"breakwater" poems
We walk along the beach at night,
Arms entwined and hearts entwined,
Waves lapping 'gainst our feet,
Pebbles scurrying like sand ***** 'twixt our toes.
Talking about ***** we are both
A little tickly in the naughty bits department,
As the gentle summer breeze
Wafts through our matted ***** hairs.
Just a brief hour or two ago,
We were strangers at the Pier disco,
And now our histories are to be
Inextricably linked by fate.
I do not know that, in a month or so,
I shall need to send you
A little yellow contact slip
From the Margate Hospital special clinic
Informing that you have been exposed to
A most unpleasant social disease
Which, with a bit of rotten luck,
Could easily rot your insides.
But, for now, our thoughts are far away
As we laugh and joke together
In our new found post-coital,
Youthful lovers' camaraderie,
Not wanting to speak too loudly or disturb
The copulating pair by the nearby breakwater
(Not that they'd be put off by a thunderclap
Seeing as how he's on the short strokes by now).
Jan 7, 2015
Jan 7, 2015 at 12:19 PM UTC
(Inspired by 'Indigo Night' by Thomas W Case)
A thousand thousand stars pierce the indigo night,
but no moon mars the canvas, or lightens velvet strokes.
Half-hearted waves slap at shoreline rocks, like tepid applause.
If the sky is darkest blue, the ocean is a still-darker green.
The harbor suggests a freedom, outside the breakwater
as if the choppy ocean were a highway to the sky.
Tomorrow's deadlines fade, in the face of infinities.
The harbor is quiet, like a restless animal that's sleeping.
No skiffs tack for the harbor's mouth, no fishermen juggle lines.
The sea is a jagged, broken and twinkling mirror for the stars.
A thousand thousand dreams will be launched, this deep indigo tonight,
some will store, in memory's hold, others will be lost, like shipwrecks.
No line divides where sky and water fold, where endless deeps meet.
Time's arrow seems stilled by the cold and the gentle darkness.
But dawn will come, soon enough, and with that blush, cares ignite,
duties' call, and the stars will hide their light in greater glares.
For now, we'll walk the shore-line, our small voices like seagull calls,
enjoying celestial light, and the indigo night, out beyond all earthly cares.
Feb 4, 2024
Feb 4, 2024 at 11:19 PM UTC
i went to the sea shore.on this cold winter eve
i stand with feet in cold cold
water
trouser legs rolled up to my knees
body wrapped in a chunky
hoodie
curly hair, streaming in the bitter wind.
in my hand, a pebble
in my mind, your name
i stand thinking, crying
as the wave pound in and
the wind takes my breath
i sigh and throw the pebble
as far into the breakwater
as i can..
in letting you go... i can leave
May 8, 2014
May 8, 2014 at 5:59 AM UTC
the radio static of a blank station
the moment raindrops hit surfaces
the gliding of wooden sliding doors
the tick-tock of the clock on the wall
the sounds of leaves flying in the wind
the period of time a guitar is being tuned
the mellow piano scale of moonlight sonata
the echoes of footsteps in an empty hallway
the breathing of a newborn and a dying man
the far-off engine roars of a car on a highway
the supersonics of an airplane flying overhead
the crashing of tidal waves upon the breakwater
the ****** of chimes or frozen icicles on a cold day
the scrape of my pencil on paper as i draw and write
the scratchy noise after a vinyl record finishes to play
the ruffle of bedsheets when someone is restless in bed
the bristle of hair when mothers tousle their children's hair
his voice
Mar 21, 2017
Mar 21, 2017 at 8:56 PM UTC
On the breakwater in the summer dark, a man and a
girl are sitting,
She across his knee and they are looking face into face
Talking to each other without words, singing rythms in
silence to each other.
A funnel of white ranges the blue dusk from an out-
going boat,
Playing its searchlight, puzzled, abrupt, over a streak of
green,
And two on the breakwater keep their silence, she on his
knee.
1.3k
I watch the harbor through the falling snow
the sky and sea form one vast, gray tableau
the sun is nothing but a weak, background glow
the scene draws me, as if hypnotically.
