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CK Baker Nov 2017
mirrored fly-glass
and polished chrome
are tinted
in the blood orange dawn
running dogs of lummi
hush quiet
on this celestial
summer morn

clubman bars
and tan saddles
strapped to
the lowered hind
skull caps
and fitted chaps
for the open flow
and rich peripheral scenes

concessions at the peace arch
(from the blue-coated fuzz)
black *****
and maples
cake the bow hill
and chuckanut

choppers launch
at edison
(with their metal fleck
and tuft)
a half moon rises
on the concho
and interstellar cross

cinnamon gulls
and ravens
scour the netted docks
warlock driftwood
and row homes
spot the winding
coastal roads

rumbling sounds
at the packer slew;
the redolence
of briny bay
alive
on the overlook
at fairhaven
Spent a couple days in late September on a motorcycle trip with my brother...weaving through the small towns and villages of the Pacific Northwest.  Magnificent!
CK Baker Mar 2017
there’s a barnacle scar
deeply ingrained
on the basalt stack
at mark thirty two
whispering summer winds
scented oil
cotton and roe
drift
as waves brush
and shape
the sandstone shore

the briny air
and lost erratic
set a tone to this
pollyanna portrait
it's andrews undulations
and gifted benches
its concessions
and traces of the barry burn
its sculpted driftwood
and sanko lines
make this picture
almost perfect

children play
as venom spews
from the caterwaul pair
those odd looking mates
casting smiles
with arrested despair
settling shots
swiping bugs
dipping and darting
as photo men
and muscles
and long neck seabirds
make their turn

the hunched hoody
and his sorted sidekick
get their fill
(of moss and rubble ~ chubby and kelp)
nice to meet your acquaintance
the pho man would say
an odd drop
and ironic turn
from those horrific corners
of timeless desperation
down by cannon bridge

harbor seals
and carriage horse
are fronted by
raven shade
jolly tides pause
in quiet bays
(with curious looters
and *** pickers)
sand merchants
and field totems
all streamed by the light

cirrus strands
blanket the
outer edge
hovering craft
and shimmering willows
bolt the evening frame
blood orange
and tethered
with a filtered glare
bottle-nose dolphins
and seabirds
(and shifting tides)
are all settling in
for the long night stay
Jesse stillwater Nov 2018
Flaming bridges up in smoke—
ashes scattered in the wind
Requiem to passing yesterdays;
vestige of all that’s lost —
bestrewn in prevailing currents
amongst the drifting autumn leaves

No smoke on rising waters
— lingers between
growing distant shores
Untamed rivers rising
rinse away
the taste of sparks
spake from silent tongues

Portaging all that once was
with all that could never remain, 
back to the briny deep 
An uncontainable
rivers pilgrimage —
entombing reverently
ancient fractals of being

Sowing feral rivers' ashes —
sacrificial scatterings of destiny
washed afar unto the flotsam
on shoreless stormy  seas


Jesse Stillwater
November 2018

Mused by a poem by melissa rose

"Spreading my ashes"
https://hellopoetry.com/poem/2808566/spreading-my-ashes/
Vicki Kralapp Aug 2018
Within a world of azure blue,
the mantas glide with angel wings,
and fly on winds of ocean waves,
inside their realm of mystery.

Like ancient beings from the deep,
they flash and shimmer in our light,
with other-worldly mammoth forms;
cephalic fins and flattened frames.

These gentle giants of the night,
draw fishes from the briny deep,
their vivid forms flash to and fro,
feed on the banquet of the sea.

They dance balletic in our lights;
exquisite, rings and summersaults,
with bubbles lit to guide their path,
they glide just past our mortal reach.

These stunning marvels of the deep,
are but a finite sampling,
of what our planet offers up,
far past our wild imaginings.
All poems are copy written and soul property of Vicki Kralapp.
Natalie Sep 2018
I have fashioned out my worry doll of you,
your hair and eyes richer, sweeter
than the darkest honey.
Now you are borne from my own hand,
you cannot leave me.

I’ve sewn in a heart to keep you warm,—
amber eyes to charm me—
moulded lips from red Edam wax
and pressed them into your cloth cheek.
They do not stay. At night,
my teardrops stain your linen dress
a briny, bitter shade.
The lines I've painted on you bleed and run.

I love you, all the same.
Marla Toledez Sep 2018
Eyes having opened,
They were met by an infinite blue.
Deeply rich and sapphire-esque  in tone,
The sea rushed into the mouth that was held agape
By both marvel and fear.
At first instinct was the will to resist,
But then came the strange comfort of allowing the passionate Blood that once boiled
Chill itself to a painfully distant frost.
It was ecstasy and torture coexisting within
A circular harmony of sensation.

