"coves" poems
the witches
they don't take no ****
feminists with a wand
made from a femur
wrapped in ***** hair,
fingernails, and spit
no
not good little passive girls
although amused by a good spanking
for laughs that titillate
from a red wicked dicked old man
with slippery fireballs
like a spicy cherry pepper
that slurps filths coves
through a black tongue
and open-mawed bite
Femdom's queens
oiled torsos and bond fires
drenched ornaments for laughing snakes
that spread like spider webs
while the whips flash licks
hells tender blood kiss
insatiable prayers
and
************ rituals
mixed like bones in broth
with intricate sigils and saliva red
menstruum her holy sacrament
that shapeshift crones into young girls prancing
and bind water to stones
her spell can crack your skull
like a mules kick
and melt your eyes
like nuclear skies
no
the witches
they don't take no ****
Aug 2, 2018
Aug 2, 2018 at 2:15 PM UTC
When descends on the Atlantic
The gigantic
Storm-wind of the equinox,
Landward in his wrath he scourges
The toiling surges,
Laden with seaweed from the rocks:
From Bermuda’s reefs; from edges
Of sunken ledges,
In some far-off, bright Azore;
From Bahama, and the dashing,
Silver-flashing
Surges of San Salvador;
From the tumbling surf, that buries
The Orkneyan skerries,
Answering the hoarse Hebrides;
And from wrecks of ships, and drifting
Spars, uplifting
On the desolate, rainy seas;—
Ever drifting, drifting, drifting
On the shifting
Currents of the restless main;
Till in sheltered coves, and reaches
Of sandy beaches,
All have found repose again.
So when storms of wild emotion
Strike the ocean
Of the poet’s soul, erelong
From each cave and rocky fastness,
In its vastness,
Floats some fragment of a song:
From the far-off isles enchanted,
Heaven has planted
With the golden fruit of Truth;
From the flashing surf, whose vision
Gleams Elysian
In the tropic clime of Youth;
From the strong Will, and the Endeavor
That forever
Wrestle with the tides of Fate;
From the wreck of Hopes far-scattered,
Tempest-shattered,
Floating waste and desolate;—
Ever drifting, drifting, drifting
On the shifting
Currents of the restless heart;
Till at length in books recorded,
They, like hoarded
Household words, no more depart.
7.2k
*rocks don't care
all stubble and stones
a difficult geometry
so if they don't fit
they are hammered
and
crushed to rubble
jammed together to make virile walls
and if stabbed with swords
care not about
torn bellies and broken necks
soaking them crimson rust
or drowned nautilus
beneath the sea
humans
have futility in common with rocks
except that everything
girds and gnaws
at their belligerent sensitivity
all clouded soft towers
bi-pedal mortal spires
with tender flesh
beaten into place
lacerated
truncated amputees
to fit the outer life
of status and statues
a scandal to the inner coves of self
I'm envious of rocks
except for moments of
shifting watery kisses
clamorous for love
we remain
disfigured terrains
hunters of souls balmy unguents
while
fluctious immolating moons
unravel
in a hidden grieving
oh countenance of apathy
only to be more like you
a wilderness of stumps
and
dead rock gods
and our aspiration
indifference
our exit
the path of the renunciate
a penitence
feasting only on futility
and the vagaries of spirit*
Nov 21, 2017
Nov 21, 2017 at 2:36 PM UTC
pulling back the covers
dimming the lights
an owl calls
from the holly tree
just outside
of my window
the garden below
has grown beyond my control
weeds sprout vines tangle
in the summer squirrels gnaw
on the green holly berries
littering the courtyard
with half-eaten haws
in the spring mockingbirds
gorge on the bright red fruit
their florid songs
celebrating
light sky life sun leaf air
closing my eyes
I think back through the decades
to when I planted the tree
it was a time of hope
a time when we dared dream
of a world without
mortal enemies
when you could imagine
shaded islands of calm
hidden coves immune to rancor
now look at us
heads down lost hurtling
stumbling
under a trance
we have turned on one other
distracted by those
who grab wealth and power
under the cover of night
confused by the constant
trumpeting and alarms
blind to what we share
we retreat
into the darkness
of our fears
Tom Spencer © 2018
Oct 12, 2018
Oct 12, 2018 at 7:50 AM UTC
IT runs fluid between us and around
Rigid boxes can no longer contain it
the colour scale varies today
what is red is green anyway
The water in your eyes swirls like it does in mine
It drops out of the corners into our veins
ice seas leave unleading tracks
into treasured coves in our domains.
