Long Seaside Poems
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It’s sleeting in Nectar; there's no pollen to sneeze.
The bees have skipped south for a tropical breeze.
Dear honey, I’m frozen; I ache in the knees.
It’s sleeting in Nectar; send warm weather please.
The ice is still falling, and the roads are all closed;
Attempts to head seaside are probably hosed.
There’s no running water; the pump head just froze.
The weatherman’s saying, “Folks, here comes the snow.”
O Nectar, sweet Nectar, sweeter than a kiss.
O Nectar, sweet Nectar, something is amiss.
O Nectar, sweet Nectar, what's with this sleet and snow?
O Nectar, sweet Nectar, I think it's time to go.
Being cooped with the kids is a parent’s worst plight;
The new has worn off and they’re picking a fight.
I’d send ‘em back out, but for signs of frostbite.
It’s sleeting in Nectar, and all is not right.
There’s ice on the lines, and the phones are all dead.
The store shelves are barren; there’s no milk or bread.
The mercury’s falling, or so says my head.
It’s sleeting in Nectar; I'm going to bed.
O Nectar, sweet Nectar, sweeter than a kiss.
O Nectar, sweet Nectar, something is amiss.
O Nectar, sweet Nectar, what's with this sleet and snow?
O Nectar, sweet Nectar, I think it's time to go.
(in your best Jimmy Buffet voice)
wild rushing strokes
of broad bristles
dominating seaside sky
of ivory and indigo
in thick impasto~
like our faded footsteps
along *Stroomi shoreline
Wild fiery grasses ~
deserted yet persistent
resembling your windswept hair
in times you forget the time
waiting just for me~
those desolate windows
are your eyes of blue
half awake at siesta
dreaming of my return
20 March 2021
Notes: While glancing on 'Abandoned House' painting created in c.1886 by Alfred Sisley in Impressionism style. ( Photo and info credits to WikiArt)
All Yours (March 20) Poetry Contest
By Briand Strand
1st plce
Even as a child, how I used to enjoy
A simple stroll through the woods
When innocent instincts ruled my heart
And ran after every call from the wild or bush,
Mesmerized by the warbling of the cuckoo and the thrush.
It was a time when every rainbow and every peacock feather
Ignited endless curiosity in me
And colored my imagination wild.
How with my friends, I ran to the beautiful seaside
Watching the wild waves’ fury and cooled by the kiss of spray
Feeling the sea foam and the sand under our bare feet
With what delirious joy we watched at night
A hundred fireflies dancing around
Wondering if they were stars, fallen from heaven.
Like the sweeping breeze, we ran over grassy slopes,
Looking for the bleating lamb
Singing in chorus, ‘Mary had a little lamb’
They were all spontaneous acts like breathing,
With no interest in gaining anything or impressing anybody
But just the simple signs of being alive,
And a way of burning the exuberant energy that overwhelmed us.
I was never called a poet or an artist then—
Not worried about rehearsing or perfecting my art.
I was just an observer, inhaling all the beauty
With a fluid spontaneity, characteristic of childhood
"There is a window open from my heart to yours." Rumi
See the splendor of pained poetic souls.
After he died, leapt out in the air above,
turned into a star in Gaza's bleak sky,
pouring words and tear.
How many heart cries. For what endless suffering,
soothed by his verse and rhyme.
The gallant Gazans follow it with reverence.
Although they weep for his loss, they dwell in his poems as a citadel,
a secured ark.
Did he predict today's indistinguishable relation
between occupation, displacement, and genocide?
All words coalesce, flow uncomfortably into the English lexicon.
Out of his grave, in Gaza City, the stone grove of his voice,
the vulgar odor of colonial infection withers by the spell of his love.
The tyranny of outrageous minds is set ablaze, when they hear him,
more joy than rage, soothing yet like a hurricane pounding the waves,
bridging the hearts.
He came to speak, to bridge the chasm between hearts, collapsed in shreds, secured in grace.
Poets are with art and nature crowned.
Reach Refaat a poet's crown.
Mark him the chronicle of this scene of horror,
author of resistance, pride, and honor.
Refaat wrote, "sometimes a homeland becomes a tale," a heroic tale,
and their savant poets too.
After he died, the sky of Gaza was littered with white kites speaking shinningly
to the deadly drones menacing above, like the buzzing of so many flies.
A parable of justice, a hope that never dies, under the golden dome of Mediterranean Sea saluting the eyes, eyes that see through the dark clouds, the brush of freighted air, the march of history toward a luminous point, into the clasp of a fresh new-born idea, nearer to binding faith than wild dismembering injustice,
Gaza uncaged, free from all deceits, where people mingle at seaside cafes with no fear of being bombed, reciting his poems, with bouquet of flowers on his grave with the note that reads, rest easy friend, Palestine will forever be free.