Five mile’s lighthouse warnings go unvoiced
its strobes not lashing out, so what’s its point
it stands majestically but disappoints
replaced electronically
A tiny lobster boat makes its landward way
towards the inlet from the wider channel bay
a powdery blizzard is underway
which melts into the mirror sea.
Ospreys still hunt round the lobsterman's pride
snowflakes stain them as they soar and glide
other seabirds huddle side by side
shivering and crowing lividly.
Through the narrows the lonely boat steams
past icy Luddington Rock and East Breakwater's breech
its berths and moorings, within minutes reach
and sadly, it’s time for me to leave.
.
.
Songs for this:
Far Far Away (Charles Tone Mix) [feat. Brenda Boykin] by Tape Five
Nobody by Mitski
Feb 15, 2025
Feb 15, 2025 at 1:42 PM UTC
She draws up the tide
within me
Laden with debris and stone
Barreling green and white,
It heaves against
the inside of my chest.
In time the breakwater weakens
And the storm flows outward from me.
Nov 18, 2014
Nov 18, 2014 at 7:23 PM UTC
Little one, you have been buzzing in the books,
Flittering in the newspapers and drinking beer with
lawyers
And amid the educated men of the clubs you have been
getting an earful of speech from trained tongues.
Take an earful from me once, go with me on a hike
Along sand stretches on the great inland sea here
And while the eastern breeze blows on us and the
restless surge
Of the lake waves on the breakwater breaks with an ever
fresh monotone,
Let us ask ourselves: What is truth? what do you or I
know?
How much do the wisest of the world's men know about
where the massed human procession is going?
You have heard the mob laughed at?
I ask you: Is not the mob rough as the mountains are
rough?
And all things human rise from the mob and relapse and
rise again as rain to the sea.
1.1k
The sound reaching out to me from the sea
Is not what I desire
Or even want to hear
But still it reaches out to me
Through the open window
Of the high rise building, where I am enclosed in
And trying to live and close
But still the Window remains
A window out to the sea
That I can not close.
Even if I try hard or desire harder
As
The window glass that I broke
The other night
In frenzy of what remains of my desires
Unbroken, unfulfilled.
In the stupor of alcohol induced passion
And the call of the stormy night
The window remains just a window
Nothing more and a lot less
Glassless, desire less and view less
To the open world.
Still I didn't hear the cry
Or the sound of waves
Pounding on the beach, few hundred yards away
Still I let my heart break into pieces
On the breakwater
That walks out
Few hundred yards deeper into the deep sea
And I see
The waves breaking against it
A break out from the prisons of earth
Out to the sea
Try as hard as waves might
Could not stop breakwater from moving in depth
And deeper still
Then Why still
All the time the Sea calls me?
Is it free from stopping, bonding and holding
The Breakwater free from breaking me?
Does it want me to come
Merge in her depths
Just like the path that sinks in her
After few meters of walking along, with me.
Or is it just a sign - an omen
Of my solitude
All alone
Like the sea
Even though Rivers, clouds and the horizon
Sink into her depths and be within.
Why? Why?
She is not with me, now
When she was with me
Long lives ago
("Long time" if you will!)
And she is not coming back to sink
Into my depths of desires, needs
Or in my intense pleasure
Or, my darling,
My watery grave with me.
