"beachcomber" poems - Hello Poetry

It’s not just on sunny days that I thank the saltwaters for washing you ashore. But it was sunny that day I was walking barefoot on the beach, thinking it all looks the same. Sun. Sand. Sky. Sea. But then, I saw you. It could have been anyone else. Do you realize how much you look like the rest from afar? But in my eyes, the light seemed to only bounce off you. I could have walked on, but for some reason I stopped. And I’m glad I did stop. Long enough to pick you up, long enough to feel every rise and every fall, long enough to run my fingers over all the places sand somehow found its way into, all the edges, sharp and rough, that sometimes hurt the hands that hold you, and you sometimes hurt me but Don’t wish to be washed away just because you have. I know you wonder why on earth you’re still ashore. I know you love the sun, but sometimes its rays cast too much shadows that whisper darkened daydreams of blue embraces, and you’ve tried resting in its arms once or twice. I know you get tired of the ocean and how the waters break against your back day after day, but know that each time they do, a piece of your past chips off. A bit of weakness is made strong. The ocean is shaping you and it isn’t done with you just yet. Don’t forget this. I hope that you don’t see yourself as leftovers. Who hasn’t had someone leave them before? You are more than something that was left behind. You are not its ghost. There is beauty in the way you’ve kept your shell, in the way you still hold against the currents, in the way you refuse to let wind and weather steal your colors. But maybe you don’t know it. Or maybe you’ve been waiting for another pair of eyes and hands to see it for you. But I see it. I do. I’m not the perfect pair of eyes and hands, but I hope you’ll let me help you make it through. There are still so many sunny days we’ve yet to walk in.

0

Jan 27, 2018

Jan 27, 2018 at 10:34 AM UTC

sofia-paderes

Beachcomber

It’s not just on sunny days that I thank the saltwaters for washing you ashore. But it was sunny that day I was walking barefoot on the beach, thinking it all looks the same. Sun. Sand. Sky. Sea. But then, I saw you. It could have been anyone else. Do you realize how much you look like the rest from afar? But in my eyes, the light seemed to only bounce off you. I could have walked on, but for some reason I stopped. And I’m glad I did stop. Long enough to pick you up, long enough to feel every rise and every fall, long enough to run my fingers over all the places sand somehow found its way into, all the edges, sharp and rough, that sometimes hurt the hands that hold you, and you sometimes hurt me but Don’t wish to be washed away just because you have. I know you wonder why on earth you’re still ashore. I know you love the sun, but sometimes its rays cast too much shadows that whisper darkened daydreams of blue embraces, and you’ve tried resting in its arms once or twice. I know you get tired of the ocean and how the waters break against your back day after day, but know that each time they do, a piece of your past chips off. A bit of weakness is made strong. The ocean is shaping you and it isn’t done with you just yet. Don’t forget this. I hope that you don’t see yourself as leftovers. Who hasn’t had someone leave them before? You are more than something that was left behind. You are not its ghost. There is beauty in the way you’ve kept your shell, in the way you still hold against the currents, in the way you refuse to let wind and weather steal your colors. But maybe you don’t know it. Or maybe you’ve been waiting for another pair of eyes and hands to see it for you. But I see it. I do. I’m not the perfect pair of eyes and hands, but I hope you’ll let me help you make it through. There are still so many sunny days we’ve yet to walk in.

11

Precious chance for a lonely thought, Loose, slip-fades sinuously free A melodious stream of nostalgic mist From a mug of Arabica sea. Curiously exhaled from dissonance In an amber lit café. He imagines himself a sojourner, A wayfarer without a way. Long shore drift en echelon Long minutes march by metronome Long is the spellbound beachcomber For an island all his own. Long is the dream of an inland man Lost to his seaside girl. Diver down where the standard waves Swimming dizzy for a polished pearl. Light from her eyes plays on sea glass chips Tumbled in the curling waves That crest and break on a beach that waits for a wish he once had made. The surf is heard like a lingering kiss breathing ripples on the smoothening sand And just as the whisper and simmering fades, Another promise swells, tumbles, and lands. The ocean is love running breathless, In a race between the moon and the sun, Causing tides to surge across the poignant curve Of an incandescent blue horizon. A tranquil star contracts and bursts In pulsing neon spires. There’s forever a star expiring While life glows from embers in a dying fire. If this writer could paint, it would be a portrait of the empty space beside him. Awaiting the image of a seagoing girl, He turns his canvas into a thirsting ocean.