Its a touch of a finger tip and
not what they talk about in song
that pulled me into the air
that you breathed out
IT bursts and falls from trees
causing electric storms of desire
chasing the internal fires
that give us courage to dance in the thunder.
*Him and Her
Pulled towards both axis*
Jul 2, 2015
Jul 2, 2015 at 6:05 AM UTC
There is a place in this world where we all belong
Where we can be as free as the wind and as reckless as the waves
We could sleep on the sand and walk the shores
Where the water will love us and we will care for it
Where we can swim forever into the depths of the sea
And explore the places where people have never been
And share secrets with the coves and have a family of miles of seawater
See creatures of other worlds and beautiful kelp forests
That’s where I would be forever and ever
I wish I could be there, live there
Soon I will be at the sea and live with the
Creatures
Soon that will happen
Feb 7, 2015
Feb 7, 2015 at 12:09 PM UTC
You are the type of boy whose got saltwater in his bloodstream, bones like coral, and a heart made of driftwood – and at this point I’m just hoping someday you’ll wash up on my shore. I have seen the broken glass and beer bottle caps tucked in the folds of your sandy skin. I know how you left cuts on the feet of those who walked all over you. They were never sorry and you always were. Everyone else was too busy molding you into mangled and misshapen castles, only to stomp on them. Your soul was tangled in a mess of seaweeds and deep-sea debris. No one ever saw the brilliance of the sun's reflection in your smile that made you more dazzling than a million diamonds. But I noticed from the beginning that you were more than a temporary vacation spot or a convenient photo-op. and the shark-infested waters in your head shrank to puddles when you spoke to me in words like waves. To this day I can’t figure out what I did to deserve to be the only one you’ve ever allowed to explore your ocean floors, but I am grateful. I pressed my ear to your chest like it was the mouth of a conch shell, and heard the entirety of your ache without you saying a single thing. Violent storms churned in your belly at the hand of faceless puppeteers; made seasick by countless careless captains. But the sky cleared instantaneously the moment I came aboard. The same sun whose rays you’d always been wary of, now kiss your face the same way i wish to, taking utmost care not to burn. Your laughter is a school of fish filled with more colors than I can count and the sound of your sleeping breath is an ocean breeze. I am in love with the perfect shoreline curve of your mouth. Every day I find various buried treasures in your hidden coves and sunken ships, and I don’t think I’ll ever tire of discovering you.
- m.f.
Dec 1, 2013
Dec 1, 2013 at 11:14 PM UTC
The middle class idea of theft--
where we eat at semi-fancy restaurants
seated at faux leather interior
deep seated dimly lit coves
dine in a sarcophagus of tasty mildew.
A youth lends their smile
teeth faintly shine through,
but roughly cut short of sincere;
on their lapel in fine print the label says Sandy.
Flexing water spotted plastic
black brim borders
and articulated names of food
that would put all of Italy to shame.
Porcelain plates hold lofty portions
of what is purely compensation
as texture and flavor remind me of my adolescence
this is when Playdoh and Crayons are used for flavoring.
A slate for my signature is provided
and the upside to this all
was the perfection of a pen they lent me
it was ball tip and bright pink--
finally something I'd be glad to take home with me.
