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coffeegirl Aug 2020
walk me out ~ to the pier
sit by me ~ dip your toes
if I told you I was scared, would you
hold me and ~ hold my woes
when the bridge becomes a pier (Connectivity Poor!)

extended arm, but finds no counterpart, empty air friction,
the bridge becomes a pier, ocean refuses to red sea split, yield,
road divides, dead-ended headed, no turnaround, only STOP! signs

when broken ends are splintered, jagged, glue won’t work, no fix,
two too twisted arms cannot hold on, too tense, too tight,  
being over-alone, solitude passed, secrets go untold

tongue buds are busted broke, vicissitudes of pandemic,
voices, once golden, now just rusted, red flecked word droppings,
only one message from above: Connectivity Poor, Try Life Again, Later!
?What good is to be a King
when you cannot lead,
what good is to be a shepard
when the flock dying,
what good are David’s psalms
when God is not listening
The snow,
And turns;
Shapes in the air.
A floating, flowing, fluidity;
Such substance in something
   So diaphanous.
           A performance,
          Just as magical as
     The starlings
They had watched
At dusk
By the pier.

         And gliding
     The birds
  Danced in the darkening sky.
  That erratic black cloud;
  Morphing, flowing, conjuring...
        Forming new dimensions
          While the glowing sun
               Balances precariously,
                   Poised on the edge of the world
                                                              And then
                                                                         Into the sea,
                                                                        Leaving pink
                                                                     Goodbye kisses
                                                                       On the clouds.
Two figures are
Stood by the window,
Looking out and
  The crystal dust drift
   Within the flow of the wind.
      A giant ghost's display of ballet;
         Spinning, twisting, turning...
                                  Leaning on each other
                                In silence,
                                In the darkness,
                               The skies' cold ashes
                             In the night,
                       Under the rays of the artificial
                    Street light

Soon the train will leave the station,
Get further and further away...
Settling in the west for longer than a day.
Swallowed by the horizon.
Physics in the way.
                                                          She will freeze her face
                                                          And wave,
                                                          Borrowing a stoic's smile,
                                                          Safely held together,
                                                           Until within the veil
                                                           Of the warm taxi home,
                                                            Her eyes
Started early 2013 - mid 2014 ish
harmony crescent Mar 2017
there's a certain pier
out there
that dangles off the east side
of a certain island
that i would without hesitation call 'home'

if you sat out there in the middle of the night
just for kicks for the first time
you'd be slapped around by the angry cliff wind
you'd be overwhelmed by the sea rot
and you'd be threatened the lapping of dark freezing waves
right underneath you in the spaces between the creaky wet beams
and it's all screaming at you to get up and leave

but if you are like me and her
you'd stay
we always decide to stay

we snuck out there late at night
and we found that there's more to the pier than the wind and the smell and the
cold and darkness
we found that there is just enough space
between the windblown wood poles and salt crusted cables
for two beautiful people to squeeze between and dangle their feet
over the edge
to laugh at that cold water and speak streaks of light into it's darkness
we found that there's just enough starlight to take a fuzzy picture
of ripped jeans and flannels and knotted dishwater hair
and a pair of glasses

i didn't know that i could talk to someone the way i learned to talk on the pier
it taught me
He taught me
she taught me
for Girl of Cedar
Laura Enright Jan 2017
I left the coast
on a tiny blue and red rowing boat
I left my shoes on the pier
and jumped right in

I row to a beach and look along it
in moonlight
searching for those certain blue eyes
that I only half-remember
but all I see is strangers staring,
why are they sunbathing at night?

I give up, row back to land
the only sound is me pushing water
I struggle up the rungs of the ladder

lose my footing
then suddenly
I don't know
whether I made it up the ladder at all
(after-note: although it's never mentioned in the poem, I hope that it is obvious that this is about a dream. I trust the reader to have picked up on it)
Darren Jul 2016
I watch the waves
Crashing down below
I see the lighthouse
Lighting up the snow

I watch the sunset
Slipping out of sight
I see all the ships, make
Portraits in the night

I watch the stars intently
As colour fills my eyes
Tears of amazement
In wonder of the skies

I leave the embers glowing
I let my feet lead the way
Following the imprints
Along the rustic quay

I rest upon the harbour
I see your face appear
My is heart beating, racing
As we meet along the pier
Originally called "I See" , I changed the poem a little as I felt it needed to be longer. I hope you like it.
MsAmendable Jun 2016
The stormy shore does blow
With all its wind and might
Then waves will crash
On rocks and splash
All throughout the night


Frothy waves tremble uneasily,
Seasick on the rolling tide
Shaken waters, choppy waves
Stormy seas on oceans wide


The troubled sea rolls in to shore
To bash along the rocky floor
And brushes quaint, the fishing boats
All of which no longer floats


The waves beneath my feet
My feet upon the pier
Day grows short, the end draws near
And dance along the rocky shore
For ever and forever more


Sea birds fly like kites
Soaring through the gusty winds
Sprayed by sea, they dance
In stormy revelry,
their wingéd fins of feathers
hoist them higher than the sails
Of ships, or spray of whales
Tony Luxton Feb 2016
Waves of flames playing the end of pier,
defying choking smoke. Starring in
a dramatic end of show, the ghosts
of bright theatre lights and magic nights.

Last chance performance before the
blackened bones of my childhood stand
empty as salty seaside shells.
Cori MacNaughton Jun 2015
It was after we passed Moby’s Dock
that Ebony met her first thresher shark

He was five feet long or so
two feet shark, three feet tail,
and had just been pulled from the surf
to be proudly displayed
by the fisherman who had caught him

Ebony stood transfixed
her every muscle poised
her feathered tail twitched
as she leaned closer to inspect
and then recoiled from this cold-blooded beauty
still dressed in fleetingly iridescent
blues and greens and purples -

As the sun’s fading beams highlighted
the magnificence of this dying shark
I mourned his loss that night.

The noise and tourists
in the Pier’s arcades and bumper cars
did not detract from the peacefulness
of the Pacific in her chaos
for this was August
and they would soon go home

I watched a distant storm at sea
flashing fire against the deepening twilight
I stood, and Ebony,
gazing at the flashes of lightning

My hand felt her softness and warmth
as I stroked the waves of her black fur
relishing the cool wind on my face
listening to the rigging
of the boats resting at anchor off the Pier

Thinking about thresher sharks
Willing them away
from this place with its fishermen
and cold, baited hooks

Cori MacNaughton
13 Sept 2000
This is one of my very favorites among all the pieces I have ever written.  I have read it in public on many occasions, though this is the first time it appears in print.

Okay, so the initial incident described with the thresher shark actually took place on the Venice Pier, and my mom was with us.  ;-)  At the time we lived in Santa Monica in-between the two piers, and we spent a lot of afternoons and evenings walking on the beach and piers.  Everyone on the beaches knew and loved my dog, a lovely and beautifully mannered purebred Newfoundland, and even the cops knew her by name.  This was not long after a concerted effort by private citizens saved the historic 1909 wooden pier from destruction at the hands of historically myopic local government officials.  

It was a wonderful place and time.
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