Long Spindrift Poems
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Who likes rich people, not many,
the middle class are rich and ignore that fact,
even though the ladies whole bit is about being likable,
maybe I'm the last one who should say what normal is,
since you spend so much time judging my cover,
but I think you know who should be impeached for casting evil spells,
weather it's batmans' black market laws,
big foot economics or witchcraft lies,
there's no easy way to see through walls,
when cold deals populate the village,
if she could, women would wear white every time,
there's no loose laws in a public woman,
black market law needs no lawyers,
that's why there's a crackdown in every con,
she prefers to make strong fast cold deals behind closed doors,
jfk was a Nazis,
that's why he asked not, what his country could do for him,
the matter disappears,
only a ghost remains,
like when she copies the master key then splits up the take afterward,
she prefers a magicians cape around her waist,
when she spindrifts in the club,
some of her prisoners find a way to escape,
her mad grey alien slow blink of a moon wont even spin,
giants spindrift in black hole clubs,
thrusting big ones into her curvatures,
so much gravity disappears that lights blink from her black hole,
atoms can't be seen,
they spin while lights blink from her black hole,
stars blink to brag about their missing gravity,
other distant cold deals include cheeseburgers, pirate jimmies
and blinking spaceships,
but lets go back to the beginning where there was light,
the sun explodes in a big bang death then comes back to life,
heavy elements like gold cool first,
being so close to the suns giant cold deal,
further out near the gas giants is found more refined elements,
and in way out space is found an array of one celled creatures,
bacteria, fungi and manna sticking to a belt of leftover bits,
little bits that save the day when galaxies collide,
microscopic dust is also created, for what,
the dust disappears in the instant it is created,
only a river remains,
raining down on blue worlds,
filling in the dangerous places,
where time slows just enough for the devil to catch you,
in the valley of death, where eve was born,
she's a valley girl with cold deals,
she's such a winters' day.
blindfolded he came close to the edge of the cliff
that he was sure of because vertigo taunted him
decision time sprung open like a grandfather watch
on his knees he felt the spray of a thunderous sea
swirling foam covered his soaked quest for direction
but all side of escape seemed to be covered in spindrift
the journey so far had been kind yet now he was helpless
a flock of puffins shouted ‘move at your perilous fancy’
they mocked the traveller now for past transgressions
‘if only I had taken a different route’ he roared in despair
‘should have stayed closer to the confines of my home’
he regretted that he exposed himself for adventure
he nestled the silver chain that suspended the time piece
prayer beads on his lost mind and clouds with no lining
puppet strings attached to every conceivable move
one wrong step and he would free fall and instantly crash
shatter into reckoning under the impact of judgement
join the underworld without reprieve and atonement
a beacon of meaning in waiting he felt thorns of wild gorse
it smelled like coconut sun lotion on a beach of no return
maybe he could hold on to the scratched withering soil
in the thicket of memories and tribulations he was not aware
that his corrosion had positioned him on a stacked rock
surrounded by the ocean beyond measure of safety
he listened to the ticking time bomb in his scorched hand
resolved to accept the verdict with no leave to appeal
surrender and throw caution to an all knowing wind
just then a tornado lifted him up into a sky full of pressure
defied gravity as an appropriate response to lost choices
wondered whether he joined seagulls or the call of a dolphin
eternity transcendence and levitation ensued in split seconds
of fragmented solutions of high waters and heavenly respite
maybe he had lived his whole life for this moment of bliss
turbulence and commotion tore away the camouflaged mask
revealed his true persona as feet touched the very same spot
sleepwalking had taught him another lesson of letting go
19th May 2020
oh precious, dulcet diva, ocean-tide
you, of sand and foam and spindrift -
all your moods and meanderings
speak deep my spirit, wistful and wan
musings captured, gist enraptured …
I listen, close ...
on those warm and windy days, your
voice cuts clear, carries with it the joy
of sun sprites alighting on wave tops
hopping crest-to-crest like so many
gold pieces tumbling from pockets, laden …
I listen, rapt ...