Aug 19, 2015
Aug 19, 2015 at 12:17 PM UTC
Water wives live sheltered lives
Amongst the coves where pirates rove
Daily catch is makers match
Where red hot stoves hide fresh baked loaves
Water men are thick and thin
So often strove where shipmates hove
Water child is often wild
The treasure trove where pirates roved
r ~ 19Mar14
Mar 19, 2014
Mar 19, 2014 at 9:08 PM UTC
the world soul
an insane asylum
sediment the guts can't hold
makes me wretch
as the years bend this ridge poll
to the breaking point
a tuba plays booming
it is raven girl and singing skulls
swaying hips
all breath and heat
attended by carnivory
little Fuzzy Mijmark
necrophilia's friend
while men love sheep and bone
in shady coves
and droves of groves
hungry spiders' patient for obese flies
wait in shrouded silk
for the healing power of death
and their soul's new sunrise
in golden mourning's paradise
loving those they eat
marrow deep
Nov 4, 2018
Nov 4, 2018 at 11:21 AM UTC
Four Seasons fill the measure of the year;
There are four seasons in the mind of man:
He has his ***** Spring, when fancy clear
Takes in all beauty with an easy span:
He has his Summer, when luxuriously
Spring's honied cud of youthful thought he loves
To ruminate, and by such dreaming high
Is nearest unto heaven: quiet coves
His soul has in its Autumn, when his wings
He furleth close; contented so to look
On mists in idleness--to let fair things
Pass by unheeded as a threshold brook.
He has his Winter too of pale misfeature,
Or else he would forego his mortal nature.
2.9k
"Tout aux tavernes et aux filles."
Suppose you screeve? or go cheap-jack?
Or fake the broads? or fig a nag?
Or thimble-rig? or knap a yack?
Or pitch a snide? or smash a rag?
Suppose you duff? or nose and lag?
Or get the straight, and land your ***
How do you melt the multy swag?
***** and the blowens cop the lot.
Fiddle, or fence, or mace, or mack;
Or moskeneer, or flash the drag;
Dead-lurk a crib, or do a crack;
Pad with a slang, or chuck a ***
Bonnet, or tout, or mump and gag;
Rattle the tats, or mark the spot;
You can not bank a single stag;
***** and the blowens cop the lot.
Suppose you try a different tack,
And on the square you flash your flag?
At penny-a-lining make your whack,
Or with the mummers mug and gag?
For nix, for nix the dibbs you bag!
At any graft, no matter what,
Your merry goblins soon stravag:
***** and the blowens cop the lot.
THE MORAL
It's up the spout and Charley Wag
With wipes and tickers and what not.
Until the squeezer nips your scrag,
***** and the blowens cop the lot.
2.6k
Hidden coves of love disguised by cold eyes
Chances not yet given.
Angry tones escape tooth filled holes
Drilling dissent through another's soul.
Selfish is the only answer,
yet not an excuse.
Forgive the fool.
He is you
She is I
We are one.
Negative polarities combusting innocent eyes.
Lost in the essence of the moment.
This is an apology for the mournful cries.
forgive the fool
he is you
she is I
we are one.
distinct beings intertwined amongst the influx
passengers and neighbors, reactive tension
impulses of separation.
pause for a moment. breath together.
similar beings galvanized by difference
nutrition for acceptance.
forgive the fool
he is you
she is I
we are one.
Feb 15, 2010
Feb 15, 2010 at 11:53 AM UTC
Autumn flares out, its flame burst clouds
strewn about misted cliff sides, loam whites
of winter taking their place. A stiff willow breeze,
ten thousand things withdrawn to burrows and immortal
pine heights. First snows stream down, duckweed carpets
of August fade, jade peeking through white. I embark
on the seasons final sail in hardening ice waters.
Til spring my sails will be folded, my raft in idleness.
~~~
Rafting on moon drenched river, avoiding cascades and crash of
rapids and falls. Silvered driftwood a warning. Silent glide of
mulberry oar through dark azure, another crafts sail in silhouette.
From the deck a black spectre dives below, stillness follows
splash, re-emergence, beak wrapped around a dazzling rainbow.
From my raft dangling lantern sways, trout swiping at
gathered moths – scatter and return, some from a far off realm.
Some trout in the net, others not. Luck or the way – who can tell?
~~~
Dusk colour gorge sheathed in
emerald blankets, rising into sheer
cliffs of auburn cinnabar, all
underpinned by the fathomless
flow of azure clarity. Snowy Egrets
nest in pine top heights clear of dust.
On white sand shores gibbons howl
towards squawking beach gulls, squabble
over landlocked trout – debate without end.
Peach blossom petals swirl on spring breeze
over carpets of jade inter cut by king
fisher blue zipping over duckweed. Oriole
song weaves in and out of mulberry branches.
In these vast and vague waters -
coves, creeks and streams all one,
a river dragon lives an undetermined
existence. Mud stirs below, merely a
catfish airing grievances.
