"beachhead" poems
catch the last wave and i'll be there
combing the beachhead of our misery
swollen with big love, choking on the theory of our negative heavens
you and i,
we marvel at the heresy of our wisdom
and cherish no giant over divine
we david the furies that are nephelim
but conjure no gods where the plastic can't be useful
we dunder in the bluff of innocent cupids
we -
the idiots on the cliff -
dancing
when the glockenspiel itches !
clock faced and *** up
i'll be there with black honey, " With You "
no doubt
pondering the wrinkles in your sleep breath.
the sweet killing of tomcats and mackerels
the plain fact that our noses
are numb from eskimo kissing
in the igloo of our perpetual alaska
the arctic furnace of our wild fires of pure illusion
to trod stunning over hell's paradise
and catch a glimpse of snarky
stark Silence...
You
catch the last wave -
and i'll be nothing but the singing bones of the wind
in the throes of an ****** of " need you " and only you.
a chosen cyclone from heaven
i'll be just a little boy
in the clutches of a dead teddy
where the poppies sing
hallelujah !
and our hearts blight the orchid of our accord.
and down -
comes, what ?
what do we do ? what could we possibly ?
we hopscotch the bonnets
and glue ravenous bumblebees
to a blanket
of snow.
cause we have the technology -
we can disassemble it...
discretely.
Aug 6, 2013
Aug 6, 2013 at 3:24 PM UTC
Somebody put Kylie Minogue on
from the wall mounted touchscreen one-pound-a-go jukebox-
Coldplay would've been better, but I should be so lucky-
and the rising water in the Titanic's engine room of noise
rose to a First Class stateroom chatter and Kate Winslet
and the queue to the bar grew a little longer
and then
you
walked
in
like
a
Sunday
morning
walk,
one long stroll by a river edge or lake side,
through a Westfield, Bluewater Meadowhall
in one long rehearsed map move entrance
dodging standing drinkers and their plus ones in Zara trench coats and Boden shawls,
and you left a wake of wet forest and crumbling beachhead afternoons behind you as you
walked
on
through
the
crowd
to the pool table at the back where you watched
*** after ***
after pint
after ***
after we need more one pound coins to play more pool,
and you went out for **** though you don't smoke yourself
and you looked up into the mist because you're the kind that would find New York Stuart Little big:
mostly building, building, building, window, balcony, bridge, statue and Central Park trees,
and you walked back in with river eyes, your lids moving from cold back to behind-the-fridge, pub-room warm
and they watered a little, Pacific blue sliding over eternal black;
I think she's the kind that needs a lion tamer not an orchestra leader,
but I've only got Petit Filous muscles and I had four raw eggs this morning and I'm still not as strong as I’d like to be,
(put the baton down, Tim)
a River Phoenix younger Harrison Ford stasis, one train wreck ride to remember,
nowhere near the lion tamer you need.
Kylie sings for the fifteenth time in a row,
and the bar is past last orders though cash is pushed under for pints
and you disappeared under bar light
and then into the moonlight
and now I'm sat grieving
the Golden Retriever of The Nutshell
in Bury St Edmunds this evening.
May 1, 2015
May 1, 2015 at 12:26 PM UTC
There are days of restless worrying,
And sleepless nights of fear.
Then are days of numb oblivion
With nights of terror-filled dreams.
Like relentless waves pounding
The weakened beachhead of the shore.
Like bloodied knuckles punching
The shredded remnants of a sandbag.
This, my cycle of the
Inevitable,
Unavoidable,
Inescapable,
Unpreventable
Stirring up of the
Indescribable,
Indefinable,
Inexpressible
Anger that resides deep within
My broken soul.
Yet no one knows.
I am a calm, placid lake.
A deep and dark lake
Sitting in the mouth of an active volcano.
Jul 13, 2014
Jul 13, 2014 at 12:33 AM UTC
Past and future daydreams
the delusions of
a present tense.
Unspeakable longing
fills every fissure
and pressure demands
the yielding of limits.