This order of solace was short lived.

With a shimmer,
The once reserved and vibrant sea of blue transformed
Into an abyss of clarity.
The briny and familiar taste shifted in nature to something other. Something potent, something repulsive, something sinister.
At once,
The calm oasis turned into a scathing ****.
His inferno incarnate.
A body that at past times swam with jubilance
Now sank to the fiery depths,
Having already lost both the spirit and the ability to fight.
Crisped,
The corpse felt an enormous pain.
But the mind felt none for there was none to speak of.
Vicki Kralapp Oct 2018
From my earliest remembrance,
to this hour I have maintained,
I've never been contented
with a life of the mundane.

I’ve sought to spend each day in life
in search of curious things,
like art and education,
and the richness that they bring.

I hope to write more poetry
and share my verse in print,
and with my use of written word,
paint art with shades and tints.

I’ve been to many distant lands,
but yet my heart implores,
I seek out farther mysteries,
our planet has in store.

But now my body slows me down,
like most as we grow old,
and though I try, oft I fall short,
of plans I can control.

So, to keep myself companion,
while I will myself to heal,
I’ve formed all my ambitions,
which one day I plan to reach.

Since I was just a little child
I dreamt of life abroad,
in Kenya with the Maasai tribe,
I’ve always been enthralled.

I've fancied a safari,
where the famous five are found,
a land where great giraffes stand tall,
against the setting sun.

But, it is the Land Down Under,
that is first among my plans,
and one day soon I’ll see the coast,
of Sydney once again.

My friends will come to greet me,
though a lifetime I’ve been gone,
and united we’ll share memories,
for the present and beyond.

I’ll go for walks amidst the bush,
and hear the magpie’s tunes,
I’ll stroll beside the ghostly gums;
with nature grow attuned.

I’ll tour along the Southern Coast,
drive past Apostles tall,
and see the sites of Melbourne fair,
with all its cultured draw.

Then off to Kiwi’s northern isle,
with nature’s beauty rare,
fulfilling dreams so long desired,
to glimpse the Mauri’s there.

Waitomo, with its glow worm caves,
and Rotorua’s pools,
with geysers, Eco thermal parks,
and Bay of Islands too.

As I make my way back to the states,
I’ll stop along the way,
to visit Fiji’s turquoise coast,
and snorkel time away.

I’ll learn about the culture,
and partake of Fiji’s fare,
and when I go, I hope to leave,
a part of my heart there.

The coast of California,
on my list of sites to see;
from the Wharf in San Francisco,
to the vineyards by the sea.

I dream of redwoods sure and tall:
the parks and smell of pines,
and stand amid the ancient firs,
lest they pass for all of time.

I plan to visit Florence,
where master artists roamed;
the heart of Tuscan Renaissance,
where da Vinci made his home.

I hope to cruise Amalfi’s coast,
with others at the helm,
to view the brilliance of the sights,
and others in the realm.

While in the South of Italy,
I’ll cross the briny foam,
and walk the hills in Athens,
where ancient Grecians roamed.

I dream of Amazonia,
where man has not destroyed,
and natives live within the wild,
with harmony employed.

The last one on my bucket list,
is one I’d left undone,
when first I made my maiden trip,
and I was twenty-one.

I’d hoped to see the Emerald Isle,
and England’s castles old,
Duke’s palaces and British Tate,
are marvels to behold.

I’ll drive the ring of Kerry,
and the magic Isle of Skye,
to see its Fairy Pools of hues,
and Highland’s brilliance sights.

The lush green grass of Glen Coe,
the Scottish hills await,
would be a lifelong dream fulfilled
when all my trials abate.

With this, my final dream fulfilled,
I see my list complete,
full circle with this Commonwealth,
my restless feet at peace.

But ‘til that time when I am healed,
and I can travel far,
I’ll dream of lands beyond my reach,
and one day touch the stars.
All poems are copy written and soul property of Vicki Kralapp.
bulletcookie Oct 2018
Was it lens of surface tension
or a briny ***** in apprehension?
Was she, She, or was she it
folly formed into its fit!

Now this heart longs for her shapes
drawn to tears and love agape.
Nature woos and sets adrift
those who follow for that kiss.

