"combers" poems
Oh! hush thee, my baby, the night is behind us,
And black are the waters that sparkled so green.
The moon, o’er the combers, looks downward to find us
At rest in the hollows that rustle between.
Where billow meets billow, there soft be thy pillow;
Ah, weary, wee flipperling, curl at thy ease!
The storm shall not wake thee, nor shark overtake thee,
Asleep in the arms of the slow-swinging seas.
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AMONG the bumble-bees in red-top hay, a freckled field of brown-eyed Susans dripping yellow leaves in July,
I read your heart in a book.
And your mouth of blue pansy-I know somewhere I have seen it rain-shattered.
And I have seen a woman with her head flung between her naked knees, and her head held there listening to the sea, the great naked sea shouldering a load of salt.
And the blue ***** mouth sang to the sea:
Mother of God, I'm so little a thing,
Let me sing longer,
Only a little longer.
And the sea shouldered its salt in long gray combers hauling new shapes on the beach sand.
2.3k
I’m not afraid to admit
very few things
she thinks,
head nestling on the window,
over the sleeping Atlantic, eyes,
like drowsy oceans, swelling
over combers of clouds:
she watches herself
drift away
*do I arrive
or depart
(a return or restart)
to the city of light
that has warmed,
since girl dreams were born,
the tomorrows
of my lamp lit heart?*
yet what could I do,
but dawdle and pine,
write this and offer art:
and hope it speaks mine,
am I not a wonder?
keen, sonorous in stride,
industrious, strength,
brimming with pride; bonafide,
–zut alors
you and me,
divided. I abhor
the wind that blew (your delicate cloud)
from my Rhine.
is your love sewn in guilt,
cold repentance and blame,
is your sweet foolish heart,
here chained to mistakes?
what if you are a photograph,
captured among many,
held by each but for one fleeting frame,
(will you forget my antiquated name?)
which of your colours:
Manet unsentimental,
or Impressions in variation,
french vanilla in tumble,
or, contours, postcards, and maps,
shall fleshen our past–
these stilted
and dwindled days.
I think, for me,
forever in evening,
in fear of
the fast falling night,
or moving slow, pale
window glow,
afternoons, sunlit
in the space,
between grace, clocks,
and tunes: I fumble like a stone
to breathe l’espirit of you.
I know and you know. I suppose,
unfurl in a brave new start,
above bonds of looming crows,
blankets of Western valley snows,
the beating red of my radio spire;
think of a lingering dusk,
when you see that Eiffel tower
on the lush fields of March,
but imagine us as that point,
over fresh Champs du March,
a glimmer at the peak,
on the flat earth,
apart.
Dec 17, 2012
Dec 17, 2012 at 5:08 PM UTC
There were four of them dressed in loud yellow t-shirts
and muffled white-washed jeans. Three carried rubber
ended stick-picks and sand crusted sky-blue buckets
for hypodermic needles and diapers and condoms.
The last of them, an older stocky gentleman with thick
red skin and no more than ten years left to live maneuvered
a grass-green, six-cylindered, diesel-powered tractor with
an old metallic rake attached to its bed across cold soft sand.
These four men are the edge-of-morning-heroes,
– they have to be the edge-of morning-heroes,
these four men, the beach combers.
My friends, have we appreciated the fruit of their labor?
the outcome of their edge-of-morning-efforts?
It was because of them that I was there, because of them
that the great lake was enjoyable, swimmable, because of them
that my heart had become a poem whose first stanza opened
with a young man staring off into the open, ocean-blue horizon,
water birds skipping, circling open-winged with webbed
feet behind him, his brown legs nestled firmly in the swash,
where to the left of him, a couple, neck-deep, was making love
between the familiar crest and trough of a wave, making love
between the familiar beginning and end of something
– going deeper, under still as a plane hummed overhead.
My friends, will the future appreciate the fruit of their labor?
the outcome of their edge-of-morning-efforts?
Sep 5, 2016
Sep 5, 2016 at 7:33 AM UTC
(... she plays with words)
~
like wind she plays with words,
shaped sand upon the beach;
building castles to the sky,
where tide her walls can't breach.
the combinations countless,
she untangles any stumbling lines;
in tapestry-flowing fountains,
her words to us, our sip of wine.
with nary but her hands she crafts,
poetry 'neath the noonday sun;
ceasing not except to watch,
a seabird as it tends its song.
in subtleties she stirs,
her adjectives like riffs;
nuanced dance in every verb,
a song that rises 'cross the drifts.
words that rivet every reader.
lines that wile a way with rhymes;
stanzas frame a photograph,
her free verse plays along in time.
combers rendered speechless,
marvel her poetic ways;
high as terns can fly she reaches,
as with every term she plays.
her muse in song delights
in ev'ry crashing wave she's heard;
her phrasing light takes winged flight,
like wind she plays with words.
on sands that ripple 'long the shore,
like conductor's arms at final score;
**crescendo builds... she stands *****
then fades to black when sun has set.
