This form is called, Laurette.
Love rest on no foundation. It is an endless ocean, with no beginning or end. Rumi
A raging surf
Pounds the white shore
And the pilings of homes
Collapses one
Gone forever
The shell upon waves roams
oars barely skim the surface
skiff glides smoothly
as if floating on the dense fog
cormorants perch on pilings
silence broken by hungry gulls
rising sun glistens water
salt air invigorates my being
memories engulf me
You are in your blue period -
turquoise swimsuit, buoyant in azure.
Behind your shoulder,
Brighton West Pier,
A snap taken at an amateurish angle,
you’re diving sideways into the waves,
the gaily painted structure
tumbling after you.
A day later, the pier burnt down.
Charred wooden bones,
black skeletal pilings stumped naked.
Vaudeville, lyceum, taproom, and arcade
once rocked beneath bunting and banners
now only wrecked rafters,
broken fingers grasping still at yesterday.
A hint of flames behind your image,
an esplanade crumbling
scorched waves.
It's the blue that saves you –
Your wide open blue eyes
your goofy blue bathing cap.
The photo is blistering,
it was a close thing,
nobody yelled fire when I took it.
~~~~~
The pier closed to the public in 1975 and fell into disrepair for decades,
However, on the 5th of February 2003 the historic U.K. Pier
was engulfed in flames.
No penance need be paid by the insular artisan
admonished for seeking an oral platinum quota.
Under furlough! Tuck their perfume in a bureau,
then intermittently release the poise to up-start
inferiority complexes who'll quote of the literati,
and then in the very same breath
naysay a quiver of emotion from word devotion…
Integral quandary - quaint ale or styled daiquiri?
Can phenomenal language fade in the simplistic?
Eloquence is gauche! So pilings of a quay erode…
(2/10/2021: DMS)
Helicopters hover;
Boats bounce on the waves.
Seagulls swoop and pigeons strut;
A toddler misbehaves.
Tourists take their selfies;
Cars in traffic crawl.
New construction blocks the sky
With buildings thin and tall.
Water laps the pilings;
Clouds conceal the sun.
Another session waiting
For the ferry has begun.
With darkness
Fishing
No appreciation
When beaten
Lies with submission
Stagnant streams
Overflow under dreams
Fish in spawning
Under currents churning
Filet knife honed
Scales in pilings
A temperate rising
Seasoned with bubbling
Deep fried soul
A fork that is piercing
Please pass on the sauce
You in yearning
Display me on a wall
Like a trophy stuffed
Dangling with lures
You felt so sure
A coward with a tale
A
Drifting Away
All alone one might think they stand in muddy water unclear
Now feeling like a drowned rat in time and not utter a peep,
Where all at once there might have been a wooden pier
Like a wooden driver pilings driven in still waters so deep.
Crustily, dusty and maybe even barnacled big and beside
Against a ravaging, descending shoreline as if it were cascading,
As though in silent trembling tenors when at once it was denied,
Then came in full force as if it was intended to be tending.
In courageous flow and dubious angles as in endless angles tilted
Against thundering tumultuous wind and wave at raging hand
Like the all elusive lost lonely lovers of long and been jilted
For all would think that they were stuck in between sea and land.
Written:25/04/2016
A COPPER PENNY
The significance of a copper penny…
It’s part of our heritage
Being raised in the copper mining area
Of Ruth, Nevada
Fathers and brothers worked for
The Kennecott Copper Mining Corporation
Both abhorred and sacrificed for
It was a job
The dirt was copper colored
There was no gazebo
No water
No arboretum
The only wish made was for the bell
At the end of the day
Men
Working
Sweating
Crying
Dying
The copper colored beer with elbowed sleeves
On copper tile
Laborers draught
The copper penny
The juke box
Seen in the dance of the copper leaves in fall
Twenty and thirty years on
It’s not gold
An entirely different color
The copper leaves rake sweetness layered
Pilings high
Dancing in the breeze
A “Little” Fugue in G Minor
The Classical Power
Given by Time-Life living divided
Spent
Leaving
Wondering where it is
The beauty, the color, the penny
under the pier
breakers splash pilings
semidarkness
each roller awakens me
to the breath of the sea
Today is Sunday and I'm going to the ocean
or maybe not. Definitely not doing the laundry
or maybe I will. Moss and even a small tree
grow in the rotten stubs of the pier pilings.
The city is Seattle and it has a macho airport.
Give me the comfort of a moose knowing its
water supply. The mosquito's acceptance of its position
among a million mosquitoes. The pool of stagnant
water that remains one with the mothering ocean.
I drift on the air, less than a seed, a bacteria.
Or I am human, big dick, big brain containing
universal philosophic affidavit. Pleased by
the churning of my tongue, sexual enlightenment,
devout prayer, gourmet dining. I swear
it is best to be alive and to have loved Mary.
Antique bridge
Rickety, weathered niche
Time has aged and battered each gray board
How the elements' fury each crevice explored
Impossible its beauty to now be restored
As the waters rage around pilings
Waves lift timbers lashing
Bridge Rising
Sponsor: Nette Onclaud
Contest: Trois Par Huit A Bridge
Date Written:May 15, 2014
Written from a picture from online...
The iridescent raven perched upon pilings
By just one lake in Friesland's beautiful wetland outings
His golden beak and orange legs with claws set off
Against black feathers that glisten and are a rain runoff
Carefully he watches the Edelhert fawn play
At the edge of the lake, close to woods, where he lives all day
He had seen the das at dusk as he watched them all
His duty as the lookout to warn them against harm's fall
Against the vas that sly thief, who comes in the night
When all sleep, even for the watchman death could be his plight
Some Of The Wildlife In The Netherlands
Edelhert:Red Deer
Das:Badger
Vas:Fox
Sponsor: Elly Wouterse
Contest: Your Ode To "My"Netherlands And/Or "My Friesland"
Written: April 22, 2014
FOGGY NIGHT ©
The white orb, saturated with
tidal flows, peers through the
veil.
A ghost ship slips up the fog
laden channel.
Night gulls. sing with strident cries
fog seeps in, the tide rolls out,
day is gone, the night creeps on.
Trees, dressed in ebony, drift by.
Water glistens, gold and wet.
Edges blurred night is soft and
tender, damp seeps into cloth,
hair, bone.
Tents of light spread over the
foggy landing.
Hunters of the sea know not day
nor night, fishers all,
white feathers stark against the
darkest shadows.
Palm trees, silhouetted in
ochre gauze, black brushes hard
with paint.
Pilings sway, their waists cinched
with rope.
Matronly sentinels, the craft finds
the woody bosom.
Trisha Sugarek
Butterflies and Bullets
The Linda-Marie
I venture on down to the harbor, smelling the salt of the sea
Where waiting in anticipation is my sloop the Linda-Marie
In silence she sits while I board her, and cast her lines aside
Like a colt running free in the meadow, she strains to be untied
Slowly we move through the water, heading on out to the sea
I thrill at the freedom that grips me, on the sloop called the Linda-Marie
The wind is stiff from the starboard, the breakwater now far astern
The ocean is waiting to greet us, we hear the shrill call of a tern
As we address a headwind, filling out the sails
The Linda-Marie meets the challenge, as against the whitecaps she rails
Yawing to hold her position, she rises to meet each new swell
We hold our course at eight knots, a speed she handles well
Time I'm afraid is fleeting, and to soon we must return
Ending our adventure, once again the ocean spurned
We bump against the pilings, making sure she can't break free
I relish the time spent together, just me and the Linda-Marie
Pilings shilouetted
Against morning sun
What scenes
You have beheld
Over your life
Here beside the sea
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