_______________
Sep 5, 2010
Sep 5, 2010 at 9:54 AM UTC
my feelings overflow
with nowhere to go
waves smashing against the breakwater
spraying sea foam
a cacophony no one can hear but me
because it's roaring
inside my head
Jan 2, 2015
Jan 2, 2015 at 11:07 PM UTC
From the calm to the rough, the going was tough
you wondered if you were made of the right stuff
there was a foot on the porthole so it stayed
the sea pulsed by, the colour of frothy jade
'Don't you drop ash on the sail,' the captain said
it will shred in the wind and we'll all be dead'
no sooner that we were out, we had returned
extinguished the *** before the sail burned
My world had been fourteen feet, I'm now discrete:
about how bad things can be to everyone I meet
about the images that came before me
my lone battle with the tempestuos sea
It was nothing but to me everything
amazing the peace calm water could bring
May 7, 2016
May 7, 2016 at 3:47 PM UTC
I am not meant to be, where I yam, what I yam
Unless life like spinach, is meant to be canned,
A failure by all reports, I have no retort,
Not one, n o response, my previous successes
lead me to believe, that "what have you done
lately" does not deceive, fills the beast, technology,
That leads me to my breaking point,
Rogue wave, out of the deep blue see,
If I were a martyr, that might be true,
But I am nothing more, than a man
with a love for words and I play with
sounds, really adore what they do;
with my mind,
with my heart,
preventing stagnation,
of my imagination.
Ah, the breaking point
not the tip of a coast,
where land ends,
and bends open water
to new possibilities.
We all have at least one
In our life, in our career, in our day
Weakness, faint of heart,... No Way,
Even the oceans, and their waves,
As those waves come to shore,
On breakwater's and beaches
Break! but do not dull the ocean's roar.
Feb 23, 2015
Feb 23, 2015 at 12:29 AM UTC
We bring around little worlds
searching
colliding
hoping that someone
will share the same skies
in our little worlds
It doesn't hurt that much.
We carry our little worlds
against the great big one outside
and when we find
that
this big world is both more and less beautiful
than ours
reality hits us
You'll see it if you know where to look.
We cover our little worlds
our faces smiling
a facade
a breakwater
against the waves
of which
some call fate
some call living
It's okay. Even when it's not.
We hide within our little worlds
a part of us
to others unknown
our little paradise
of sands from eternal shores
in it we find peace in chaos
without we find chaos, even in peace
What we don't know can't hurt us.
We live in our little worlds
against the cruelties
of reality
of responsibility
of expectations
and of disappointments
we closed it too slowly
it has seeped in somehow
Sshhh.
And then I find
we are our little worlds
whether darkness
or in light.
Jan 31, 2015
Jan 31, 2015 at 8:34 AM UTC
This is the light of the mind
Mystery Behind a ****** veil
The beauty of the moon
Where her face walks in its own right
Breathe in the enormity of the clouds
Gliding like pure cotton,
The gray sky becomes one with the soul
The bride is waiting for words to come calling
The stillness of thin air
Unlocked images beyond the breakwater
Remembering the unsolved labyrinth
As the cliff whistle to the stool pigeons
Bringing good news to the earthen womb,
Fighting the courage of shutting up
Forcing myself to unload my senses
Unselfish thoughts of a blue grievance
Between the sun and the clouds,
The outrage of the pierce Violet,
A cold glass of water glances at a beautiful pearl
Stashing the glamour of an oceanic mirage
A love affair chasing you through twilight
An enormous trill for the unknown
Driving you closer to a hole beneath
A disturbance of mirrors
Finally straight from the heart
I felt a silent outcry
Waiting for a shatterproof soul
Against the natural odor of true love
Rony Joseph all rights reserved 2010
Jul 26, 2010
Jul 26, 2010 at 4:38 PM UTC
air pours alive in stringencies,
fall of tor and expanse.
mazy-eyed,
casts a syncopated hook
amongst tulips beheaded
by the toppling of a leaf
bracing for departures,
something else holds back,
furrow—
the thatched morning's serious mien,
the arrow, whirling in trajectories
one with the dive into red cauldron
of infinite scar of water,
Śiva, sighted footfall of the condor's
verdigris, this simple rustle
of your scourge-gowns
insists cadence of flutings;
i am one with beginnings.
swarming poultice of the inflamed grass,
obscene lines of shore in twilight
unfazed virulence spreads
like an epidemic of kisses against the
pulsing loam, cries like breakwater
lorn the fault of men, death at one's
trembling hand — sound the tribulation
of slender bells to a gather of pallors.
it is a stopping in-placeness
like crests of ******* a beautiful woman,
shiftless weight of light on glazed collarbone, Śiva, the enigmatical paradox
beleaguers a concatenation of
unloose chandeliers of appurtenances,
the unblinking aperture, widening in sky.
