"beachcombers" poems
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."*
Sep 21, 2014
Sep 21, 2014 at 10:05 AM UTC
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?
Jul 11, 2015
Jul 11, 2015 at 7:59 PM UTC
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?
Nov 17, 2014
Nov 17, 2014 at 8:11 PM UTC
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.
Apr 25, 2016
Apr 25, 2016 at 2:01 PM UTC
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.
Jul 2, 2018
Jul 2, 2018 at 4:30 PM UTC
*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*
Dec 17, 2015
Dec 17, 2015 at 11:35 PM UTC