-cec
"athome, washington" photo35
(Descendant of the Eight Small Furies)

Cold frigged and wet but not icy and not yet. Two laborers at docks
find camaraderie in talks, tho’ their neighbors bustle by as they unload shipping stocks,  

For the kinsfolk miss a nothing a light mist of breath when huffing.  
The women like to pout as the crassy men do shout, shine on awhile whistling, Inn-keepers at shops coo their bristling and Old Wicca ones seen hissing from low, low talk in whisperings,

Although the morning bright the seas are high and not retreating, weather cool and fleeting, the peoples sounds a blend of bleating, as wily sheep would gather to speak about a matter for it is not the people’s spoke of that draws faint sorts of blather.

On this day...rains are much to rather, feigning raspy talons cloaked in chatter and from stores to shores to boat, seas, lakes, lochs, bridges over moat, not as to say they gloat, or ramble to invoke which fear of and from it stoke the gossip on one surly bloke…

For on this day everyone is talking in this seaside town in Eire. A hero undone by gossip but none can be called a liar. For about whom and what of -a man of such great fire.

Celebrity renown, born and raised but not settled down. Within its boundaries a-proper but of such character to copper, to change tasty meat to fat and bone, awe in disposition down to tone, mind boggling this gent whose life god gave as a gift of own.

In a perplexity of fright, brought tragedy each night and none could get away, from the obvious decay, due brutal awful fray, to make a beast from a shining dove, what the **** was God thinking of?

The crisper ears do so hear though not quite enough to whet, the imaginings to happenings they speak about just yet.  So hastily move spies, as I tell you of the sighs, the indignity and pride, swallowed with a town’s growing angry tide,

Upon this night so they see a man, creep who once the pride of Dan, loved more above all here in Tan, his birthplace this old briny-land but lately fondness on the wan, oh here he comes to close in again, to wane and wax vaudevillian, end up by dark a plain villain, as his face turns a shade of vermilion, electric ghost of Kirlian, eclectic host of deviling and calculated mind disheveling,

Pumped of mead or whiskey arguments are risky. Against his manner and girth, intoxicated nature -or mental worth. Sheer size attests his power, muck and mirth to fallen valor, the change is said to wow us, proven brute against all prowess, as such preferred and fight and such to nightly fright,

Béarthr is this man of once, of promises found to be just fronts, hanging around a town's high perch…though seen at the bar as sulk and lurch, or testy to some called a sailor who know not the fear of old dear Balor?

Sullen rent asunder, quick to wit when buntered, try with fists this skunkard; you brought low as a punter, hail to **** with such a drunkard! To stand and watch in awe, as blood and cracks and calls with cries and screams at falls, at doors torn from building halls, no end or stop to pause, sheer terror fighting brawls with fists he lays the laws, a violent testament to theater,

The burly beast named Béarthr!

Eight levels down to **** with him, each evening a town made grim but not tonight and nevermore, a double barrel out missing door, a silence from frosty place our cavern and dead beast felled on floor of tavern!  

If you find yourself frisky one night and driving through our Tan. If you’ve got salt are brisk for fight and hold your weight in sand…
…then make your way to such a place, renowned for such a meter,

You’ll find a name above the door;

O’ Ochtar beag the Béarthr!
Old English-style rhyme. Béarthr is Gallic and pronounced, "Be-ate-tor."
Grace E Mar 14
His briny heart leapt at her sight.
The girl who was the sea.
Sunshine weaved into her hair,
Tail long, blue & scaly.
She threw a garland of shells,
Round his neck when he approached,
Her sailor had returned,
For their plan to elope.
He held a ring of pearls,
He found for her in oysters.
Placed it on her finger.
They kissed in the ocean moisture.
They spent the night together.
I’m sure the rest you know,
They were from different worlds,
So soon, she had to go.
Now if ever you’re at the sea &
Spot a man starring longingly to the water,
Just know that it is he,
Waiting for Poseidon’s daughter.
Funny how someone can
Sunder a heart of thine
And thou still dost adore them
With all thy riven smithereens!

My love, please come to me,
In my life thou dost linger;
Like as salt of a briny sea
Or like as the star's luster.

So long have I endured
A heart sundered by love
Though wherever  I wander
Thy sweet love I dost crave.

Oh! My love, come back to me
So we may pick these riven pieces
That like sea waters scattered be
And I'll shower thee with kisses.

Nevermore shall we ever sunder
For my love will be thy love
Sparking like heaven's thunder,
As thy  love will be my love.

Blissfully we'll dwell ever after
Like twinkling stars of the galaxy
With our enchanted passion
Effulgently lingering in perpetuity.



Kikodinho Edward Alexandros,
Los Angeles, California.
11/19/2018.
Unto she who will never read it.

#Love
#Nostalgia
#Infinite Love
#Galaxy
#Stars

A modified version of one of my older poem penned in the wee hours of a dead July of 2015.
Sav Dec 2018
All the cracks in the wall just want to be spiders.

