#oyster
The ******* which bore the oyster
The meats, the cheese, the cider
It always seemed to annoy her
Deep within her mind's dark cloister
The cost of one was the cost of all
A pity to pick and choose
An oyster with no *******
(nor meat nor cheese nor cider)
And lights'd be on for rent.
Or meat and cheese and cider
(No oyster shucked over a golden cent)
And not just lights, but groceries too.
Aug 20, 2024
Aug 20, 2024 at 7:43 PM UTC
You're the calm in the sea of chaos
You're the light at the end of a tunnel
You're the first raindrop in a desert
You're the rainbow on a gloomy weather
You're the smile on my face
You're the sparkle in my eyes
You're the song I want to hear
But you're the sand in an oyster
A debris that makes a nacre
You inflict pain, yet produce something beautiful like a pearl
Nov 12, 2021
Nov 12, 2021 at 4:51 PM UTC
It takes heat to open an oyster,
or a knife(or time).
Humans are enough like oysters, I suppose,
but they don’t need pain to bring out their full potential—
they do need time.
Time takes too long for some,
and pain is an easy alternative;
forgoing sleep and forgetting to eat,
distance from loved ones,
pushing and pushing and pushing and—
a pearl.
Jul 14, 2020
Jul 14, 2020 at 3:10 AM UTC
I wrote something I couldn't share
I put it in a special place
And hidden, let it die there,
Just like him, just like me.
That worst case scenario they'll never see
The darkest demons don't need light
To make you see their light of day,
So I took them from within me
Riped them out and locked them in a box
Without a single key and drowned them
In a pool the kids use to play.
Now all that's talked of there
Is an accident then conversation fades.
Like oysters reading words,
I could be a carpenter building herds
To come and read the writs I wrote
Until all eaten on a solemn note.
May 31, 2019
May 31, 2019 at 3:07 AM UTC
All those moons ago
I plucked a stone from shore
and whispered my intention
with each waxing and waning.
I took it back to the sound today,
intending to sing a final goodbye
before casting it far into the waves.
It sparkled in the spring sun
then slipped from my fingers
into the sludgy low-tide pool
of barnacles and gooeyducks.
I simply walked away
and watched the gulls drop oysters,
fighting over what belongs to whom.
The waves will carry the stone to sea
the same way the green has returned
like the green in me.
A gentle and abrupt easing -
A slip out to sea with the tide.
Mar 28, 2019
Mar 28, 2019 at 11:54 PM UTC
#
Must have a goal
Go get that thing
What if I want
To stop and sing
*Retreat inside
Wait out the storm*
Else feel the wrath
Of nature scorned
*Instead a kid
I wish to be
To feel alive
And so carefree*
Each drip, each drop
Upon my head
*Wish I could splash
In rain instead*
I'd watch the sky
Explode with light
A warming joy
Not filled with fright
When did I lose
Sight of it all
*Predictable
Pattern I fall*
Start living in
Every moment
Past and future
Wasted and spent
Granted a new
Chance I'm given
Can not redo
But start living
*Each day awake
Fresh start; Can be*
World's my oyster
Alive and free
#
Jul 21, 2018
Jul 21, 2018 at 6:14 AM UTC
the world is
my oyster
they say.
yet,
why has my life
produced no pearls?
only tears
and gritty sand
polluting the land
around me.
Mar 24, 2018
Mar 24, 2018 at 2:33 PM UTC
the world may be your oyster,
...
but keep in mind that some of us are allergic to shellfish.
{d.f. | 12/07/17}
Dec 30, 2017
Dec 30, 2017 at 8:48 PM UTC
I feel a completeness in staring into your eyes
That I don't feel when I am alone
I grasp for meaning in a daydreaming world
My mind opens like an oyster
and you are my pearl
a beautiful agony unfurls
in missing you and your words
and touch.
I miss you so much
but I want wholeness
in my own skin
but it rings thin
because is it narcissism?
To look beyond the chasm
the void of our own soul
and yet romantic love is being in love
with what someone is that we haven't got
and yet we don't care a jot
for love is creation I care deeply and a lot
for what you have and what I haven't got.