Red tail flares in dirt,
my mulberry oar rows me back home.
Jan 15, 2012
Jan 15, 2012 at 8:13 AM UTC
~
i stand before this kneeling bench,
no sanctuary of our making;
its walls here open thrown,
on stained glass windows found
strewn upon the sand,
its tide-washed, polished glass,
my feet find holy ground;
my sandals left at driftwood door.
incense burns upon the wind,
its salty spray is mingled,
with my own upon
these joy-stained cheeks.
the worshippers that went before
have built a temple out of wood,
hewn, untouched by human hand,
a steeple to the sky is lifted,
and within its shelter,
remnants of a ring of fire,
smoke once lifted to the
heavens by believers true;
this church i see through salted eyes,
this scape awash in teeming life,
here i drink this living wine;
its ebb, its rush, its living in
each moment without need,
to connect each dot, or even speak.
i long to live at razor's edge,
where sands and tides collide;
the rocky shoals where dungeness,
find sustenance and shelter;
the coves where seabirds feed their young,
above the sandstone cliffs;
the bar beneath a setting sun,
in flames awash in waves;
find comfort ‘neath
the storm-shaped pine,
feel longing in the stinging air.
these cheeks that weep,
though want of tears,
not in sorrow mind you,
but in joy of freedom,
the lure of siren alter call;
of a close horizon on a misty morn,
the haunting breath of orca,
just beyond my sight;
the bark of ocean’s lion,
the roar of distant waves;
with these my prayers i send,
as i offer this my praise;
this church of no man’s making,
here i come for cleansing,
to breathe the life that i am given!
~
*post script.
by nature we are spiritual creatures;
spiritual... not religious. reading your
sea-scaped prose inspires me; planning
changes in my own life even more so!!
it is said that we return to what we know
best... the ocean calls...*
Sep 28, 2016
Sep 28, 2016 at 10:05 AM UTC
All tools are ******* symbols in the eyes of the disillusioned.
The mountains are phalli, the valleys and coves, vulvae.
Cross country crotch rocket, crevasse stretching, rough landscape.
All interconnected, like the bluffs on the beaches, with holes right through.
Ismism
Feminism?
Masculinism?
Equalism!
May 24, 2014
May 24, 2014 at 8:07 PM UTC
This is the kind of happiness that comes in waves.
Water fills coves and beach shores but just as quickly as the waves were given, they're taken away.
The tide is at its peak and I prepare myself for the emptiness I'm going to feel when it leaves.
Oct 15, 2016
Oct 15, 2016 at 10:58 PM UTC
The shades of grey darken,
I find myself afraid,
may direction find me,
I have lost my way,
shine on me,
light the gravel at my feet,
produce fuel for ignition,
and a reason to believe.
Ropes only bind,
they do not guide,
sounds only deceive,
stealing my perception of time,
any steps forward,
are lost in my pride.
Even your hand I dare not hold,
for fear of sinking,
a shared demise,
for our worlds are far removed,
and signals in the distance,
will only lead me to shallow coves,
I am a shipwreck in the night.
Give me light,
sight to go with illumination,
intuition to go with my eyes,
and a key for this cage I create in my mind.
Oct 24, 2013
Oct 24, 2013 at 3:27 AM UTC
From my new book, Poems of Ancient Rome and Greece, available in paperback on Amazon and Barnes & Noble, as well as eBook on Kindle, Nook, and Apple Books: https://www.amazon.com/Poems-Ancient-Greece-Christopher-Saitta/dp/B0DS6933HB?ref_=ast_author_dp
My mother the sea,
She woke my sandy eyes,
Just to tell me she had to leave,
Draw past the markets where the fish are sun-dried,
Snarled by the coral-rough hands of divers deep.
My mother the sea,
She left her running tab
Of the grocer’s choicest greens,
Thumbed the velamentous rinds and spiny scarola,
Her xylem and phloem are the slow moving cruciferousness of a breeze.
My mother the sea,
Charwoman of tides,
Who dips and delves upon her knees,
Who scrubs her brothel-coves with chamber lye,
Cyprian mistress of the salt-stained sheets.
I have looked for you, mother,
A scugnizzo amid the striped awnings of the marketplace
~ like sails to the sky ~
Where the fishmongers hawk their pride
Of conch, cavallo, and black sea bream.