Nov 30, 2015
Nov 30, 2015 at 12:22 AM UTC
Bashing
Crashing
Smashing
Clotted-cream tongues
Lashing
Cathedral hulls
October’s chop
Out to get
Lifejacketless him
Cityboy him
Neither’d gone beyond
His breezy smiled
Awrigh’ my lover
Up to their eyeballs they’d got now
No chance now to break
The awkward ice
Outside the breakwater
Never ought’er
Hunker down
Turkeyland yelled
Ride the swell
Cradle orphaned beef
And if you don’t
Incubate the rough
Earthed nests of wine-drowned potato
And proper job swede
And if you don’t
You won’t make it
*
Oggies
Never take’em to sea
St Anthony’d decreed
But Master Herd, he hadn’t heard
And he’s too emmet to question.
Jun 9, 2021
Jun 9, 2021 at 5:33 PM UTC
an ant fell in between the page
of the book,
even its own silence it does not understand.
from where to climb it does not know,
all steps carve discourse;
staggering in its littleness, its fragile
mind takes on the mystery of star
and its delicate body swells in the sheen
of words.
as in the night, it trails the moon's slender stem that transfixes
a constellation's ephemerality:
a soldier tumbled over, undulant,
amazed in betweenness of light
and dark when god himself dies
before his fall was born,
o trencherman, deep in the peril
of a word's closing, fusion of
knowledge's breakwater and permutations of bluntness,
the unwelcoming abyss is your kingdom,
unwillingly enduring the taut blow
without purpose — when the book is shut, to what dark do you imagine your
eyes? to what enigma does your senses
wake up to? and to what erudition does
your silence keep flowering?
an ant fell into the book, and in its turning page, it rides each changing wave like
the white in its pale, blue horse,
arriving at different shores, yet all the same, a notable fate: stilled and dizzy
washed and unmoving in the abject night.
Dec 15, 2015
Dec 15, 2015 at 4:55 AM UTC
In the dream (or perhaps it is forseeing) it is cold,
The air carries whispers of ice
That cut through the warmth of my skin
Like knives,
The quay is deserted,
Quiet aside from the occasional
Breeze induced moan from
A beer bottle tossed casually away
To lie discarded and thereby
A bit like me,
As I single up the mooring lines
Of the boat below me its movement
Becomes greater,
As if shunning the cold stillness
Of the land,
And seeing this I feel kinship
With the waking hull,
And a sense of shared impending journey
To the grey seas
Beyond the harbour wall,
As I work the halyards and
Aged sails creak up the mast
The breeze becomes more evident
In the brisk flapping of canvas,
Rime frost on the gunwhales gives way
To dark hand prints as I steady myself
Moving forward and aft,
Steadily prepping for departure
In a routine well known
Across decades,
Finally all is ready,
The wind picks up,
Sundering the clouds to reveal
A clear black sky studded in diamonds,
The navigation lights
From far galaxies come to light my way
As the backed foresail
Pushes the bows away,
Then with a creak the boom quells
The flapping main,
Approaching the harbour mouth
The wind rises further and a few
Long lazy yet driven rollers
Make their presence felt,
The heel increases as the bow tastes freedom,
Nav lights on the breakwater are
Unnaturally bright but no one sees
Nor waves goodbye,
Nor ever will again for tonight
I that was James just crossed the bar
Feb 5, 2021
Feb 5, 2021 at 3:51 PM UTC
I take this mangled body of iron,
its acoustic of all malleability.
the flattened world outside
sings something so slender, a structure
of a rose.
as long as there is the fierceness of these words,
they will leap forth, a defenseless vault,
and cry a breakwater of rivers.
these words like caged birds peering out
into the ferruginous world consummated
by the oldest of thrills crumpled anew – fledgling beats
of dance, this hysterical morning that slinks to a clasp
of slipshod music.
when it is time for all of Earth to slumber,
I am the drapery and all unknowing eyes,
my children.