becalmed days, the lull of low tide ...
gentle swells reach their arms ashore -
the cold brine washing sand and shell
like breezes sweeping the grasslands
rolling, as imagination rolls in the mind …
I listen, soft ...
whispering in my ear of the secret
dark places in my heart, exquisite
shadowy realms where passion and
reverie hide, pulsing with urge, aphotic
warm, enigmatic feelings flow and ebb …
I listen, true ...
an ocean storm's raging beauty, thus -
somber clouds, splashed Payne's Gray
swirl cruelly as Neptune flits his tresses
sea sirens lament with angry screams as
their backs are broken on reef and rock …
I listen, soft ...
gentle swells lapping brief, the sand
moon rising to the lullaby of a bell buoy
its tender peals coaxing the moonlight to
shore, Luna's beams tiptoeing gently atop
to join the phosphorescent waterline
(not to wake the slumbering breezes) …
I listen, sad ...
the gulls and terns laugh at the folly -
a man strains his ageing ears to the song
of the tides that he loves so completely -
the most divine and elegant aria known
and a voice so immortal and pure, that
it will croon on, long after there is naught ...
left to listen.
~ 1st Place ~ in the "Your Choice (9), Any Form, Any Theme" Poetry Contest, Brian Strand, Judge & Sponsor.
~ 3rd Place ~ in the "2019 Poetry Marathon Mile 7" Poetry Contest, Mark Toney, Judge & Sponsor.
~ 1st Place ~ in the "New Poems Only" Poetry Contest, Emile Pinet, Judge & Sponsor.
~ 2nd Place ~ in the "Voices" Poetry Contest, Silent One, Judge & Sponsor.
He loved to cast a line and lay
crab pots off the rocks down the bay.
I would tag along for the ride
and hope Tangaroa bless the tide
givin’ up its catch of the day
So the fish whisperer did call
on the sea god for a good haul.
But would say at fishin’ I suck
and complain I brought him bad luck
cos we always caught sweet f-all
He said to me “Skeet, have no fear
and I’ll catch one for you I swear”.
Out of his tackle box he took
his line and his bait and his hook
but what I needed was a beer
We cast our lines over the side
and waited there for a wild ride.
Bites were few yet fewer than some
but our whisperin’ catch had come
with the wind and gone with the tide
Turnin’ he snarled at me and said
“catchin’ fish ain’t the point, dickhead”.
Well bugger me! I thought it was
and cracked another cold one cos
we showed up but the fish had fled
He’d feel the spindrift on his face
and away it would his blues chase.
Pulled by the tides of time and sea
it was all just a lark to me
but for him was a sacred place
There’d be no fish or crab or cray
or tales of ones that got away.
Instead in our fishermen’s curse
we’d contemplate the megaverse
by the sandstone cliffs of Browns Bay
He had fished up and down this coast
but this old haunt he fished the most.
At ebb and flow without a care
I could see what pull drew him here
but in his haunt now haunts his ghost
Written: May 2025
Dedicated to Craig Bowden
1960 ~ 2021
Photo above is the northern point at
Browns Bay on the northern beaches
of East Coast Bays in New Zealand.
Tangaroa is the Maori god of the sea.
In the Twilight of Her Tears
by Michael R. Burch, age 19
In the twilight of her tears
I saw the shadows of the years
that had taken with them all our joys and cares ...
There in an ebbing tide’s spent green
I saw the flotsam of lost dreams
wash out into a sea of wild despair ...
In the scars that marred her eyes
I saw the cataracts of lies
that had shattered all the visions we had shared ...
As from a ravaged iris, tears
seemed to flood the spindrift years
with sorrows that the sea itself despaired ...
Prodigal
This poem is dedicated to Kevin Longinotti, who died four days short of graduation from Vanderbilt University, the victim of a tornado that struck Nashville on April 16, 1998.
You have graduated now,
to a higher plane
and your heart’s tenacity
teaches us not to go gently
though death intrudes.