Oct 1, 2017
Oct 1, 2017 at 11:26 AM UTC
ℭ𝔲𝔱𝔱𝔦𝔫𝔤 𝔪𝔶 𝔥𝔞𝔫𝔡𝔰 𝔬𝔫 𝔰𝔥𝔢𝔩𝔩𝔰
𝔄𝔫𝔡 𝔱𝔯𝔶𝔦𝔫𝔤 𝔱𝔬 𝔱𝔲𝔯𝔫 𝔰𝔞𝔫𝔡 𝔱𝔬 𝔭𝔢𝔞𝔯𝔩𝔰
𝔏𝔬𝔳𝔦𝔫𝔤 𝔶𝔬𝔲
ℑ𝔰 𝔰𝔱𝔢𝔭𝔭𝔦𝔫𝔤 𝔟𝔞𝔯𝔢
ℑ𝔫𝔱𝔬 𝔞 𝔤𝔢𝔩𝔦𝔡, 𝔟𝔯𝔦𝔫𝔶 𝔯𝔦𝔳𝔢𝔯
𝔚𝔦𝔱𝔥 𝔞𝔫 𝔬𝔶𝔰𝔱𝔢𝔯𝔟𝔢𝔡 𝔣𝔩𝔬𝔬𝔯
Dec 31, 2015
Dec 31, 2015 at 1:39 AM UTC
*it’s like i’m trapped inside of an oyster
hidden away from the world;
except i am not a precious pearl
waiting to be found*
Jun 25, 2017
Jun 25, 2017 at 2:48 PM UTC
|PART THREE|
**THE EMPTY SECOND
BECOMES AN
EMPTY SPACE**
*When it’s all over
forget about courtesy,
grab hold off a shooting star
and ride it all the way
until the photons say the
last word with a pulse of light*
The man is no longer doubled over and
Observable from the window
As a result of his fifty-eight years
the equation of his life
All comes to zero
Whilst the mocking ticking and tocking
Of an old clock knocking minutes like
Nails into the wall—
He disappeared in a puff of smoke,
The ice in his glass melted and the woman picked it up,
Drinking it in a single gulp, the glass comes down as if
Magnetically drawn to the floor, the floor,
Where she lies silently and stretches her body
To get some release, she rubs her face against
The carpet, nothing matters except the next second,
Eyes, behind a blink or two, dart to another part of the empty room
She couldn’t think any further ahead than a second at all
And the zodiac crashed open
the ram sent stars flying
the crab snipped the string that suspended the stars
mars took some flak
and finally the sun was burst
by the horned goat
and aquarius held it
like the final fluid sphere
Stars, burning across the sky like the striking of a match
Those wishing on shooting stars
couldn’t decide what they wanted
many of them flying as there were
As well-known monsters
Weighed down by human hope,
clear out our night sky,
Leaving not a freckle to observe
Telescopes now point into bedroom windows
Shadows portray a sort of life,
Shadow puppets depict death through
Tragedy and lapses in timekeeping and
Obsessions with vanity
Life spends some empty second
Inside your lungs,
Continues on it’s way
To resuscitate a slowly fading knife attack victim
Or shake the hand of a minute,
Time is ticking laboriously by
The light, motherless and lost,
Spat out at as the sun was burst,
It looks up to see
the unveiling of the universe,
Finally,
the oyster swallowed the sea.
—I didn’t want to be a poet by any means. After what happened working on the lifeboats I couldn’t go near the sea, so in a way I chose which parts of it I wanted and wrote about them. It terrifies me and fascinates me at the same time. I fully believe I will return to it only as ash...
Jun 15, 2016
Jun 15, 2016 at 12:23 AM UTC
a series of quatrains
Anchor’s bound for hell as it falls
Sadly I watch the fast rope slip
It is gone, I need a strong sip
From a sailor’s bottle, land calls
In a boat, earth and moon move you
these deceptive cargo ships hide
the stash of smugglers, I choose
To rock back and forth with the tide
Such fearless ships save lives at night
and daytime too but not for thanks
for it also ferries heartbreak
when lovers part on boarding planks
A message in a bottle lost
was found on a cold Cornish coast
The message read “darling please
know my love will swim across seas”
I daren’t live by sea much longer
Oh! what I’ve seen, fear gets stronger
with every lapping slurp I hear:
the drowned whispering in my ear
Once I fished in this bay of shells
My line was frayed from reeling sharks
A blue whale fought me three miles out
In his bowel I awoke at last
Boat or ship? For now ‘ships’ they fly
A rocking chair, without duty
They float, enchant, sink but don’t cry
shipwrecks are a thing of beauty
Jun 14, 2016
Jun 14, 2016 at 11:56 PM UTC
I chanced upon an old letter
That had clearly sailed legless on seas
Crumpled, damp but inside the envelope:
Intelligible writing by sight
But by comprehension I was lost
Disorientated and sea-sick.