(a dark torrent bursts forth)
*the shores will recede
until the island is
swallowed up by the sea*
No survivors remain
when the tide, stemmed
for sakes external,
recapitulates the beachhead.
A great ache fills the land
with anguish, beckons
all beginnings to unite
with the end
*{the memory will fade
to total silence
beneath the roar of the waves}*
Where wilderness waits
to interpose the tamed.
Apr 23, 2016
Apr 23, 2016 at 2:43 PM UTC
heritage of her long preamble **********
the quick note stencilled on sticky note
seemed not only incomplete but irrational
'plead not the day to the jury of night
its light deceives the dark into seeking
solace for its own death'
her heritage thought troubles the waves
sending its silent after effects spreading across the
waters to which we fled for safe harbour in evening's birth
we swim to shore
and explore nothing but sand on beachhead
and eachothers fumbling in near perfect dark
before dawn could streak the sky
with the golden lances of the sun
as day wrestles the sky from night
contending with eachother
revealing to our new born eyes
the fanfare that light gives the day
she stood on this stage
and did pronounce loudly
entreat the light to forsake the day
join the night
as she and i had
as lovers
then the golden lances of dawn
would be the stems of roses
from one lover to the other
Jan 8, 2014
Jan 8, 2014 at 6:53 PM UTC
The heron spreads his wings and preys.
His stony stand a beachhead sloughing
The salt sea, a sepulchered wading.
Leaven the broken bred, unshell
The teeming waters, a fisher of mermen
Unlordly low this lying father,
His wings are palms,
His rock a mount, his wings a bay,
And deafness, tears in the outer shores
And exaulted seas the forgiven waves,
Swells the briny blood and kelp.
Vains are streaming to the fisher king,
Lordy he lands the lying father
His wings are psalms.
A tiny flood that arcs the sky
Marks lord in miniature, a King
Fisher flies, His wings are
The waters calmed.
The otters bask and preen, mermen
Jostle in the laddered rays of the sun
They mark their surf, insouciant play,
Wavering the fisher of men, he sways,
Simply they circle in song singing hours,
Dancing as do the murmuring waves,
Their strokes are psalms.
Dec 10, 2013
Dec 10, 2013 at 2:34 PM UTC
The heron spreads his wings and preys.
His stony stand a beachhead sloughing
The salt sea, a sepulchered wading.
Leaven the broken bred, unshell
The teeming waters, a fisher of mermen
Unlordly low this lying father,
His wings are palms,
His rock a mount, his wings a bay,
And deafness, tears in the outer shores
And exaulted seas the forgiven waves,
Swells the briny blood and kelp.
Vains are streaming to the fisher king,
Lordy he lands the lying father
His wings are psalms.
A tiny flood that arcs the sky
Marks lord in miniature, a King
Fisher flies, His wings are
The waters calmed.
The otters bask and preen, mermen
Jostle in the laddered rays of the sun
They mark their surf, insouciant play,
Wavering the fisher of men, he sways,
Simply they circle in song singing hours,
Dancing as do the murmuring waves,
Their strokes are psalms.
Jul 30, 2012
Jul 30, 2012 at 1:28 PM UTC
..spit me out.
I tried to sin against the currency...
I tried to swim.
I DIED.
I came back...on the beach.
Beachhead of death.
I DIED.
I swam against the tide on LSD.
i died
i died
i died
Dec 4, 2016
Dec 4, 2016 at 6:01 PM UTC
.
The heron spreads his wings and preys.
His stony stand a beachhead sloughing
The salt sea, a sepulchered wading.
Leaven the broken bred, unshell
The teeming waters, a fisher of mermen
Unlordly low this lying father,
His wings are palms,
His rock a mount, his wings a bay,
And deafness, tears in the outer shores
And exaulted seas the forgiven waves,
Swells the briny blood and kelp.
Vains are streaming to the fisher king,
Lordy he lands the lying father
His wings are psalms.