0

Dec 9, 2014

Dec 9, 2014 at 5:12 AM UTC

phosphorimental

In the Littoral Zone

Precious chance for a lonely thought, Loose, slip-fades sinuously free A melodious stream of nostalgic mist From a mug of Arabica sea. Curiously exhaled from dissonance In an amber lit café. He imagines himself a sojourner, A wayfarer without a way. Long shore drift en echelon Long minutes march by metronome Long is the spellbound beachcomber For an island all his own. Long is the dream of an inland man Lost to his seaside girl. Diver down where the standard waves Swimming dizzy for a polished pearl. Light from her eyes plays on sea glass chips Tumbled in the curling waves That crest and break on a beach that waits for a wish he once had made. The surf is heard like a lingering kiss breathing ripples on the smoothening sand And just as the whisper and simmering fades, Another promise swells, tumbles, and lands. The ocean is love running breathless, In a race between the moon and the sun, Causing tides to surge across the poignant curve Of an incandescent blue horizon. A tranquil star contracts and bursts In pulsing neon spires. There’s forever a star expiring While life glows from embers in a dying fire. If this writer could paint, it would be a portrait of the empty space beside him. Awaiting the image of a seagoing girl, He turns his canvas into a thirsting ocean.

36

Her husbands’ death had come upon him quick. He’d always been so full of life and song. She’d had no warning that her Tom was sick. until he crumpled to the sidewalk and was gone. The very day they put her husband in the ground, a Jet black Lab with no collar or license that she took to calling “Pepper” came around. “He must belong to someone.” was her sense. She put up signs and Ads and asked around. She made inquiries to find the owner of the Lab. No one in town had seen the dog before the day they placed her man beneath the sod. Pepper stayed faithfully at his mistress’ side They took long walks down Beachcomber Way Only Pepper heard the tears she cried and stayed by her till the sadness passed away Three winters they passed in that little town, a town that made its living from the sea. Eventually she felt strong enough to work and re acclimate to life and company As Spring’s warmth dissipates the winter gloom, Sadness cannot forever shadow hearts The heart is a perennial and so will bloom as soon as the snows of sorrow will depart. Then, on the anniversary of the date the day they placed her husband in the ground, She called and called but Pepper didn’t come- The Jet black Lab was nowhere to be found. She put up signs and Ads and asked around. She made inquiries to find her dog again. but no one ever saw the Lab in town. The stray will go where he is taken in.

0

Nov 22, 2011

Nov 22, 2011 at 3:59 PM UTC

john-f-mccullagh

The Stray

Her husbands’ death had come upon him quick. He’d always been so full of life and song. She’d had no warning that her Tom was sick. until he crumpled to the sidewalk and was gone. The very day they put her husband in the ground, a Jet black Lab with no collar or license that she took to calling “Pepper” came around. “He must belong to someone.” was her sense. She put up signs and Ads and asked around. She made inquiries to find the owner of the Lab. No one in town had seen the dog before the day they placed her man beneath the sod. Pepper stayed faithfully at his mistress’ side They took long walks down Beachcomber Way Only Pepper heard the tears she cried and stayed by her till the sadness passed away Three winters they passed in that little town, a town that made its living from the sea. Eventually she felt strong enough to work and re acclimate to life and company As Spring’s warmth dissipates the winter gloom, Sadness cannot forever shadow hearts The heart is a perennial and so will bloom as soon as the snows of sorrow will depart. Then, on the anniversary of the date the day they placed her husband in the ground, She called and called but Pepper didn’t come- The Jet black Lab was nowhere to be found. She put up signs and Ads and asked around. She made inquiries to find her dog again. but no one ever saw the Lab in town. The stray will go where he is taken in.

32

_Each day is broken At the zero hour, Splintering like a derelict, On the craggy shoreline of the morn; Flotsam abandoned, To the oceans of yesterday, The beach combed for treasure, To keep for tomorrow._

0

Sep 22, 2019

Sep 22, 2019 at 3:55 PM UTC

annh

Beachcomber

_Each day is broken At the zero hour, Splintering like a derelict, On the craggy shoreline of the morn; Flotsam abandoned, To the oceans of yesterday, The beach combed for treasure, To keep for tomorrow._

8

soft shell turtle, sandy smooth with detail, patterns cover and decorate you. your subtle gaze, is a comfortable impression, it reflects a dull light... barely there, but visible... to a beachcomber's vigil who sees, soft shell turtle crawling, straining for a place out of shadow, slowly moving forward, to reach a sunlit resting place.

