Long Seaweeds Poems
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"Rambling is a mood enhancer and it is during my ramblings that Nature talks to me in inaudible whispers and I am struck by the silent beauty around me"
_By Poet
As the shadows began lengthening,
I slowly walked to the seashore,
Through the cobbled path,
With stinging stones under my feet,
And piles of golden clouds floating above,
Enjoying the whistling of the wind through the reeds,
Inhaling the saline air, smelling of rotting seaweeds.
Along the margin of the vast strand, I rambled for long
Feeling the foamy fringes of water lapping at my feet
And sensing the sand slipping away under my feet
I watched the gentle undulating billows.
Rolling their silver volumes
As if to die away on the happy shores
The sapphire waters and the roaring waves
The churning tides and the feathery foam
Made me wonder at the horror and beauty,
That inbred dichotomy Nature carries within
With such surreal beauty surrounding me
I yearn to ramble on and on till the end of time,
Like a recluse with only the company of the sea at my side
The wet sand under my feet and the clouds above my head!
April.5. 2023
~ Placed First~
Writing Challenge ‘R’ Words Poetry Contest
Sponsor. Constance La France
“The sea casts a magic spell with the ever- rising breakers and the melody, the clanking of waves produce. It amazes us with the wonders hiding within its caverns. Without drawing any boundary or barrier, it rushes
to touch or submerge everything on its way”--- Quote by the Poet.
What engrossing feel overpowers me,
As I loiter along the sandy strands of the sea.
Waves whisper their goodbye as they recede back,
Girdling the shore with a garland of foamy blooms.
A zephyr comes tickling and tangling my hair
Seaweeds sway back and forth as waters shoot up.
Beneath the sand, when wavelets on my ankles kiss,
Like a child, I long to jump into the wobbling mass.
I let the water braid my hands, to savor its coolness.
Though I don’t like its chaotic depths and crashing tides,
In the music of waves, I enjoy a moment of unalloyed joy.
The sea is indeed a sanctuary of never- ending epiphanies.
Broken Seashells,
canvasses of lobsters
tossed ashore by waves
are an open cemetery
with endless laments...
as green seaweeds
decorate them morbidly
if they were flowers!
I look around this beach
not frequented by a wanderer;
the strong stench of fish
is too unpleasant to sensitive noses,
but it's the perfect dinner
for those hungry gulls that swish
and land on their corpses!
Beer cans and water bottles
not disposed in nearby bins
attract rats with extreme hunger
and finding little, they chomp chasing after
the mackerels wiggling on the scorching sand;
oh, they happily feast on them and hiss...
keeping away the squeaking seagulls!
This abandoned beach once was
as pristine as the bluish water,
nobody littered it and people
walked barefoot seeking their favorite spots,
not getting cuts on fragmented seashells;
then hurricane Sandy came and left it desolate...
no souls returned to their homes,
and it became a ghost town forever...
and the few who stayed carried fright in their guts!
Life from down Under
Beneath the turbulent, undulating seas of one’s life,
I have swam, against the ever changing, raging currents.
Many times, without foresight !!!, towards dire consequences.
Looking up from the depths at the underside of wave after wave
rolling over me, watching many a ship pass beneath star lit nights,
finding safe harbours, for brief moments, then moving on into the light
and the arms of new adventures, journeys into the mysteries of life.
Mysteries that this waterlogged, ancient piece of driftwood fathoms not.
This piece of driftwood, not but debris left to decay upon the shores of time lost.
Lost !!!, but never forgotten in the light of day – dreams
reflecting, refracting, sparkling like jewels upon the crest of waves.
Waves that will, across this plane, slip into the body of a safe harbour
and upon sandy shores, bask in the sun light of one’s history.
History, all that is left to a lost, old soul, a wander, an uninhibited free spirit
who has become locked within his memories hoard and the hollow shell of old age.
This spirit looking through the haze of murky H2O and into skies so blue,
remembering, reminiscing, seeing from within the darkness of oceans so deep,
of what once was, of all that could have been a much different life, but was never to be.
Accepting the currents flow, even as the stagnate waters of fate, tend to dictate,
direction, they continue to wash over one as he awaits going into that good night,
without rage he lays among the seaweeds waiting for amphibians to come and turn the page.
Upon land, many gardens were cultivated, planted with millions of seeds.
Those that blossomed gave some beauty that lingered on among the many weeds.
Voids were filled, moments were given freely, life was lived and in the end filled needs
After all is said, that has long been done, the journeys, the adventures, in spite,
were one hell of a ride and now all is said and done, one cannot hide, wrong or right
in all that has been integrated, has become nourishment for all, this old soul just had to feed.