I have looked for you, mother,
Walked sun-forged along the boardwalk,
Amid the neon-mascara of signs,
Hand-in-hand with only the ladyfingers of salt and vinegar fries,
Toward the crisp syllabub of pebbles and sand.
A beach is window-warmth spread free, cosmopolitan,
The longeur of eyes crushed in the glass-dust of cities.
And in the sputtering of the frosted spume of tides,
Held broken seashells in my hands like broken needles,
Heard the pump-click of the ventilator through your mask of sand.
My mother the sea,
A naked convalescent,
Whose ever-turnings have taken
A turn for the worse.
Who will know her by her death, who but me?
Jan 21, 2025
Jan 21, 2025 at 8:29 AM UTC
she wanders through the forests and the groves,
her bare feet scarce upon the mossy ground,
as day sinks into night without a sound
and sunset fills the skies with pinks and mauves;
and like a restless breeze she wildly roves,
a love-lost woodland dryad, summer-crowned
and who could ever guess where she was bound,
or why the sea so whispered near the coves.
her eyes as bright as a white-feathered dove,
beyond the river, near a sheltered tree,
she rests awhile finds lilies for her hair,
their flowery mist no prettier than she,
(enchanting in the hearkened, vibrant air,)
her heart soft-brimmed with longing and with love.
Oct 31, 2015
Oct 31, 2015 at 10:44 AM UTC
Capri
roofless cubes, spidery with wire,
cakes of azure and enzian;
above at the Villa San Michele
Rilke smiles down at the broken beaches,
coves of defiant waves, compacted sea
Pompeii
a chessboard of honest stones
open to a sky of hushed shouts;
we huddle in a ***** frame
of another life, a stopped day
Napoli
warm and secret, olive-eyed
you make a new face
as we gaze from a bus:
an act of moment
Apr 29, 2017
Apr 29, 2017 at 7:36 AM UTC
~
her coast line feels endless,
her straits and her bays,
each curve of her coves
is guiding the way.
to his infinite tracing,
his breaths and her sighs,
leave their hearts racing,
gives breath-taking rise,
to views borne of heaven,
swept up and then falls,
to the beach where he finds,
her seashell that calls.
his answer she hears
in the voice of his tide,
his infinite strength
she draws to her side;
the laugh of his thunder,
the crash of his roar,
from the crest of his shoulder,
to the breast of her shore;
she melts as he touches
the warmth of her portal,
as she reaches through sands
for his heart and his soul.
an angelic witness
to a union held fast;
his body of water,
her terra firma in clasp.
~
*post script.
seashore imagery
clings to this mind...
must be time to take a trip
to the ocean with my love.*
Sep 23, 2015
Sep 23, 2015 at 3:57 PM UTC
The old and now empty railway track
Where iron horses will never come back
Carried trains along it on two four four
Driving along to the Welsh sea shore.
Children would travel with bucket and *****
Later to wonder at castles they’d made
While Mum and Dad with bags by three
Wondered if they’d brought enough for tea.
From Stafford station it pulled away
Stopping at Newport along the way
Then Shrewsbury town and Machynlleth too
Pulling in at Barmouth just after two.
Passengers piled out in their droves
Most of them looking for shallow coves
Mums carrying babies who’d often screech
Heading for quiet spots left on the beach.
To Mum and Dad it was a well earned rest
From their working days and household stress
And the joy of seeing children have such fun
It meant the holidays had begun.
Some days later, maybe three or four
Passengers waited by carriage doors
And back to their homes they all would go
With tales to tell to folks they know.
And as they journeyed East again
Saying goodbyes to holiday friends
They felt refreshed and enjoyed the ride
As the train sped away from the wild Welsh tide.
©JRW2014
Jan 24, 2014
Jan 24, 2014 at 11:41 AM UTC
my heart
like a small drunk boat
between two coves
with no oars,
like the the top of a match stick
ready to be lit
my heart
like a bustard
wandering on the mine fields of regrets,
like seagulls
lost on the fingers of
a fool poet
my heart
either will get lost on these flows
or resurrect on these ebbs
poems like no words
is my heart
Aug 13, 2014
Aug 13, 2014 at 9:13 AM UTC