~
*post script.
today she was my morning muse... a delightfully brilliant poet who knows how to play with words in a most riveting way! i only just found her beautiful.work. please allow me to introduce you to Chelsea Rae in these lines: http://hellopoetry.com/poem/1861530/shine-your-love/*
Jan 25, 2017
Jan 25, 2017 at 8:27 PM UTC
Oh! Hush you, my baby, the night is behind us,
And black are the waters that sparkled so green.
The moon, o'er the combers, looks downward to find us
At rest in the hollows that rustle between.
Where billow meets billow, there soft be your pillow;
ah, weary wee flipperling, curl at the ease!
The storm shall not wake you, nor shark overtake you,
Asleep in the arms of the slow-swinging seas!
May 8, 2016
May 8, 2016 at 4:50 PM UTC
Brilliant blue skies stretching
for as far as the eyes can see.
Golden rays of the sun
shining down upon me.
Water shimmering like mirrors,
reflections of years gone by.
Seagulls keeping watch,
gliding through the sky.
Beach combers searching
for treasures along the shore.
Lovers walking hand in hand
falling deeper than before.
And just like a wave
is pulled back out to sea,
it's mystery draws me closer
with the force of gravity.
Jan 13, 2016
Jan 13, 2016 at 7:25 PM UTC
i like to remember that
waves still form in part
due to ocean basins
that my intuition
skims along the floors
and only reverberates
all that it finds to the top,
so maybe if I better
understood the reasoning
the seat of my heart, the crux
of why I am, this turbulence
would come a little easier,
the combers, though heavy
and unyielding--predictable,
navigable, waters I can
sail on.
Jul 24, 2017
Jul 24, 2017 at 10:50 PM UTC
No, I'm not addressing those
residing at surfers paradise or
the beach combers who are out
there looking at the wave graves
in the off chance of finding floaters
gold which is no different to what
one expects to discover at the end
of an Irish rainbow, providing you
get there before the Leprechauns.
Road rangers of ******* left to the wind,
CokeCans@McDonnells should have been binned.
Appache are pronto delivered by Tonto
Kemo Sabe's Comanche, but could be Monsanto?
Is it just here in Cork that those boxes are red
Kentucky Fried Chicken to the crows it is fed.
So who are the Tidies around town here in Mallow,
do they go out much further? Yes, as far as Duhallow !!
For the volunteers. Mallow Tidy Towns.
Polluted by American take away's
Mar 3, 2019
Mar 3, 2019 at 9:00 AM UTC
I'd love to live in a nice home by the sea
High above on the cliffs with a birds eye view
Below sailboats joyously flapping sails
Like butterflies flitting amongst flowers.
Fumes of mist riding on gentle breeze
Whilst salting everything it touches
Boulders skin head giants half submerged
Guardsmen protect my home by the sea.
Further out the beach like no man's land
Low tide ***** busy burrowed pin holes
Depositing tiny droplets of sand nearby
Entrances of it's shifting homes by the sea.
Weary of snipers scurry hole to hole
Staying low in the holes as the tides come
In the mornings beach combers, joggers,
Criss crossing by my home by the sea.
Curious seagulls from the lonely piers
Tankers, ships, moveable islands on the horizon
Wind can be mild, breezy, can be rough
But all is well at my home by the sea.
I'll go down winding steps to warm sand
And the teething waves welcoming me
Suppose I've millions of dollars to spend
I'd love to live in a nice home by the sea.
Apr 29, 2018
Apr 29, 2018 at 7:13 AM UTC
My heart is a deserted isle
Distress lines its marooned shore
A fleet of pneumas that reckoned they'd find
What they'd been hunting for.
But your treasure plans were lying
There's zilch aurous beneath my sand
Don't brook the sea persuade you
That it's benigner on my land.
You might be a habile matelot
With nothing but the pristine aim
But i have stoushed so many corsairs
That you now all appear the same.
So take heed of my fanal
Even combers burst on my rocks
There's a rationale not a lone ship
Has made it to my docks.
And i wish i could render cover
From those squall billows in my sky
Because you've not made it aground
But you should know, neither have i.
May 31, 2019
May 31, 2019 at 1:26 PM UTC