Long Snorkel Poems
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I’m a really big gal from Africa.
My legs are like pillars and a trunk and tusks I’ve got.
You’re safe with me; I don’t eat meat.
I hang out with my gal pals. We socialize a lot.
I focus my attention on the children of my group.
For about three years my own calf’s like a jewel.
We’re smart, and we have feelings, so why are we abused?
They kill my kind for ivory. Don’t you think that’s cruel?
About my trunk – it’s really a fantastic thing.
I suck up water with it; it’s a snorkel when I swim around.
My tusks I use when eating and for defense if I should fight.
My skin’s so thick retaining water it helps me to cool down.
I love that I can eat about three quarters of the day!
I use vibrations, touch and smell to communicate.
My memory is likely better than your human memory is,
yet we are being killed off fast. It’s sad because we’re so great!
Barren like broken coral
I wander the desert alone
a nautical map in my mind
of sand’s gristles coalescing
Fins and snorkel thirst for wet
suit and pursuit as bubbles
disappear in quick sand and
sink holes glisten and simmer
Down at the ‘see bed’ right next to
Atlantis rings in sunken dreams Oasis
looms and teases a free flowing spindle
drowns hope in foreshore’s drought
As dunes of loneliness grind my lungs and ponged prong
remembers to chill in the perspiring heat I am ambivalent of
whether it was a good idea to trade my life buoy for an anchor
The cool water wraps around my skin,
A world unknown about to begin.
I pull my mask and snorkel tight,
And step into the crystal light.
The mangroves tangle thick and high,
Where roots meet sea and meet the sky.
Below their fringe, the clear depths fade
To secrets hidden in the shade.
With slow and steady flipper kicks,
I drift where calm and quiet mix,
Gliding across the peaceful cove,
Through shallow halls of the turquoise grove.
A sudden glint catches my eye,
I pause....suspended....drifting by.
Just inside the mangrove's gloom,
Where heavy shadows quietly loom,
A barracuda, grand and still,
With silver coat and spotted thrill,
Hangs suspended, dark and bright,
Watching through the filtered light.
I gently float and keep my space,
Passing softly without a trace.
Further on, a vibrant sight,
A dance of vivid, sudden light.
Two parrotfish in ocean grace,
Belonging to this secret place.
The male twirls round the female's nest,
In brilliant hues, he shows his best,
A flash of neon, green, and blue,
Where life begins and starts anew.
No fish had ever come so near,
Through glassy waters, calm and clear;
Their colors rich, their silver bright,
A glimpse of pure, divine delight.
Creation’s wonder, deep and still,
Reflecting such a quiet skill.
And as I leave the sea behind,
This magic stays within my mind,
Etched deep within my mind and heart
Is a living vision, set apart.
Dawn, a bed comes ashore,
dripping and fog laden.
Tuna sandwiches float
on foaming waves of nausea,
aqueous globs of salty oils,
surface. Punctured sea-dreams
float; flabby and flatulent.
The day paddles around aimlessly,
tides, rather than wait,
slosh about spongy ankles.
A rubber flipper mislaid
off the Normandy coast,
slipstreams through time,
one lost sand-encrusted flip-flop
bobs on by.
May have to snorkel longer
if there is any hope of seeing
the sun sink.
Eventually aquatic ghosts
depart for a younger past.
Back on the swaying deck
of a queasy reality
a fresh wind dries sheets.
Footprints in the sand
are spied through a fisheye lens.
A shipwrecked yesterday
is waving,
glad to be finally rescued.
The green leafed tree in the harbor.
There the freights are advanced.
Sailors with quality tools, while
diners feast and play chess. The edge
Of the merchants dine hall has a Blindspot
where tugboats honk there horn to
enter the harbor. A large pile of bones
where the chef has stacked them, for
the jewelers to retrieve them to make
Carved ornaments for tourist and others.
We find there Snorkel and Algae two
Fiddlers who play music while diners
Eat at the Surfin Toot restaurant.
"Anchors ah shore maties, Anchors ah-
Shore!"
Captain Morse Pierconn
USS Snorkelcraft
Chauffeur play'd Hymn
But didn't play me
Swift sung to her
But didn't sing to me
People like song
But didn't like me
What we gon do
What we gon do
Indough neigh ah
Ah beautiful ismuss
Brazilian strings
A pretty lady
We sing ah song
But song don't
Sing me
We sing ah song
Of love!
The channel islands off the coast
of California were my home
on weekends sailing with my dad
on glassy seas, on froth and foam.
On Fridays after work he’d head
to Catalina on the wind.
Sometimes, the trips were fast and rough;
sometimes, you thought they’d never end.
I’d go below when it got dark;
he’d often sail late in the night,
drop anchor in a quiet cove,
and hear the gulls at dawn’s first light.
My father would go snorkeling
and abalone were the game:
delectable when cooked just right,
breaded, sauted on a flame.
The prize, not easy, on the rocks
some twenty feet below or more.