Flip flops and straw hat adorn him, beach wear suits him nicely
Kind is he to her as he scoops into a bucket measuring precisely
Casted are his piteous passions in sunstruck warm sands
Gently shaping and capturing her likeness, she is in skilled hands
Stooping over chin to knee he bares bronze shoulders glimmering
Her features delicate, her hair etched in his mind flowing, shimmering
An energy is sensed as sand and water caress through his fingers
Behold if only Aphrodite answers his prayer, he pauses and lingers
Recollection clears a birth, breath of life be given this inanimate object
A saintly face faintly appears, he’s fallen in love with his imminent project
Sculpting feminine curves slowly surfacing, an hourglass figure shaped
An alluring amazon controls his very soul, an apotheosis angel draped
Belief in a statue which comes to life, vehemently pangs the phenomenon
Alas the last touches fini, fervently he unveils his seaside Pygmalion
And without further ado, emerging from the ivory sand, he prizes
An obsession his idée fixe at the edge of the pier, a sand goddess arises
Wild Irish sea pounds spray ashore,
its white teeth gnaw the stone down,
each tide returns, bites as before
wearing away the brown cliffs.
The wind flattens salted bluegrass,
while gulls wheel up in the sky
soaring as on an overpass
hang gliding over the crags.
Breaking waves surge up the sandstone
Falling back as white foam veils
stroking the old wounds to atone
for the endless scouring blows.
The strong swells drum through sea caverns,
blow-holes spray up in the sky
bringing cheers to seaside taverns
for the pipe, fiddle, drum songs.
Irish seals dive through kelp seaweed
silver backs, flash through foam spray,
twisting and turning at high-speed
laughing at angry sea grasps.
O Irish sea, carve deep tonight,
let your foam and surge shape me
for rugged crags are a highlight
on our weathered skin and shores.
O Irish sea, carve deep tonight,
let your foam and surge shape me
for rugged crags are a highlight
on our weathered skin and shores.
first days of summer
first days of summer
solstice heat shimmers and sweats ~
cool blue seaside waves
sun yawns in azure skies
wakes up sleepy bumblebees ~
orchard fruit grows large
summer wind swirls up
blusters through garden meadows ~
ripe plumbs swing and sway
hot spell sizzles
mirages look like phantoms ~
playful ocean breezes
feral festival
rowdy season chases clouds ~
rain waits with zephyrs
afternoon soft hush
flowers gather sunbeam stars ~
dewdrop gems sparkle
frogs begin to croak
crickets warm up symphonies ~
firefly fandangoes
6-23-22
There is no poetry without you
Softly flows the sunset colors
painted on tired skies with fire
Igniting a wafting cloud in orchid tints,
the fresh scent of pine lingering within its escape
Drowsy horizons boast their claim
along seaside waverings in salted mist
Romance swims on shorelines engulfed
with all of the pageantry a white cap stanza can bring
And I whistle as I walk along,
taking in this wonder that has followed me home
Resting on a porch swing, feet off the ground
as morning glories sleep beyond white painted balustrades
Satin fingers intertwine with mine,
milk pudding lips bring their flavor to me
Luscious frosting in a whipped frenzy
coating my mouth in sugary mass
I point to the sky, the stars they beckon,
heart shaped constellations for two
Twinkling in your twilight eyes
as I reach for my pen and pad
Only to realize that this indeed is my imagination,
lounging on a worn out sofa, tattered cushions,
empty beer cans acting like so many ashtrays
leaving wet rings on a table, but who cares
There was a time when poetry flowed
from these nicotine stained fingers
in paisley emotions and violet scentings
climbing the arbor of love
But since you left,
leaving behind the shadows which claim my eyes
my ink is dry and my paper tossed, tiny balls in random patterns
on a floor that begs carpeting, but only bares soiled footprints
As I struggle to my feet, to the front window
desperately waiting for the grass to grow and butterflies…
I stab the wooden sill with my pen, I need it no more, for…
there is no poetry without you…and never will be again
The reason I feel this poem is trophy worthy is it is exactly how I was feeling at the time I wrote it, it came from a very deep place in my heart. It covers the wonderful happiness I felt and the sad loneliness that came afterward which for a time did take the pen out of my hands.
The marmalade sky, aglow
with the setting sun, is fading
as the day slowly dwindles down
to night. The sun increasingly
losing its glimmer as it submerges
behind a bank of clouds.
Descending yonder; sinking further
and further, into the horizon.
Two lovers on a rendezvous
sit by the seaside admiring it in awe
while it lasts. They snuggle up
beneath the changing sky, waiting
to gaze at the stars tonight
CONTEST NO 465,ANY FORM OR NONE,ANY THEME,UPTO A MAX OF 20 lines
Winner(1st Place)
Sponsored by: Brian Strand
Date written and posted: 06/21/2018
The sugar sweet balm of salt water taffy
graced the breeze.
While savoring deep breaths of this seaside confection,
I held tightly, my grandmother’s hand.
I was five years old and we had come to the shore,
just the two of us, for a few days.
The boardwalk was hot. The sun’s intensity matched
only by the hypnotic rhythm of the whitecaps
rushing their sandy demise.
Strolling along, I spotted a beautiful window.
It boasted the most remarkable display of miniatures.
There were elaborate, colorful settings of Ferris wheels and rides
and it was full of Disney memorabilia.
Having just seen Pinocchio, I asked for the tiny Blue Fairy.
She was beautiful and sure to bestow her magic on me.
I took my prize and together we sat for hours and gazed,
the ocean, the gulls, beach babies, my sweet guardian and me.
Indeed, my diminutive new friend did accompany me for
the rest of my stay and long after.
That wonderful day, a blessed memory of my grandmother,
will be with me forever.