Long Seaside Poems
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Addicted to modern technology you say?
Nah, I could live without my Mac
Well, at least for maybe an hour or so
Before a withdrawal attack
First thing in the morning you'll find me here
Surfing and learning new things
Opening up and exploring new horizons
An amazing experience it brings
Text books and encyclopedias used to do it
The source for all my new learning
Today they've become much less important
The tide is definitely turning
Farewell to novels you held in your hand
Sadly they're becoming obsolete
No more sitting and reading by the seaside
With waves lapping at your feet
So say goodbye to how life used to be
Must adapt or get lost in the shuffle
Open your computer and start surfing away
Or wind up in a new age kerfuffle!
Along the shore in New Jersey,
just about in the middle of Ocean County,
stands a proud and pleasant community.
The boardwalk at Seaside Park was a place to see.
With the surf, the beach, and the warm sunshine,
visitors could enjoy a day so fine.
This used to be a nice spot for a vacation.
However, their boardwalk has suffered devastation.
Most stores have been destroyed in a conflagration.
The fire started in an ice cream parlor somehow.
Charred ruins and ashes are all that is left now.
The town never fully recovered from a storm last year.
Seaside Park must find a way to persevere.
from a local news story
A ticket pinned to the thigh reserves it,
the whole cadaver is parceled off - of course.
Legs are a late harvest, these often-indigent parts
carry a visual poverty long after the body is plucked.
Under watchful eyes the young medics
separate muscle groups, filter large blood vessels
from fibrous runnels, hesitant scalpels
seek out fascial planes.
The leg is devolving to scraps,
yet, ingrained in the tissue
I sense residual shades of a former life,
seaside postcards, old photographs,
perhaps campaign ribbons, odd tokens
amongst yellowed newspaper clippings,
all briefly surface as conjectured images
beneath a probing knife.
The gray flesh retains its personal history,
I imagine that behind the knee
there is a wife, children, and a separation
all spectrally etched between femur and tibia.
Much of the ensuing bone-whittling years
are demonstratively scored
across a formaldehyde and jelled narration.
The students suppose they dissect a limb,
while I notion that I turn over bloodless pages,
of an unwritten story,
and now the last few attached ligaments
remain as threads that speak at last
of a long journey’s end.
The Donkey of Destiny
The party was set, the guests were invited,
The adults were happy, the kids all excited.
All going to plan; the hosts were delighted,
Then the Donkey of Destiny brayed – he-haw!
The Donkey of Destiny brayed.
The Board of Directors set forth their campaign,
To conquer their industry, supremely reign,
To guarantee ultimate financial gain,
Til the Donkey of Destiny brayed – he-haw!
The Donkey of Destiny brayed.
Military leaders made their decision,
Troops were deployed with painstaking precision.
Soon they would realise their tactical vision,
Then the Donkey of Destiny brayed – he-haw!
The Donkey of Destiny brayed.
To amuse the young children, a day out was planned,
Buckets and spades and sunshine and sand.
Ice-cream and fish-and-chips; seaside brass band,
But the Donkey of Destiny brayed – he-haw!
The Donkey of Destiny brayed.
There’s nothing as fickle as Destiny’s Donkey,
Capricious as weather, and sly as a monkey,
Be certain that everyone’s hopes will turn funky,
When the Donkey of Destiny brays – he-haw!
When the Donkey of Destiny brays.
Dawn hurls once more
A brand new day,
Here by these shores
A touch at play.
This seaside world
Where light shines bright,
Moist sea breeze swirls
Sheer salty sights.
We loiter here
To tan our thoughts,
In carefree spheres
Wonder finds lot.
A brisk walk treks
The sandy beach,
Treasures of cracks
In saline reach.
Watch curious crabs
Dart here and there,
Look out for scraps
In measured care.
A chalet stay
Now clusters much,
Look to this day
To confer touch.
Beloved dear:
A mindful way
Brings peace that cheers
Our simple stay.
Words need not be
A heavy load,
We come to see
Our happy road.