For eighteen days
—jarring interludes
of respite and pain—
with life only faintly clinging,
like a cashmere snow,
testing the capacity
of the blood banks
with the unstaunched flow
of your severed veins,
in the collapsing declivity,
in the sanguine haze
where Death broods,
you struggled defiantly.
A city mourns its adopted son,
flown to the highest ranks
while each heart complains
at the harsh validity
of God’s ways.
On ponderous wings
the white clouds move
with your captured breath,
though just days before
they spawned the maelstrom’s
hellish rift.
Throw off this mortal coil,
this envelope of flesh,
this brief sheath
of inarticulate grief
and transient joy.
Forget the winds
which test belief,
which bear the parchment leaf
down life’s last sun-lit path.
We applaud your spirit, O Prodigal,
O Valiant One,
in its percussive flight into the sun,
winging on the heart’s last madrigal.
Keywords/Tags: twilight, tears, years, joys, cares, dreams, sea, despair, lies, vision,
I
when the world had no headsets
the sunbathing crowd
fell asleep to the sounds of
transistors played loud
while the deckchairs and windbreaks
kites, beach balls and more
formed the stripes, lines and circles
that painted the shore
and the longer I walked
on the sand to that sea
the more the sea seemed
to get further from me
and the crunch in my mouth
was that one grain of sand
in the sandwich I ate
with my sand covered hand
while the lemons and melons
and plums I'd watch spin
would stop short of a cherry
one click from a win
and the postcards we sent
from the end of the pier
had us writing such half truths
as "wish you were here."
II
from the end of the pier
through the stiff breeze
and spindrift
I can still hear the tunes
of the promenade bands
and I can still see the stripes
of the deckchairs and windbreaks
and the box kites
and beach balls
that painted the shore
and I can still taste
the butter
- warm like the canned ham
and the crunch of that sand
in the sandwich I had
and I can still hear the djs
laughing and talking
spinning hits of the sixties
from transistors
played loud
and I can still smell the onions
frying wild in the fairground
to the sound of the claxons
and the lemon. click. orange. click. melon.
click. click.
and I can still breathe the deep smoke
swirling in sand dunes
from the benson and hedges
and
player's no.6
and I can still see those grown ups
staring at mirrors
- their bodies distorted
like the dreams
they once had
today on the pier
the rain that's now falling
falls from a same sky
on a same sand
and same sea
and a same me
- yet this air
this air
is not the same air
as that air I
once
breathed.
o how do moons deceive the dusk
one breath from gone to there …
like tapestries with Guipure lace
stained soft with blue … and bare?
o how should I yet mourn the day
with what blooms east-to-west …
a vault with colored bib and stars
bright jewels to grace its breast?
o how does spindrift wend its way
to span such breadths of tide …
its toes a-dancing brine-top breaks
while black, those depths abide?
o how can hearts not blossom bright
when childrens’ laughs abound …
to heal the hopeless, broken souls
through noise of sweetest sound?
o how can promise, given when
impassioned flesh thus flow’rs …
hold strong against a yearn of years
those truths that change devours?
o how could she then bind me tight
those oaths she spurned herself …
hope’s garland left to gather dust
shunned with’ring ‘pon her shelf?
o how can simple words compel
the coursings, deep our blood …
or stain a page in wisdom, sage
shape statues grand, from mud?
o how can we keep children safe
from monsters ‘neath their beds
when evil’s face is commonplace
masked false with love instead?
and how should I find loves to fill
these holes thrust thru my heart
if that dear cost of what I’ve lost
has ripped these bones … apart?
o please … where should I start?