B. J. “A ” 2
March 31st, 2019
Resurrected from the dust,
Revisited, Reviewed and Revised
October 12th, 2019
At the end of evening twilight,
into a cool breeze of briny scent,
down the bent weathered wooden steps
Away from the dew kissed grass, next
to a universe of sand,
driftwood, seashells, and seaweeds.
The sea breathes deep
and ebbs into its depth
into an obsidian gold glimmer sheen
With the sounds of breaking waves
breathes out proudly braves ,
crawling on its belly upon the shore.
The horizon meets the sea
as two beating hearts ravening in the night,
as they whisper infinite conversation in the gradient night.
The life of the night radiating romance,
celestial dome empowering dance,
as Heaven mirth gazes upon the earth
6/22/2016
I know you so well now
that I can instantly
capture your moods.
Watching
as the tide ebbs -
you regretfully reveal
hidden treasures.
Children with small nets
probe into
your very soul,
and seabirds
plunder your bounties.
If I listen carefully
I can hear you cry.
Oh but the tide incoming
is a different matter.
Water gently
chuckles through
parched crevices,
small creatures return
where they belong.
Behold, seaweeds dance
in joy, and
once again
rejuvenated
you count your losses,
lick your wounds.
Written: circa 1994
———
Gull Point is in the East Coast Bays of
Auckland, New Zealand. An old haunt.
They are sought after by Queens
more than diamonds and gold;
they live in the Deep
chocked by seaweeds
enduring extreme cold...
I have one as a safe keep!
They are the joy of elegant women
who display them to conquer men;
sometimes they pensively sit
by the ocean and dream of kisses and happiness
by holding them in their hands...
whispering tender phrases to the blazing sunset!
I made a necklace with forty-six pearls
and gave to a sweet, green-eyed girl
who was unlucky in love, and seeing her flowing tears
drip on them I was stunned: they resembled stars of another Universe;
and while she caressed those yellow and white roses on the window-sill...
she was happy to be seduced by something so diverse!
Entered in Craig Cornish's contest,
" The Pearl "
Written on 3/20/2013
in the evening of my life,
it’s my habit to sit alone on the seashore.
today I see the sun red and bleeding like me,
drowning into the seascape,
as a tormented soul at the dead end of life
attempting at self- slaughter.
in this gloaming moment, light lingers
and I am once more torn by memories,
that fall on me like birds’ molted feathers,
drifting away untamed
but swiftly carried back by sudden gust.
I sit silent watching a random wave
erase the footprints and depositing in their place
new seaweeds and empty shells.
my life has become an empty shell
“still trapped in your pulse”
when our tracks diverged in opposite tracks
and I saw you walking away into distant shores
though you must have hoped,
that you would be called back,
my ego prevented me and I stood,
seemingly unperturbed, though deeply scarred inside.
I now stare into the deserted shoreline
and I wonder if love is too late
to stem the tide.
I can’t blame you.
oh, never will I dare!
though we were close acquaintances for long,
I failed to voice my clandestine whim
carefully structured in my mind’s alcove.
on that fateful day when we were about to part,
though I longed to disclose my love to you,
as words got suddenly broken up,
I failed to convey what I meant,
in a language explicit for you to grasp
and I failed to notice your saddened eyes,
glistening with tears about to shed.
I assure you- “I am the asylum of your ache”
though this knowledge is of no use to you anymore.
now I quench my heart’s ache,
voicing them in soulful verse,
knowing they are ‘Verses in the Ash’
will it be too much for my wistful heart
to hope, we will one day meet in a place
'where Orchids dream!'
Along the shore I walked across wet sand
leaving footprints, a breeze across my face.
I listened to waves sluice across the strand
sifting, shifting pebbles to some further place;
a restless yet rhythmic refreshing sound:
despite the noise, washing and gifting peace.
At flood tides' limits rotting seaweeds mound,
where grubs and flies emerge for birds to feast.
Here upon the shore between high and low,
between ebb and flow, a margin unclaimed
has actions of nature revealed on show.
Signs of my presence are washed out, reclaimed,
yet held in these phrases I share with you
from the shore - ever the same, always new.
As I gaze upon the splendor of the beach:
yellow, soft and resplendent and compliant.
I realize that it is a debris field of bones.
Of shattered shells devoid of sound-of-sea-echoes.
Of bit of crabs, seaweeds and bones of fishes ground to dust,
all gathered into an amorphous tell-tale pile.
It's congealed when wet, soft and flowing when dry.
This boneyard of bone, shell grit and bony bits,
is caressed by the wind, currents and waves into dunes, banks, bars and drifts
that are constantly played and reworked.
It is this boneyard beach which provides the perfect
barrier and margin along the shore absorbing
the thrust of storms, winds and waves
protecting it from erosion.
Like the bones in a cemetery, or a calavera
the debris field on a beach
protects and sustains the living form
with the heritage remains of the past,
remembered and put to good use.