0

Jun 2, 2016

Jun 2, 2016 at 9:43 PM UTC

bee-ethel

TURTLE WATCHING

soft shell turtle, sandy smooth with detail, patterns cover and decorate you. your subtle gaze, is a comfortable impression, it reflects a dull light... barely there, but visible... to a beachcomber's vigil who sees, soft shell turtle crawling, straining for a place out of shadow, slowly moving forward, to reach a sunlit resting place.

11

broken lines of tragic poetry spread willy-nilly across the imitation hard-wood flooring polyurethane broad leaf maple complete with swirls and lines as if it were somehow damaged in a lightning storm and forced to grow twisted and bent I stare into the abyss of half-written sentences and six rhyme sets bent, rent, dent, cent, divergent, spent home, gnome (Alaska or little dwarf), poem, loam, roam, beachcomber draft, raft, laughed, giraffe, bath, Taft (little town near Lincoln City) and so on and so on and so on til death – grasping at passing visions and mental images attempting to reconcile this pile into worthwhile stylings and filing them alphabetically … there I did it accidentally…. as if to prove the point on my head has a friend. Revolving floor of soreness my pores ooze from unrest able to fully digest what I peruse and use for my next ‘write’ fest something about ****** and recess… and the best dressed in the west confessing diabetes…. I digress and pretend this never happened –

0

Aug 10, 2015

Aug 10, 2015 at 6:04 PM UTC

s-lyman-temple

junk drawer trash bag

broken lines of tragic poetry spread willy-nilly across the imitation hard-wood flooring polyurethane broad leaf maple complete with swirls and lines as if it were somehow damaged in a lightning storm and forced to grow twisted and bent I stare into the abyss of half-written sentences and six rhyme sets bent, rent, dent, cent, divergent, spent home, gnome (Alaska or little dwarf), poem, loam, roam, beachcomber draft, raft, laughed, giraffe, bath, Taft (little town near Lincoln City) and so on and so on and so on til death – grasping at passing visions and mental images attempting to reconcile this pile into worthwhile stylings and filing them alphabetically … there I did it accidentally…. as if to prove the point on my head has a friend. Revolving floor of soreness my pores ooze from unrest able to fully digest what I peruse and use for my next ‘write’ fest something about ****** and recess… and the best dressed in the west confessing diabetes…. I digress and pretend this never happened –

29

a prisoner of birth the beachcomber an a red rabbit conversing in the place of lightness spoke of the point of origon then, shared the deception on his mind in a painted house until memories of midnight became monday mourning and the warlock cried it's over now let's bake ginger breads

0

Apr 11, 2016

Apr 11, 2016 at 2:00 AM UTC

betterdays

booktalk

a prisoner of birth the beachcomber an a red rabbit conversing in the place of lightness spoke of the point of origon then, shared the deception on his mind in a painted house until memories of midnight became monday mourning and the warlock cried it's over now let's bake ginger breads

12

I can hear the noise of the world, always In my ears, like the sea never leaves the shell, No matter how far travelled by a beachcomber Who takes their souvenir home. No matter how far I roam, the world follows up It’s chaotic tone, voices shouting, ringing phones, Cars with car horns rushing to be late Somewhere they really don’t want to go. Fools, vagabonds, gypsies, businessmen, wives Police and thieves, cannot escape the gravitational Drag of the world on their destiny. I can hear the swish of their existence in my sleep It never leaves me, like the restless tide it creeps.

0

Jul 31, 2019

Jul 31, 2019 at 11:26 AM UTC

nigdaw

Noise

I can hear the noise of the world, always In my ears, like the sea never leaves the shell, No matter how far travelled by a beachcomber Who takes their souvenir home. No matter how far I roam, the world follows up It’s chaotic tone, voices shouting, ringing phones, Cars with car horns rushing to be late Somewhere they really don’t want to go. Fools, vagabonds, gypsies, businessmen, wives Police and thieves, cannot escape the gravitational Drag of the world on their destiny. I can hear the swish of their existence in my sleep It never leaves me, like the restless tide it creeps.

13