A tiny flood that arcs the sky
Marks lord in miniature, a King
Fisher flies, His wings are
The waters calmed.
The otters bask and preen, mermen
Jostle in the laddered rays of the sun
They mark their surf, insouciant play,
Wavering the fisher of men, he sways,
Simply they circle in song singing hours,
Dancing as do the murmuring waves,
Their strokes are psalms.
Jun 16, 2016
Jun 16, 2016 at 2:30 PM UTC
The heron spreads his wings and preys.
His stony stand a beachhead sloughing
The salt sea, a sepulchered wading.
Leaven the broken bred, unshell
The teeming waters, a fisher of mermen
Unlordly low this lying father,
His wings are palms,
His rock a mount, his wings a bay,
And deafness, tears in the outer shores
And exaulted seas the forgiven waves,
Swells the briny blood and kelp.
Vains are streaming to the fisher king,
Lordy he lands the lying father
His wings are psalms.
A tiny flood that arcs the sky
Marks lord in miniature, a King
Fisher flies, His wings are
The waters calmed.
The otters bask and preen, mermen
Jostle in the laddered rays of the sun
They mark their surf, insouciant play,
Wavering the fisher of men, he sways,
Simply they circle in song singing hours,
Dancing as do the murmuring waves,
Their strokes are psalms.
May 25, 2013
May 25, 2013 at 2:51 PM UTC
The heron spreads his wings and preys.
His stony stand a beachhead sloughing
The salt sea, a sepulchered wading.
Leaven the broken bred, unshell
The teeming waters, a fisher of mermen
Unlordly low this lying father,
His wings are palms,
His rock a mount, his wings a bay,
And deafness, tears in the outer shores
And exaulted seas the forgiven waves,
Swells the briny blood and kelp.
Vains are streaming to the fisher king,
Lordy he lands the lying father
His wings are psalms.
A tiny flood that arcs the sky
Marks lord in miniature, a King
Fisher flies, His wings are
The waters calmed.
The otters bask and preen, mermen
Jostle in the laddered rays of the sun
They mark their surf, insouciant play,
Wavering the fisher of men, he sways,
Simply they circle in song singing hours,
Dancing as do the murmuring waves,
Their strokes are psalms.
Nov 15, 2012
Nov 15, 2012 at 1:48 PM UTC
a sight for the
eyes to behold
one thousand bodies
washed upon the shore
a curious treasure
for the sea to cede
gracious undertows
yield hungry ghosts
wrapped in blankets
of seaweed
suspended in true
states of bardo
occupying a beachhead
between sea and land
cycles of tides churn
The Wheel of Life
a quivering moon
lights pathways home
strewn bodies of liberated
souls molder in the sand
proper alms for *****
and squawking gulls
Dedicated to the people of Japan and
the victims of the earthquake and tsunami
Oakland
3/14/11
jbm
Nov 5, 2011
Nov 5, 2011 at 10:21 PM UTC
„...my men in moleskin caps and generally envested in the kind of shabby paramilitary fashion in which one pictures the advance guard at Teruel. Upon proceeding inland, we encountered teams of what I declared native-cannibal-warriors, who, despite being outwardly quite docile, were clearly displeased with the unannounced invasion of their little isle. I began pointing my finger at the savages and emitting ‘pow’ noises, causing the natives to rather cooperatively collapse to the ground by heaps. Having cleared the beachhead, I then realised my love for our apparent guide to this strange paradise, an ermine-like species without any name that comes to memory. I held her close for perhaps five minutes, stroking her luscious, snow-white pelt and ignoring the jealous glances of my subordinates. An anxious look told me she had something to tell me. I bent my ear close, only to receive a sudden impact of her delicate, immaculately carven jaw. Shocked, I relinquished my hold, and she immediately bounded to a low-lying tree behind me, pawing the fruit dangling therefrom with a feline relish“
Feb 6, 2012
Feb 6, 2012 at 8:32 PM UTC
The heron spreads his wings and preys.
His stony stand a beachhead sloughing
The salt sea, a sepulchered wading.