Copyright © Gregory Richard Barden, June 30, 2024
life …
lived parenthetically -
impulses placed like black boots
in soft sand,
stumbling …
betting a fool’s hope that it leads …
SOMEwhere …
or garners a courtly chuckle
(if perhaps by accident)
my pas de bourée
to your sublime elegance and
perfect line …
you and yours, entire, have ever been in frame -
shoulders down, elbows up
work, play, love, life, achievement -
always the apex, the penultimate
the bright brick path laid out before you
(or placed as you went)
naught a detour or leg up
each meter earned with a
precious blood …
while I caught the brambles -
hacking away at life
with a machete of words and wishes …
all the while believing
that character required as much -
that struggle and chaos tempered the
steel of our sinews and spirit
when in reality
they only served themselves
and fed a monster that
devoured all I found worthwhile -
all I defined as good …
you …
were born to golden toe shoes
every point INTENDED
at the barre, or at the curtain
upon waxed wood, or midst the spindrift
for the masses, or for the gulls and I
orchestra …
or sounds of the sea
you dance on -
like coins of sunlight dance atop
the breaking swells …
our destinations are the same
no matter our start or our direction
we leave alone and without
thus …
it is the journey that defines us
whether the shining stair
or the weedy wood …
whether the demanding ballet
or the stumbling jester …
whether let with precision and poise
or a hesitant stagger …
every foot in front of the other
and every wayward path
its own precious …
adventure.
Eroticism -
a supple spine in a wanting curve
and a foolish fever simmers a scarlet heartbeat—
temptation is an aphrodisiac
and guilt— a red kite lost in a hot hurricane
a strand of blue moonstones plunge to titillate
illicit points of contact caught by starlight
restless yin-nerve-endings take an edgy stance—
primal presence pearls beneath parted flimsy fabric
ah.. gossamer chic taken and tossed by windy hands
freeing moons and earth captured in your orbit
golden hair a dirty tangle flies— streamers
of infidelity seized in someone else’s hands
heat-seeking rhythm throbs within walls
a slappin’ poppin’ bass line frenzy
our bodies wild like a warehouse rave
a driving beat hugging hips caught in a fishnet shimmy
high on oxytocin and fizz of affaire du jour—
unbridled breakers breaking vows in a whipped up gale
as hedonistic hot spots revel in unrestrained spindrift
.. it’s a jungle for conjugal love ..
volcanic ash streaks a feral romance
carnal cat (a hungry stippled stray)
pins me down like prey in a dopamine storm
where edges rendezvous soft and hard and fuse
a silhouette of geometry body-painted in black sands
as the surge uncurls the waves—
dreamscape escape on a slick onyx sheet
nakedness blurs in the rough charcoal smudge
shapes shaded with a roll on the rim of a graphite night
the art of cheating sins stain a seedy portrait on skin
yet basks in the moonbeam’s push into the pulse
without mercy or justification—
just unadulterated
adulterated
euphoria!
Sugar-sighing seas swell and stir
my seaman's obsession with blonde pleasures
but treachery’s buried in treasures feminine gold
a flute a lyre voices honey dipped in gilded danger
temptation burns Hades flames on sunset waters
sea-devils those she-devils salty-tear-sweet
ooh songstress sisters please just a taste
a kiss on lips that set fire to desires with your song
my sailor’s appetite hungers for heaven
whet by curves wet and flowing with fanned betta fins
ship's mainmast in full sail filled with chanting gales
to get there find you possess you surrender to you
lessons of unholy lore lost to forbidden allure
tidal surge drives male urge upon damsel-damned rocks
scree with greed will drown my sinking screams
cursed corpses litter seabed in breath-less murk
oh songstress trio so fluid so corrupt
flute a primal plea lyre a trembling snare soprano
hymns those wind-songs committing mortal sins
fallen angels’ sea-mist-sigh a lyric doom to die
black waves undulate with serpentine virgins
weavers of wind and wave and spindrift spite
this sailor’s fate awaits escape in vain
my bane their sunlight tresses turned a seaweed tangle
in temptress threads I'm wrapped before I’m dead—
cold embrace of death in shallows a mariner’s gallows
gull a laughing witness fades in clouds
knows my seaman’s crossed bones will brine
opiate of the sea my soul’s shipwreck their ecstasy
my pulse my blood drunk with lust a poor warrior
against sirens’ maelstrom into the underworld