Rouge on old grey skin
lustre trying to conceal
yet exposes flaws
Categories:
mudflats, red,
Form: Haiku
The briny’s ebbed and now far out of sight
And all around a vast expanse we see
With debris left by the retreating sea.
And stretch of golden sand, a real delight.
On rocks are barnacles there clinging tight
Waiting for next high tide to set them free.
A risky life they have, you must agree,
Being at the mercy of the tide each night.
Now on mudflats left by departing tide
This wader slowly struts and keeps keen eye,
Searching to see where the lugworms may hide.
Hoping to spot sand spirals there to try.
Each one he stabs as he then wanders wide
For those lugworms are vital food supply.
Categories:
mudflats, animal, beach, food,
Form: Sonnet
Low rounded slick mounds
glistening silvered brown flesh
riverlet veins drain
Categories:
mudflats, earth, river,
Form: Haiku
and I came close to destroying whatever I wanted
but I held back because there was still you
and within that power from another galaxy
I saw that the spheres mechanism sometimes jams
I saw stones breaking other stones
and from them bits of light escaping the darkness
not even your eyes meant so much
when the waters drifted
washed the husk of the houses
and the walls of the trees
and it was just you there keeping yourself monumental
emerging single in life from among the mudflats
we demigods have a lot to celebrate
because we just started to fall apart
Categories:
mudflats, anger, image,
Form: Free verse
Across the flats where mudlarks toiled,
where in a day the pittance made
would barely serve to wash the soiled;
a stark reward for labors paid.
When then I shook from daydream's stares
to trod upon its sucking grasp
and seek what proof the tides have bared
- small fragments of a spartan past.
Yet now alone, except the birds
who search the teaming flats for food,
the glee of children can be heard
as echoes from the Thames intrudes.
Again the ebb's retreating tides
expose the secrets that it hides.
(Dedicated to the poor, who searched in the mudflats of Thames for something of value to trade for food)
Categories:
mudflats, history,
Form: Sonnet
Sailing boats, out of the water for the winter, as
though lined up against an impending storm. All
their halliards shaking vigorously, sounding
like birds in flight.
Low tide and the wild geese, further out in
the water today, are almost hidden behind a long
natural breakwater. I hear them honking for the
first time, muted, in the distance, drifting in gently
on the wind, sounding like in slow motion. Then,
between the rocks they enter the mudflats, sailing in
like many ships heading for harbour - an armada of
geese. There’s a dampness in the air that clings to
reality like an odour. The weather is changing, and
later on, much later, as though greeting an
unexpected friend, the rain will arrive.
The storm passes and as night descends, the
vapour trail from an aircraft, which has a pleasant
orange glow, tracks its demise. Early next day, on
a calm February morning, geese are again visiting
the estuary. I hear them outside as I lie in bed. Later,
walking through a spring like idyll, small birds
bloom on bare trees.
Categories:
mudflats, nature,
Form: Free verse
Robbinsville January 1943, a visionary artist was born to be
Country strong style, is his-story; par-excellence to you and me
Electric guitars just newly seen; would play one day, on music scene's
Where women will swoon, and young girls scream
Hard saved dimes, to his 'turn' would see; at Young Harris, in Towns county.
A Georgia boy made good & some stories, in country-rock/pop R&B!
A world I wouldn't miss, was 'born' to be; under the hands of Ronnie Lee!
Smoky mountain rain fell on our hearts, through cracklin radio's to early starts
'Pure Love' played all its lively parts; at park or mall & in K-marts.
His music echoed in the '70s & '80s, along with chrome mag wheels & feelin free.
Milsap impacts listener land, to date he stirs the soul of man,
His flow is rolling, verging on unplanned, his 'Local Girl' understated-grand
My finding is; my verdict says there's 'more of our guy' on the way!
When I'm feeling weary or senses grey, a 'hit' from Ronnie lifts my day.
Cross Missouri mudflats, on Florida sand; he moulds emotions in his hands.
©JOE MAVERICK 2-11-2015
Categories:
mudflats, america, celebrity, cheer up,
Form: Rhyme
"Gratitude is the memory of the heart."
-- Jean Baptise Massieu
~~~~~~~~~
Here we pause
Look back before;
Appreciate change
~~~~~~~~~
Poignant times
Sacrifices made;
Journey outcomes
~~~~~~~~~
From mudflats
Modern metropolis;
City of hope
~~~~~~~~~
Urgency wrought
Hand-fashioned sculptures;
Dream come true
~~~~~~~~~
First bold vision
Sheer hard grit;
Emergent outcomes
~~~~~~~~~
Once upon a dream
Walked a band of brothers;
To cast this lot
~~~~~~~~~
Here we are now
Little red-dot island;
Sea of pragmatic faces
~~~~~~~~~
On this day pause,
Remembering you;
"Happy birthday"
~~~~~~~~~
September 16th:
On your 92nd year;
We miss your gaze
~~~~~~~~~
On 9/11
Cast our votes;
Stamped our choice
~~~~~~~~~
We have a new deal
A resounding Yes;
A fresh mandate voiced
~~~~~~~~~
Rest in Peace now
We chose the best;
Just like you asked
~~~~~~~~~
Here's to you
Son of Singapore;
Memory says: "Thank You"
~~~~~~~~~
Leon Enriquez
15 September 2015
Singapore
Categories:
mudflats, change,
Form: Free verse
The chorus, a cacophony,
as gulls exploded
from the mudflats, on the estuary,
sleet, brain-numbing,
pelted a grey curtain;
with hands thrust deep, pocket jammed,
I felt like Richard Burton,
selling his soul to Hollywood,
not quite the same, though,
when all I sell is death
in Deadwood.
Here come my gulls, scavengers,
teenage patrons ever eager
as bad news messengers,
heads, sloth riddled beneath
baseball caps reversed,
their words, a streetwise patois
fluffed and stammered
badly rehearsed
but I always sense the gist.
There’s no excuse for me,
sedating kids,
passing bags of snow,
blank eyes fixed on the sea;
for all my delusions
cliché’s of market forces
customers, supply and demand
their snorting horses
once were wooden and rocked
not so long ago.
Within me deep
I know what I am,
no, I have no grand illusions,
I know I’m not the man,
not the myth from songs by
The Stones or the Underground,
just a bigger gull feeding
on the little gulls.
I’m no pharmaceutical saviour
in this seaside slum;
the man? I’m not a man
I’m just
scum.
Categories:
mudflats, life, social, drug,
Form: Free verse