Leaven the broken bred, unshell
The teeming waters, a fisher of mermen
Unlordly low this lying father,
His wings are palms,
His rock a mount, his wings a bay,
And deafness, tears in the outer shores
And exaulted seas the forgiven waves,
Swells the briny blood and kelp.
Vains are streaming to the fisher king,
Lordy he lands the lying father
His wings are psalms.
A tiny flood that arcs the sky
Marks lord in miniature, a King
Fisher flies, His wings are
The waters calmed.
The otters bask and preen, mermen
Jostle in the laddered rays of the sun
They mark their surf, insouciant play,
Wavering the fisher of men, he sways,
Simply they circle in song singing hours,
Dancing as do the murmuring waves,
Their strokes are psalms.
Apr 17, 2014
Apr 17, 2014 at 12:34 PM UTC
Here is another lost soul on campaign.
Hardened veteran of dark words,
fighting to retain the beachhead of sanity, so narrowly won.
Tell them to hang a black banner
for the mind missing in action.
Tell them not to hold their breath,
Waiting for a homecoming .
It will die on foreign, but familiar soil.
So it is with poets.
We few. We happy few.
Jan 18, 2014
Jan 18, 2014 at 12:26 PM UTC
Bring forth the unknown .. The sweltering night , the call of the artillery round .. The tragedy of mans frailty , calculated in misery and pooling blood , the cry from the field of battle , the drowned upon the merciless shore .. Inveigh the opposing force , the ground beneath their cannon ,
the opening glint of Sun o'er the beachhead by morning tide .. To the sacrificial American warriors of antiquity , may the ghost of Sergeants and Field Lieutenant survey and secure our safe passage by the morrow ...
Mar 24, 2016
Mar 24, 2016 at 8:03 PM UTC
The heron spreads his wings and preys.
His stony stand a beachhead sloughing
The salt sea, a sepulchered wading.
Leaven the broken bred, unshell
The teeming waters, a fisher of mermen
Unlordly low this lying father,
His wings are palms,
His rock a mount, his wings a bay,
And deafness, tears in the outer shores
And exaulted seas the forgiven waves,
Swells the briny blood and kelp.
Vains are streaming to the fisher king,
Lordy he lands the lying father
His wings are psalms.
A tiny flood that arcs the sky
Marks lord in miniature, a King
Fisher flies, His wings are
The waters calmed.
The otters bask and preen, mermen
Jostle in the laddered rays of the sun
They mark their surf, insouciant play,
Wavering the fisher of men, he sways,
Simply they circle in song singing hours,
Dancing as do the murmuring waves,
Their strokes are psalms.
Mar 12, 2015
Mar 12, 2015 at 1:52 PM UTC
The fresh wind we knew that was millions of years older than me or than you,blew
stiff against the boulders that formed padded shoulders against the grey chalk cliff.
A conservation effort by the council and crew to save for posterity,the guardian of land and of sea.
The cliff wouldn't care it would wear down in the end,erosions's a trend ,you can't stop it,just slow it and the cliff seems to know it
as it slowly slides to its mother,
the ocean.
Aug 22, 2013
Aug 22, 2013 at 2:37 PM UTC
We built a little night
but you emptied it.
Your Dublin beachhead
is all undertow.
Dead menus blow from
one gutter to the next.
Westward parks
fill with fever.
A gibbeted sun
hangs ignored.
O darling...
I'm not this way,
I'm not this way -
remember what I am.
Feb 28, 2021
Feb 28, 2021 at 3:43 PM UTC
i like mixes
and late night kisses
and bumps that go on all night
i have a thing for terribly thin fidgeting things
i wish i could find the cord and plug this in
(so it would work of course)
plebeian hard
raw and numb
i still **** my thumb
too tough to forget the past
holding a beachhead with half an arm ... me - i am the
the guitar that fades
as the drums come in
a short circuit
a brain whiff
my late night knees are bothering me too
Oct 13, 2016
Oct 13, 2016 at 4:23 PM UTC
I write in praise of forgotten men
who died before life disappointed them.