Leon Enriquez
12 October 2017
Singapore
It was just another warm summer day spent swimming and playing at the beach. I remember
sitting in the sand with a tin can digging trenches to the water’s edge and watching the foamy, saltwater slowly making its way into the moat around the castle I was building. Friends
were close by but I was determined to create my own fortress and if need be, defend it against all invaders including sisters, brothers and all others. This was my domain where crabs came
crawling and hidden under armored shells large and small – in brilliant shades of orange, red, blue, yellow and all the colors of Fall. Seagulls flew round about, squawking and talking in loud shouts,watching and waiting for the next morsel of free food to appear. (Even now, they fly high in my eyes and ears). And once the castle was fully in place along with my initials traced deep down into the soft white sands, I waited for the tide to rise and destroy my best laid plans. And while watching this seaside spectacle take place, the sun slowly went down on the oceans’ wind-swept face. Then mom and dad began gathering us kids together to say goodbye to my fortress by the sea and edge of land
that will remain forever an indefatigable part of who I am.
Prince Oldenburg Seaside Park, Old Gagra, Abkhazia
Palm trees, cypresses, flower beds with roses
Surround the alleys covered with red gravel.
The sculpture of Medea in the pond is covered with green mould
And Cupid shot his stone arrow two hundred years ago
Wavy parrots fly from one tree to another.
Silence, the sound of waves can be heard. Not a soul around.
Now is the time of ceasefire.
You have to walk carefully here -
The alleys are littered with spent casings
It’s easy to stumble upon them if you don’t take a notice
The heat is unbearable, I could do with a beer.
After walking some distance, I hear the sounds of pop music.
The path leads me to a clearing.
There is a kiosk - two local lads selling drinks and snacks.
I buy a bottle of cold beer, they smile at me.
I ask them if they have any cassettes with local music.
Can you play me your local musicians, do you have some of their music? –
Yes, they do, the guys nod.
They change the cassette, and Samba Pa Ti of Santana plays on.
Thanks, I really appreciate this, have a good day..
I go out onto the pier — no one is there. Boats rock on the waves.
Maybe this is what a ceasefire should look like in this place.
The fighters have run out of ammunition, and it's time to go home,
Turn on the football and fall asleep in the armchair
At the most exciting moment of the game,
When the ball flies into the goal
From a free kick in the extra time.
HAIKU GLIMPSES #1
Busy corner
Clash of zigzag feet;
Small talk echoes
~~~~~~~~~
Post Office crowd
Orderly queue;
Minds elsewhere
~~~~~~~~~
Newspaper vendor
Overstock complaint;
Financial problem
~~~~~~~~~
Outdoor gymnasium
Overgrown kids cluster;
Mental muscle
~~~~~~~~~
Beach barbecue
Motley bunch mingle;
Strange faces
~~~~~~~~~
Holiday mood
Not much to do;
Mental vacation
~~~~~~~~~
Seaside stroll
Small crabs scurry;
Monster feet stomp
~~~~~~~~~
Listen now
Can you hear;
Mermaids singing
~~~~~~~~~
Dawn light unfolds
Dust through sunlight;
Energy percolates
~~~~~~~~~
Lonely songbird
Serenades dawn;
Regular visitor
~~~~~~~~~
My nephew Xavier
Army boy now;
Rites of passage
~~~~~~~~~
Lovely feelings
Sentimental tunes;
Yesterday's flashback
~~~~~~~~~
Leon Enriquez
24 June 2015
Singapore
I don't have a return ticket
not sure if this train
is coming from somewhere or going onward.
In the next seat a 'mick' relative,
we converse in a grunting verse.
Rough hands caked with unspoken words
indicate long pauses.
On the move trying to recall
something familiar, a town, a stretch
of passing scenery. A once fractured memory,
Some kid is beating a tin toy drum
I think it is me, his short pants are dark blue,
they are too tight;
he is going to the seaside one day.
The child is annoying.
A journey battles on.
it whistles through the bygone:
will someone meet us in loco parentis?
I am an outgrown poet full of the Irish,
I am a jigsaw piece
for the numbed seekers of unfilled holes.
This is a video game,
this is a play station
with play passengers
getting on and leaving.
Bareboned is the bodkin that grooves
a map far from anywhere.
Passengers stare out of my window
I begin to count the eyes.
I have much time to ponder,
to wonder if this rattling line
has an end
or perhaps has been pulled up
long ago
by ice Mammoths?
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.