my fingers, through her soft and waving hair
Slowly, across her shoulder, and down, her silkened arm
Until, our hands become intwined, as one ~
One, within her endless 'Splendor!'
"In your eyes, the light the heat...."
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I lift my head, from upon my pillow
I look at the clock, I look at the day
My eyes drop, lost in dreams again....
I glance beyond the door, and across the walls
Until, her picture sitting there ~
Never very far, never far from my eyes
I sit up, I touch it, I hold it....
She, wearing her favorite whitened sundress
Her smile, as a beckoning light~
Her golden skin, smooth and glistening, radiant ~
Walking upon the waters edge
Gliding, atop the sands, at sunset
The oceans tides, gently about our feet
"Can we dear," she laughs, "can we"
As I lift her up, as I lift her high, twirling, into the air....
"Forever my love" ~
"The light, the heat, I am complete...."
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I step outside, onto the balcony
A cup of coffee, within my hands
A tad bit nippy, I think, today
As I look, upon the waves....
(Continued).
Form: