"bivalve" poems - Hello Poetry

In 1973, My father used a favorite shucking knife, Its short blade loose in the wooden shaft, To pry open rocklike oysters. He passed them to us, his heirs To the iced tea spoons, the fondue *** The escargot shells, the silver martini shaker, And we would first check them for pearls And then hold them, like religion, Above our mouths, Tip our heads back, And let them slide over our tongues. Yesterday, at Little Pond, As March thawed the glassthin ice, I startled at the cracking, Welcomed the blade, sang the amen.

0

Aug 18, 2010

Aug 18, 2010 at 3:53 PM UTC

l-a-rice

Bivalve

In 1973, My father used a favorite shucking knife, Its short blade loose in the wooden shaft, To pry open rocklike oysters. He passed them to us, his heirs To the iced tea spoons, the fondue *** The escargot shells, the silver martini shaker, And we would first check them for pearls And then hold them, like religion, Above our mouths, Tip our heads back, And let them slide over our tongues. Yesterday, at Little Pond, As March thawed the glassthin ice, I startled at the cracking, Welcomed the blade, sang the amen.

16

The soft breeze shifts bringing the scent of brackish water to quavering nostrils. Salt, oyster shells, and the wonderful smells where three waters of disparity come together. Inlet, bay, and waterway push and pull like struggling personas. Strong fragrances of salt, fish, black sandy mud with tiny bits of shells, burnt diesel, and syrupy brown tannin from the trees. Large patches of reeds built up on mounds of mud and oyster shells, held in place by marsh grass and sea oats. The oysters in their beds spit little streams as you pass by, beckoning, come closer. The little bearded bivalve’s mouths gaping to say we will shred your flesh if you give us a chance, wooing…step closer in the slippery slimy mud. Small ***** sit by their holes in the black goo. The fiddlers march as though carrying a violin, their songs are clicking all the same pitch with no discernible harmony. They roll out tiny ***** as expert excavators leaving hole for escape from man and fowl. The little birds, sandpipers scurry around- their skinny twig like legs moving faster than the eye can follow, putting one in front of the other, always moving forward never backing up making quick tight turns running from the water then chasing the bits of food as the foamy crooked line of surf pulls away. Pausing to pick up a tiny speck of food too small to notice, her bony toes mark the mud writing in a cuneiform like language, probably a dead tongue not spoken for millennia. Beautiful shapes pointing, spelling out instruction and direction. Lasting only seconds until the wind and water wipe the earthen canvas clean. A new page is opened tempting and luring the small writer with tidbits of food, enticing her to write line after line of an ongoing novel that will never be finished.

0

Feb 17, 2014

Feb 17, 2014 at 9:22 PM UTC

rusty-shuping

Sand Piper

The soft breeze shifts bringing the scent of brackish water to quavering nostrils. Salt, oyster shells, and the wonderful smells where three waters of disparity come together. Inlet, bay, and waterway push and pull like struggling personas. Strong fragrances of salt, fish, black sandy mud with tiny bits of shells, burnt diesel, and syrupy brown tannin from the trees. Large patches of reeds built up on mounds of mud and oyster shells, held in place by marsh grass and sea oats. The oysters in their beds spit little streams as you pass by, beckoning, come closer. The little bearded bivalve’s mouths gaping to say we will shred your flesh if you give us a chance, wooing…step closer in the slippery slimy mud. Small ***** sit by their holes in the black goo. The fiddlers march as though carrying a violin, their songs are clicking all the same pitch with no discernible harmony. They roll out tiny ***** as expert excavators leaving hole for escape from man and fowl. The little birds, sandpipers scurry around- their skinny twig like legs moving faster than the eye can follow, putting one in front of the other, always moving forward never backing up making quick tight turns running from the water then chasing the bits of food as the foamy crooked line of surf pulls away. Pausing to pick up a tiny speck of food too small to notice, her bony toes mark the mud writing in a cuneiform like language, probably a dead tongue not spoken for millennia. Beautiful shapes pointing, spelling out instruction and direction. Lasting only seconds until the wind and water wipe the earthen canvas clean. A new page is opened tempting and luring the small writer with tidbits of food, enticing her to write line after line of an ongoing novel that will never be finished.