Sometimes you come across
an object, and in no way
can you explain its origin,
it’s purpose, or the frame of
mind of the person who last
encountered it,
The letter was dry and slightly
smudged but the envelope (and stamp)
could not be made out at all
I could not send it back
If I could I would be lost for
words, as it seems they were in ways:
*...and I have little leaves, I love you and I miss you so much.
When he finished the day in the ocean waiting for you to choose from Aserahosov read our son and apricot. My shirtsleeves damp in your memory. Our subject is expected later to the rest of the flight path of the earth ready to kiss a little faster on the planet.
I broke a strong bird while I like the cakes, I break the strong current. Love my *** I strongly flow. It has been Pecan pie is to say...*
My understanding of romance is minimal
But to have leaves seems morbid
Even more so than the breaking of
the bird...
Why should a bird get hurt in this
gross courtship?
and a strong one too,
what act of love can break
anything but a heart?
I like the cakes, I break the strong currents
Perhaps the words of someone rushing
Across oceans in the name of love
Slicing through the chunky waves
But the cake is a bit out of place
Surely no one would rush across oceans
Wide and rough and restless
For a cake that was simply ‘liked’
This must all be a prank...
This one then—
*Love my *** off I strongly flow…*
Now, I hope the flowing is another
Nautical reference, it would tie in nicely
With the breaking of currents-
I cannot comment on what precedes it
There is much I cannot discuss
In this disgusting letter, I wish
I had not been given it.
****
—If I were a seahorse, I know that just being a seahorse would be enough...
Jun 14, 2016
Jun 14, 2016 at 11:46 PM UTC
A Cornish sunrise
is spoiled by bleating tourists;
I enjoy the sunrise
with all but my eyes.
As sure as God is sifting out the chaff
and with mathematical certainty...
my listlessness is becoming an issue.
A fist is shaking at me again,
but I’ve stopped looking at faces.
I reach for a book, not to read,
but to straighten my posture,
by opening it in my lap.
I hear sailing boats
always, living here, the constant
boom swing and rattling of cheaply
made metal clips and whipping ropes.
I hear the negligence of novice sailors
and their secret wishes to accidentally
lose their family on the rocks.
I hear the sound of life jackets
hanging on their pegs whilst
skinny kids think that
the sea is just a big blue
bouncy castle.
I have observed how things
can go very wrong;
I was a lifeguard and then coast
guard working for the RNLI.
Now I try and enjoy the sunrise each
morning but the noisiest of tourists are
walking around in groups of
foghorn and sheep’s wool
and warning us of nothing
— so loudly.
They’ve closed the lighthouse
and the docks, ship don’t
come here anymore.
Just these novice sailors
who, with unerring instinct,
sink for the weight of their
masculinity
or lose a crew member
or be pinched painfully by a crab.
Their kids ask: How do boats float?
They ask that as their life jackets
swing on the peg
— the seas are not calm today.
Jun 14, 2016
Jun 14, 2016 at 11:21 PM UTC
Though tried his level best, to pry open
the tough oyster with such might,he gets
just a glimpse of the smile of the pearl
so rare within. which clearly indicates
it's liking; love for light than darkness
But the oyster, so adamant, refused to part,
it jealously holds the pearl enclosed,within,
along with the bitter taste left in his mouth,
he learns a precious lesson, in the way worst possible.
A great one, from the oyster's closed book of life,
on possession and renunciation at right time,
managing frustration and letting go graciously.
Dec 4, 2015
Dec 4, 2015 at 10:29 AM UTC
And what do you do
when the world’s your oyster?
If only it were as light
and as pretty as the pearl,
I’d hold it up to the sun and praise its
ethereal form.
Or if it would open
as easy as a picture book,
I'd read every word and know just what to do.
Instead, I stand on its dirt
and wonder how I could ever
build a castle out of it.
Aug 12, 2014
Aug 12, 2014 at 3:20 PM UTC
I could punch myself in the face
or I could grow up.
None of us, or any of this
is perfect; it's okay to not
measure up. Measure to what?
The beauty of life is
that the definition is all my own.
No one can tell me what it is.
I am sitting in the sun.
I can smile.
I forgive myself.
I love
myself.
This is the best poetry I could write.
The beauty of poetry is
that the definition is all my own.
No one can tell me what it is.
I am a pearl, however misshapen
I may be the world is my oyster.
It's mine. It's mine. It's mine.
I could get used to that.
Mar 14, 2012
Mar 14, 2012 at 10:00 PM UTC