They rose before dawn in June of the war
on the sixth day back in Forty four.
Packed like cattle, ferried cross water,
to a beach in France where so many were slaughtered.
These men, boys really, never fathered a child
or Loved or were loved in the usual style.
Was it for love of country? A misplaced sense of pride?
That encouraged their acts kin to suicide?
Omaha beach ran slick with their blood.
Each of the fallen was some mother's son.
The objectives were taken. The battle was won.
The beachhead secured by the set of the Sun.
Dog tags were retrieved from the necks of the dead.
but all of the focus was on the Generals who led.
For the rest there was space in the Green fields of France.
In rows of white crosses there's no second chance.
They rest here forever, the true heroes of war,
from Omaha Beach back in June Forty Four.
Oct 3, 2014
Oct 3, 2014 at 4:40 PM UTC
You are a poets dream,
The whole ocean,
All wrapped up,
Right in your bloodstream.
Wavy hair that covers your head,
Crashing like the waves,
Hitting the soft sand.
Literal beachhead.
Your eyes are an easy connection,
Blue like the ocean,
Meeting the sky at the horizon,
Bright like the sun’s reflection.
Deep as the sea,
Full of things we haven't reached,
We don't know too much about it,
But truth is, we enjoy it all the same.
And as deep as the sea you may be,
You're still a treasured friend to me.
Mar 31, 2020
Mar 31, 2020 at 1:54 AM UTC
(freckled freckled freckled eyes/
dew/pattern smile/you are eager/the
humidity dims the shadow/relapse/
enticement/the beachhead is creating
splash colors again/the tide applauds
gratefully/hair beam and glow of green/
scent of exotic oils now coalesce/
meditative lovers/idol obsidian, great
brass bird n neckline harp/quartzstone
tendon/consume me into the ardent maw/
dear,
valley for waxen bones/decay, sweet
altogether now/O half moon descent/
reconstituted daisy/you there, resembling
yourself, familiar of a fleshseer/cleansed
in white tended theatrics/become/
beseech/diluted symphony, Egyptian
security/It is time to leave behind your
midnight)
May 31, 2017
May 31, 2017 at 12:36 AM UTC
I'm on my way to luncheon.
It's only down the hall.
But at journeys end the shortest way
Seems the longest road of all.
It's most peculiar. These old walls
Were decorated plain.
But the fog dissolves to a distant shore,
As an Emerald Calls my name.
I've journeyed through the decades
Where I've heard the Church bells peel,
From the beachhead of June '44
To The factory gates in Theale.
I grew a garden proud and fair,
With a weeping willow tree.
Where my family played in its summer shade,
It still remembers me.
My trips to Ross have long since stopped,
But the earth salutes them still;
With the ghost of a car, on the shortcut
Down the side of Birdlip Hill.
My travelling days are now long gone,
But my family still recall,
That a ship came back from Guernsey
With contraband alcohol
I don't know how they'll judge me,
When my final furlong's run
But an echoing stranger’s voice talks
Of a gentle Gentleman.
I was a handsome charmer, now
I've supped time's cruel pill.
But that glint in my eye, as you pass me by
Is shining from me still.
I learned it from my father,
Snooker was my game
Now friends have all gone home
I’m tired; I've played my final frame.
I'm on my way to luncheon.
A familiar smell wafts by,
The scent of overcooked
Roast beef, the tang of apple pie.
I'm on my way to luncheon,
I drop my frame and fall.
I hear the siren whisper
Of a distant dancer's call.
I'll leave you all in peace now,
But I don't want any tears,
And I don't want any fuss now,
When you toast my passing years.
Mar 7, 2022
Mar 7, 2022 at 2:34 PM UTC
The young mother wept
a river to the sea
and there she found her true love
the father of her child
floating in the surf
he hadn't made it off the beach
Jun 30, 2015
Jun 30, 2015 at 1:01 PM UTC