A suit and weights to take him down
to pry them off the ocean floor.
I stayed up top and manned the oars
and kept the dinghy close at hand,
collect the catch and be right there
when things did not go quite as planned.
Though this was fifty years ago,
I picture it as clear as day.
My father found a hunting spot.
The waters, calm; the skies were gray.
He’d found an abalone bed
with numbers plenty to be found,
and so he’d bring them to the boat,
inhale, and take the next trip down.
But then, he came up rather quick
and backed up slowly with his fins.
His snorkel made the strangest moans,
and then he dived back down again.
Again, he came up fast and tossed
the catch into the boat and said
a large black manta ray down there
was quite protective of the beds.
’Twas near ten feet across in size,
and though they shouldn’t cause one harm,
when they are coming after you,
it sets off all the fire alarms.
On one last trip, he headed down,
and next I know, he’s like an otter.
The ray had come straight up at him;
he might as well have walked on water!
He managed to get in the boat
in one smooth motion, in a blink.
Normally, it was a struggle,
requiring help and lots of strength.
He laughed and said we’re done today;
whatever’s here, we’ll call it good.
No arguments from me, for sure;
I’d never been, and never would!
Imagine a brilliantly intensely inner-connected symposia
Of beliefs that humans with nature and other species can be one,
Envision flying people taught by robins and wrens, for amazing bits of fun.
Join me Sunday at 9, off exit 2 off Highway 8, I do proposia.
If you would rather learn to build dams, bring a snorkel, and wear a swimming suit.
The beavers taught six to dam last year, from ages eighteen to eighty-two.
Come sign up for at least six of our classes, assure a terrific time for you.
We will have so much fun in the forest, this may become your most favorite hoot.
If you want to bring a companion, a spouse, an onlooker, or a really good friend,
Or just come alone, in your tennis shoes, with heart and mind open creatively wide,
Come to the shelter house and sign up for all events you think you can truthfully abide.
The day will be filled with joyous communion, and a communal campfire at the end.
ENCLOSED RHYME Name: SYMPOSIA Sponsor: Julia Ward
Date: 8/28/2018 Poetry Contest
ANNA MILLER’S TAKANAWA-SHOP
Merriam-Webster defines chili as a thick sauce of meat and chilies.
His coworker hungers
for American food - pizza, burgers;
no sushi, please.
Home away from home in the belly
of Tokyo, my husband orders —
“I’ll have the chili.”
Two I.B.M. techs relax and unwind
from their workday. Soon their specialty
is served. (Anna Miller’s known for their pies.)
They both nearly drown in hot soup
as they snorkel the deep
peering beneath the shallows
looking for signs
of thickness and beans. Asks
“This is chili? Where are the beans?”
The waitress bends
over and counts,
“One chili bean,
two chili bean,
three chili bean,”
her wrinkled lips serious.
as the rumble of the coworker’s cheeks,
the shaking of his American suit ripple
under his chin.
My husband asks, “But where’s the sauce?”
The waitress takes her hand,
moving it just above the bowl
in circular magic,
“and chili sauce!”
the eruption of Mount Asama
as she moves tiny feet
to another customer.
6/29/2019
My wife went shopping yesterday
Posted missing what do the police say
Her weight color and eyes
Please tell me he cries
I need to know for the missing's display
Hey dude can you help me a little more
I know the more you tell hurts you sore
Was she slim was she fat
As a matter of fact
For this loss I'm feeling you adore
What kind of car was she in when she went
Did you own or was it a rent
C'mon, don't be a schmuck
She stole my lovely truck
Charge her for this felony dissent
Hey dude, we apologise for this run of luck
Describe her, for your so out of luck
"Brand new Stealth Black 2015 Ford F150 Raptor
4x4 with eco-boost 5.4L V8 engine special
ordered with manual transmission. Black ARC
bullbar with winch and LED driving lights.
Rock sliders and snorkel. It has custom matching
black canopy over the truck bed.
Hayman Reece towing package. I added a 4"
lift kit with stealth black special alloy wheels and 3.5"
off-road Mickey Thompsons. Custom leather seats
and RM Williams floor mats. DVD with HEMA
navigation system, 21 channel CB Radio,
six cup holders and four power outlets.
She even scratched the door, as he fills up,,,,
Don't worry buddy, we'll soon find your truck
.
Another request to Limerick another Joke.
A little different from the norm, but who gives a truck ;-)
. Reef Trip
. plans made
. flight delayed
. carpark cluttered
. boat rocking
. seasick pills
. wetsuit too tight
. weights buckled
. mask fogging
. snorkel tested
. dive-fins fitted
. splash in backwards
. current tugging
. breaths struggling
. duck dive descending
. AWESTRUCK
. heartbeat paused
. corals blooming
. anemones swaying
. parrotfish grazing
. turtles gliding
. sunbeams streaming
. bubbles laughing
. escapes from nose
. muscles straining
. out of breath
. surface beckons
. ascending gleefully
. dreams fulfilled
. Self Now Forgotten