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The room was sparsely furnished

But the room was very clean

"I think my mum will like this"

said Veronica McQueen

"The bed, folds up from both ends"

"And it's heated too, you'll see"

"there's a dresser in the corner"

"With a spot for a TV"

She walked on to the window

Looked on out to see the view

She could see a little chapel

With a pathway out there too

"The residents...they're treated well ?"

Veronica asked Joan

"They're given the best sort of care"

"But here, they're not alone"

A tour around the grounds then

settled down poor Ronnies nerves

She was sure her Mum would feel at home

It's the best that she deserves

But, before she signed the papers

She chose to walk on down the path

It was gravel with some thyme beside

Part way down...a small bird bath

She saw a man just sitting

On a bench...all by himself

He was dressed up all in green

He looked like a little elf

He was talking to the wind she thought

For no one was around

But, she realized whom he spoke too

When he rose and looked around

He walked up to a marker

And stooping low on his old knees

He kissed the stone so gently

Beneath the lowing trees

Veronica then left him

And she hurried to the house

She did not want to scare him

She was as quiet as  a mouse

She said "I'll sign the papers"

"It's so nice and peaceful here"

So the two finished their dealings

With a solemn "Thank you dear"

Ronnie's mum...now that's a story

single mother all her life

Ronnie never knew her father

Her mum was never someone's wife

She worked two jobs for quite a time

She was always working hard

So Veronica could grow up with

A nice house with a yard

A few years back the doctors said

ALS had ventured forth

And that Ronnie would need expert help

They said, for what it's worth

Well, two years in...past what they said

Ronnie had to find a place

Where her mother could close out her life

With dignity and grace

She'd found the perfect hospice

At St. Albans by the shore

It had all that she needed

She just couldn't ask for more

By the time they moved her mother in

Her voice was lost inside

But the staff could see, this woman

was full of love and pride

She knew where she would end up

Ronnie took her down to see

Her mother's voice box spoke out

"I'm so glad you're here with me"

"You've become a strong, young woman"

"One I'm proud to call my own"

"You're a woman in my image"

"You're more special than you know"

Veronica, looked out to sea

And she thought of the old man

Who she saw such a short time ago

On the day she turned and ran.

She picked a spot and wheeled her Mum

Beneath the bending, willow tree

She stood behind her and she looked

At the view out to the sea

There were sailboats, seagulls, beachcombers

She could see from where she stood

She would lay her mum to rest right here

And she thought, "yes, this is good"

Two weeks past by and Ronnies Mum

Was taken in the night

They said she didn't suffer

And that all would be all right

A service was held down the path

And they laid her mum to rest

There were staff there, and Veronica

And this old man in his vest

He said "My Mary's over there"

"Beside the bench, beneath the tree"

"I'm sure they'll be the best of friends'

"And if they can, why don't we?"

Ronnie stared at this poor man

and she said " That would be nice"

He then said "now, we're friend my dear"

"Come with me, we'll have a slice"

He'd brought some ginger cake along

For his vistit to his wife

Now, twice weekly he and Ronnie

Spend time taling 'bout their life

Now these two could share their stories

And give the dead what they deserved

At that small St. Albans Hospice

By the seaside  round the curve.
Nat Lipstadt Sep 2014
Now an annual autumnal literary festival visit
to our island redoubt,
the snow geese come honking down,
in linear formation
warning itinerant human beachcombers
of their arrival on the beach runways
of our sheltered island

This TripTik recommended diversion,
is a pleasure long anticipated by them,
seen as an intellectual rest stop,
with excellent sea snacks cuisined,
flying down the Eastern Seaboard
keeping Interstate 95 on their right,
an avian version of GPS

Our birds,
follow a minor route,
commencing in Nova Scotia,
the farthest north of all the species,
never making it to Mexico,
ending their travelogue in Georgia,
lest their true species be confused
with other kinds of Floridian snowbirds

Sit by my side they do,
one by one in assigned seats,
on the now scrawny grass blanket,
their attention span famously long,
unless a school of striped bass
seen on radar in the vicinity

I, on my Adirondack throne,
a poetry reading to intone,
with more-than-occasional audience input,
considered their right most fair

Critics one and all,
animated animal devotees of the arts,
unafraid to express their thoughts,
oft in unison or in
unharmonious John Cage
cacophonies of disagreement

Sadly, I only speak local seagull,
thus their effusive exege(e)ses and criticisms,
either damming or acclaim, indistinguishable,
their only "tell" is if
they stick around for
just one more...day...

That my poetry they did favor
was a conceit I feigned to believe,
loving their attention even if not deserved,
for in their service, and nature's too,
I am now trained to sit and wait,
a minor stitch in a famous tapestry,
for well I recall Milton's words:

*"God doth not need
Either man's work or his own gifts: who best
Bear his mild yoke, they serve him best.
His state is kingly;
thousands at his bidding speed
And post o'er land and ocean without rest:
They also serve who only stand and wait."
Sept. 21, 2014
Mark Lecuona Jul 2015
Never had it been of the application of force between
interludes of terrible waiting that getting on with hostilities
was more calming than the imagination of the horrors
that lay ahead

The initial wave knew the sacrifice would be written about
until the heavens decided that history was full enough of
our failures, shaking loose its detachment from the fate of
its hapless creation

They were led by men who could be counted on to exhort
them with words as to their duty; to be told of the good
hunting to come, but to men who had no fantasies of their
own, words only fabricate a hero

There was no marksmanship or survival skill that could
shield a man fated to crush the spirit inside the prayers
uttered by his mother; there was no training that could
prepare him for life or judgment day