8

how sweet the dark which hides me; the brine that filters through; the softness of the sand. I cling - am singing - bivalve songs my gills alight with blood. hanging by a byssal thread in wait, for what? indeed. nutrition filters through my shell - the tastes of distant loves - I hunker down, secreting possibilities that I can not see, of distant dreams. the universe within my nerves expands, too vast to be contained. it explodes beyond myself; no mantle can frame it. it flows from me - this longing. a remembrance of moments, of chemicals in current. every tear a life unlived. each drop a thought potential. the tides within establish norms which permeate - instigate - the turnings of this realm, bringing forth the hardened form of signals I've rebound: "I'm here! Hello?" "Me too, me too!" we echo through the seas, anticipating textures on the tides. our swirling minds reflect within, entombing us with times. we live inside our memories. no past, no future, it all is now, now, and now, and all around: it's all we see. and then... we live again, mirrored by the things we've grown around us. from birth. through life. we scrape, then die again, again. all at once and forever, we thrive and fall, encapsulated in our hemispheres which turn and twist and spin. a spiral forms; projects the pattern of our dreams without. each sensation painted in the layers we wear until it shines. and see how it shines! the pales and pinks and silvers shift, revolve within themselves to show our deepest fears our brightest joys as rainbows, smooth and silken. if they could only know the truth: that our beauty's accidental; coincidental. that we would shed our skins to swim, settle quick into the plains aside our lovers sending signals with the swell. but now, we wait. for what? indeed. blind, deaf, locked away. here, at the bottom of the world I drift again through images of being. I can not say which have gone, which have not yet come. another turn in the spiral is cast - another layer hardens - and I remain, clench my shell and think: how sweet the dark.

0

Aug 19, 2024

Aug 19, 2024 at 7:53 PM UTC

kdanielsauthor

Mother of Pearl

how sweet the dark which hides me; the brine that filters through; the softness of the sand. I cling - am singing - bivalve songs my gills alight with blood. hanging by a byssal thread in wait, for what? indeed. nutrition filters through my shell - the tastes of distant loves - I hunker down, secreting possibilities that I can not see, of distant dreams. the universe within my nerves expands, too vast to be contained. it explodes beyond myself; no mantle can frame it. it flows from me - this longing. a remembrance of moments, of chemicals in current. every tear a life unlived. each drop a thought potential. the tides within establish norms which permeate - instigate - the turnings of this realm, bringing forth the hardened form of signals I've rebound: "I'm here! Hello?" "Me too, me too!" we echo through the seas, anticipating textures on the tides. our swirling minds reflect within, entombing us with times. we live inside our memories. no past, no future, it all is now, now, and now, and all around: it's all we see. and then... we live again, mirrored by the things we've grown around us. from birth. through life. we scrape, then die again, again. all at once and forever, we thrive and fall, encapsulated in our hemispheres which turn and twist and spin. a spiral forms; projects the pattern of our dreams without. each sensation painted in the layers we wear until it shines. and see how it shines! the pales and pinks and silvers shift, revolve within themselves to show our deepest fears our brightest joys as rainbows, smooth and silken. if they could only know the truth: that our beauty's accidental; coincidental. that we would shed our skins to swim, settle quick into the plains aside our lovers sending signals with the swell. but now, we wait. for what? indeed. blind, deaf, locked away. here, at the bottom of the world I drift again through images of being. I can not say which have gone, which have not yet come. another turn in the spiral is cast - another layer hardens - and I remain, clench my shell and think: how sweet the dark.

71

Finally, I have an enemy! No longer fraught for naught; A nemesis! A right to fight! **** you Clam-man! You bivalve bloviator! Super Slug to the rescue! Cape, cup, spandex on! Superslime secreted! Slugman off! Faster than a seasonal change… More powerful then the breath of breeze… Able to traverse 100 yards in as many days! Super powers: Eye stalks pivot independently *** changes not infrequently Just you wait, Clam-man And wait! And wait!

0

Jan 25, 2018

Jan 25, 2018 at 10:36 PM UTC

james-floss

BANANANANA

Finally, I have an enemy! No longer fraught for naught; A nemesis! A right to fight! **** you Clam-man! You bivalve bloviator! Super Slug to the rescue! Cape, cup, spandex on! Superslime secreted! Slugman off! Faster than a seasonal change… More powerful then the breath of breeze… Able to traverse 100 yards in as many days! Super powers: Eye stalks pivot independently *** changes not infrequently Just you wait, Clam-man And wait! And wait!

18