Dec 12, 2015
Dec 12, 2015 at 3:46 AM UTC
The giants know it is not the journey they make but
the first step on the long road
that they take to immortality which puts them
on the pages of history under the microscopic lens
of humanity.
The giants may slip and trip over giants who have fallen before but
some rise with their eyes set on the keys of infinity,unlocking the lighthouse to light up the pathways for us all to be
giants.
We break the mould and shoulder responsibility,it's not easy to be
a giant,simpler to be a small man,tall men are targets for the ****** scope,the aim of dreams which lead the refugees that hope for new technologies to ease their burdens.
The giants are among us,the humble ones,ones that tumble,crumble,crumple and yet unravel mystery,unlock misery
to free the sad and the sick,pick a person any person and that person could be the giant,
see
it's not really how tall you stand but how you understand and where the first step is and who gives you the helping hand,
we all have within us the grasp of the genius
we are all
potential
giants.
Jun 21, 2014
Jun 21, 2014 at 10:35 PM UTC
carnivorous portraiture
symbol of power
like waves crashing over the breakwater
or the moment in which dinner-table and silverware are upended
a very nice rug to cover a very deep hole
inside that hole;
look inside the darkest recesses
inside the vault of stolid self-irreverence
underground railroad adorned with tableaus for selves no longer embodied
hang yourself
be your own ideal hang man
be your own ideal hang man's own ideal hang man
be your own ideal hang man's own ideal hang man's own ideal hang man
parasuicidal ego-death impotentiate
look into that hole
do not step on the rug
Jan 30, 2016
Jan 30, 2016 at 2:11 AM UTC
Down by the rough granite quay
where the ships and the sailors
stroll in from the sea
She'll be waiting for me.
I know it is time to go
to meet her
and greet her like an old friend.
I suppose at the end we all become
the knot that is untied.
Success is knowing we tried
we gave it our best
and the rest becomes the history
of you and me.
She waits by the quay so silently
where time does not exist for her
she shares tea with eternity.
She sees
me
and the wave she gives washes over me.
By the sea is where we all will be
one day.
Eventually we'll return on another tide
to take another side
and live another day.
Today she will have her way
and I will leave with her
leave all my cares behind
I bind myself
to
this.
Apr 13, 2013
Apr 13, 2013 at 5:29 AM UTC
The gulls give their cry, high over the beach,
As they scramble for titbits within their reach,
Scavenging around, for whatever they can,
And fine, tasty morsels cast aside by man.
Junk food wrappers and ice cream tubs,
Empty beer glasses from nearby pubs,
BBQ burners, dumped in the breakwater,
Put it in the trash fool, you know you oughta!
Waste, refuse, ******* trash,
BBQ leftovers, hot powdery ash,
A throw away society, so clearly we are,
With implications so deadly, both near and far.
The world on our doorstep, so varied and rich,
From lakes, rivers and streams, or even a ditch,
Fish, dolphins and porpoise, all live in our seas,
At the mercy of litter, cast adrift on the breeze.
Floating up on the surface, carrier bag jellyfish,
Eaten by dolphins, disappearing with a swish,
Pop cans a plenty lie strewn in the sand,
Lying in wait for a child's playful hand.
The litter we dump on those hot sunny days,
Takes it's toll on our wildlife in a number of ways,
Mistaken for food, strangled by waste,
By the trash we discard as we leave in such haste.
Picnics we carry for miles in the car,
But that trip to the bin seems a journey too far,
Such disregard for our wildlife, just doesn't seem right,
Just another trademark of the human parasite.
So when next on the beach, having fun in the sun,
Pick up all your litter, you could be the odd one,
Or all the dolphins and fish, and the creatures that slither,
Could sadly become just the ghosts in the river.
Cinco Espiritus Creation
2017
Jul 17, 2017
Jul 17, 2017 at 5:00 AM UTC
a breakwater must be in everyone's life
while fleeing from the raging waves
a port in a storm
relaxes you
Nov 6, 2017
Nov 6, 2017 at 3:14 AM UTC