And yet those whom absolution abandoned to their own
devices had fallen in love with their conquerors only to
weep bitterly as the beachcombers liberated them from
their supposed occupation

It made them wonder of the desperation that was
stronger than hope; about how a woman could fall in
love with the eyes of the enemy; and how the enemy
could have a heart for love

But his witness of human nature amidst the horrors
of despots would remain in abeyance until the fears of a
common man had met courage in the moment he realized
how mankind could never love him as does a God

He wondered if he would be different; would he be death
unable to laugh or understand a broken nail; would he be
able to believe in men; would he be able to love someone
when he knew his heart was left behind?
the gold ring and chain piercing my
nostril is tied to Your starry reins
I stand quite diaphanous and transparent
in the shivering frost-bitten scrutiny
as inanimate and suspended
as the fossilized rocks
and vacant shells entombed beneath
my bare feet
this loneliness that climbs, scrambles
mindless ivy,
up and down forlorn ivory towers
lost lighthouses clinging to abandoned
coastlines where the sea foams at the mouth
and maya lurks like rodents and beachcombers
littering with her perishable bag of goodies
where is my conch?
my heart hurts
am I too deaf ...too far gone...
to hear Your mighty blast?
Tony Luxton  Apr 2016
Myths
Tony Luxton Apr 2016
Salt waves breaking on the seashore.
Their sound waves shaking our eardrums,
as we sat listening to his tales.
Even wise Canute couldn't hold back
the surging tides of myth.

We were beachcombers, picking up
the flotsam and jetsam of stories,
not history, his stories,
tutorials in delights and dangers.

We've since learned
his stories are truths.
They are myths
that helped us muddle through.
She always loved the ocean .
And often she drug him along although he hated the the sand .

Frank was never much of a beach person but it was beautiful with her always .

"Why won't you marry me "?

She asked as they sat together upon the shore.

"Come on Beth didn't you get enough ******* form your last marriage "?

"He was a ******* but your the one I was supposed to marry I made a mistake ".

"So now your looking to make another "

Frank replied laughing .

Beth was not amused .

She was always in love with him and Frank knew full well he was not with her .

She was fun in small doses .
She was great in bed but eventually you had to be able to communicate .

Beth was the sort that never stopped talking and seldom had a **** thing to truly say.

Susan always plagued his thoughts .

Because she although a ***** was the one he could not forget.

There was something in the  silence  they shared .
She was gone and so was it .

And now he simply drank to forget and wrote **** to fill the space and grab publication.

"You know I love you so what's the deal dude"?

" Look sweetheart it's never going to happen so maybe its best we not continue to do this anymore ".

And with that it was over .

Beth cursed him out and stomped off .

He watched her as she vanished over the dunes and faded from his life .

She would be far from the last to say goodbye .

He grabbed the last beer from the sixpack.

Listened to the waves crash into the shore .

It was empty peaceful and perfect in everyway.


Then Frank thought to himself .
He hadn't taken his car .

And he had left his phone on the dash of Beth's.

As he walked over the dunes he viewed the parking lot and as he figured Beth was nowhere to be found .

He viewed the little shops all were closed except for a little bar called the Riptide .

He laughed to himself .

For he may be stranded but least he was far from alone .

Any port in a storm beats standing outside in the rain .

The place was packed but it served cocktails .
Least he wouldn't die from lack of thirst .

And maybe a beachcombers existence would suit him for awhile .

Beth would find another much like Frank would always land on his often unbalanced and drunken feet  .

He had a lot of practice .
The night had only just begun.
I am not around here much anymore but being a full time editor a well as published writer keeps me busy .

But still I will always be around .
Stay crazy .
Willard Wells Dec 2015
fog lifting early
as the sun brings a new day
and beachcombers play

sand wet from wave washed
shores squishing between toes as
children run and play

waves crash over rocks
as sea gulls float on light breeze
searching for a mate
Sometimes beside the sea
where the sand tickles your toes
and our thoughts can run free
we become Kings of the castles
or buried by our children.

from steep cobbled streets
sails look like sheets
drying on the line
DBee Mar 2023
At the Shore on a Beautiful Day the Ocean Delivers

The salty sky,
ocean polished sand,
and crashing waves,
take me from stress.
I sink down into the sand,
as it tries its best to rest
on my towel, in my shoes and swimsuit.
Gingerly I consider taking a rhythmic dip
every step sinking sand further away,
but closer to cool lumbering waves,
A large green mass, not a normal kind,
is lying like a beached whale.
The waves just kiss it,
Its not from the ocean,
It's not a sea urchin,
It's firm yet slightly soft.

The cool ocean water wraps
my skin and holds me up
in a gentle tender way.
I wonder about the
impersonating ocean gherkin
deposited on the sand.
Back sinking into my towel,
wet salty water coating my skin.
Staring dreamily at the horizon,
I notice a one-legged seagull
hopping and scoping the green mass.
It squawks and squawks and squawks,
It gives another compassionate squawk,
pokes the mass and flies away.

Back and forth like waves crashing,
a beach buggy passes behind with an eye
on the shore and beachcombers.
Another oddity arrives,
resting on the back of the buggy,
A large black square mass
lookin like a tellie.
Is it to watch a reality show?
A cucumber, a TV, and a one-legged gull,
not what I expected, except maybe the gull.
As I leave, I inquire at the entry point,
"What is that television for?"
"Do the lifeguards watch on the shore?"
"The ocean spit it up from who knows where."
"It didn't receive good ratings."
Walking barefoot on gritty sand,
sticky sunscreen windblown hair,
I drive my car home after a beautiful day at the shore.

— The End —