Words deep inside her, her only provider, for all the desire, somehow

vanished.

If only she could

light,

a match.

To dispatch

the intruders.

Whispers drip down walls

like sewage

where rats crawl

and poison calls like nightmares.

In all the beauty

and all the despair.

It was her hair that

made me

wake up,

and then

fall.

Golden brown like cottage towns

her eyes like

a briny sea.

So clear and cold they

washed over me.

I am a drunken sailor sworn off from all land.

I'm a sea lover and when the siren calls

I always

Give.

In.
Cecelia Francis Sep 2018
I **** like a fairy
on funghi:

If a fun guy could happen
to *** by briny waves
ridden turned wastewater
that only perverts could swallow,
and turn rough like a flagellant

Beating against being submerged,
with wings going like mad, and hurt
charting pain like a map on the
body as it lay gasping, oars
grasping for dry land.

My luck lies fairly
on the one guy
rework
Andrew Guzaldo c Oct 2018
“If there is one thing that I can tell you,
Let it be you are at your home on this islet,,
Your body is your only house your temple
Your dreams sit along the shoreline waiting,

There’s no pleasure in the impassable coppice,
There is elation on the lonely shore afore thee,
There lays a civilization where no one intrudes,
By the briny ocean and its symphony as it roars,

One must never love a human any less,
But nature is to be cherished even further,
Where the love all blooms day and night,
Be not afraid of the cacophony on the island,  

Sounds and sweet air that will not hurt you,
At times sounds of a harmony of instruments,
It will allay your mind into the calm of the night,
And awake to morning an exhilarating new sunup,
Sweet spring flower and the sea that surrounds us,
At Symphony Island”
By Andrew Guzaldo 10/23/2018 ©
By Andrew Guzaldo 10/23/2018 ©   #Poem # 133
Graff1980 Apr 8
The flowery fruit fell
into the briny blue
sea froth,
and saw the tides
pull it farther from
the tree on the cliff
that was once
its home.

There it went
recently wind swept
into the red depths
that swelled
and dwelled
on the edge of
some underwater
coral bed.

But there were
little clown fish
that swam by
and nibbled a bit,
there was
soft tangles of seaweed
that occasionally
stalled the trip,
and above there was
a shimmering spectacle
of light bent
but still coming in.

I to
was once
a sweet fruit
born of beauty's
looming sorrow,
not living for today's harvest
but grieving
for the thieving
loss of all
my tomorrows.

Until,
I forgot about the light.
Then all my fears came clear
and consumed my
sea faring soul.
You presented me your love,
Heart, mind, and soul sweeping over me,
An irresistible wave crashing upon,
The unmovable rock of my immature heart.

The spray exploded into an evanescent mist,
That covered our world completely,
And left you dazzled by an endless rainbow,
And left my blinded by the briny fog of my new love.

You offered free, unfettered, true and selfless love,
While I saw not you but a wondrous fantasy,
You yearned to build a nest in a nearby tree,
I yearned to spread my wings and learn to fly.

You were a woman, and I was a boy,
Not in age but in emotional maturity,
I listened attentively but heard your truth,
As through through an ocean of tears yet to come.

I loved you more than life all that I could,
But not, alas, more than my ego or myself,
I would have died for you, would gladly still,
And yet I killed your spirit most unwittingly.

I should have loved you more, loved myself less,
I should have loved you enough to let you go,
I should have listened with my heart and not my ears,
And seen you with my soul and not my eyes.

I've sown the seeds of true love on fallow ground,
But watered it with vinegar thinking it rain water,
And tender tendrils grew to gnarly trees,
That bore a bitter fruit for our nourishment.

The fault is mine, as is the shame,
I should have taken better care,
To tend our beautiful orchard,
Grown wild with the weeds of my neglect.

I cannot change the past, were that I could,
Too late to make amends, ungrow the weeds,
Or make wild lemon trees grow pomegranates,
But I can say I was wrong, can say I'm sorry.

I loved you then, my love,
I love you now with all my heart,
I will love you tomorrow and I hope,
Will love you even the day after I die.

It is the great tragedy of man,
That we too often learn vital truths,
Too late in life for you if not for me,
To profit from the knowledge gained through pain.

I would do anything to change the past,
To see you happy, not bitter, sad and anger filled,
To see you blossom as you should have done,
With a better mate, in a nest of deepest roots.

All I can say is that I am truly sorry,
That I love you truly and completely,
And that with God's grace I will do so as long as stars shine,
And there remains the faintest hope of my redemption.

— The End —