"puffins" poems
*Fishing off Puffin Island as a boy
By Jude Kyrie
I remember back to my boyhood
it was a different place in time.
The little aluminum fishing boat.
Its ancient Johnson outboard motor.
leaving a wake splitting the calm Irish sea
off the coast of Anglesey in North Wales.
My grandfather lived his retirement
years out in the small fishing village.
We reach Puffin Island
a deserted rock of land full of nesting puffins
The anchor tossed over into the deep waters
of the Irish sea.
We dropped our lines in the water and waited.
The heavy lines tripple baited in anticipation
of a healthy dinner catch.
The schools of Mackerel
attacked our bait
We were tired of pulling them into the boat.
My grandfather slitting the bellies
and cleaning them throwing the guts
back into the sea that bred them.
Hungry fish clamored for the feed.
nothing left for waste.
I held a spluttering Storm light
to pierce the blackness of the night.
My fear of a giant shark
attack filled my young heart.
we packed our catch and the propeller
creating a phosphorous wake behind us.
I marveled at the multitudes of species
below my feet.
And at the untamed violence and beauty of life
that we all shared on this wonderful planet.
And then back into darkness.
The total black darkness.*
May 13, 2016
May 13, 2016 at 12:25 PM UTC
The locals knew someone lived on the face of the cliff
it was a legend past down from father to son in whispers
only at night could someone see him by the light of the moon
yet as slowly as the sun climbed above the sea, he disappeared
Many looked in crooks nooks and crannies
but the search was futile and much in vain
yet now and then in the depths of night
some did hear his distant forlorn cry
Many had heard his wind swept pleas
his sad lament was always repeated
oh mercy give me perseverance and strength
for all my sins I do repent, by the marrow of puffins bones
By Christos Andreas Kourtis aka NeonSolaris
Aug 6, 2013
Aug 6, 2013 at 6:51 PM UTC
a mini moleskine notebook lays in the
pocket of my bright yellow raincoat
binoculars in hand, I seek out your face
amidst the crashing tundra waves.
you call out my name just as the fog
horn blows, I stop to smile, and continue
to watch the goldfinches zoom out of
sight into the grey vast sea of everlasting
winter solemnity.
I think about the days that should have come
as puffins nestle in cozy branches hiding
away from the bitter cold, as you and me
are left outside, bare.
skipping rocks has become such a bore
if I am not able to do it with you.
the touch of your delicate lips as
we swooned in the moonlight to
french jazz and the fishing knots that
would come undone no matter how many
times we tried to go ashore in that rusty
old boat, both dressed as sailors.
I’m content here in solitude away from the
ambiguous world, in our own making,
hidden from reality.
in our own frost-ridden snow globe,
if you must. lost in time, stepping
to our transient melody.
Feb 23, 2015
Feb 23, 2015 at 9:23 PM UTC
On this beach I stand watching and waiting,
a storm is brewing in darkening skies above,
the wind chases the tide forming white horses,
that gallop towards the jagged rocks of this shoreline,
these equine embodiments are only to be short lived,
dispersing their bodies to form a fine white saline mist.
The intensity of this cold wind increases with restless fury,
whistling away whispering to me this is only the beginning,
now mother nature takes hold of the rain's of this tempest,
slowly whipping them up into a frenzied thunderous downpour,
the heavens display starts now becoming a violent electric show,
that does scatter lightning bolts across a surging wild sea below.
The Puffins and Gulls have found shelter on white cliffs that stand proud,
against this wailing wind that tears at it's chalk face then screams aloud,
for it is only mother nature that has the right to turn a bright day into night,
commanding from the elementals her bidding of old wrongs and old rights,
from a distance I see the harbour lights flicker on, to light the way,
for fisherman that ventured on this ocean on a merciless cruel day.
White foam skips rapidly to shore on the backs of black unforgiving waves,
they glide past me like the ghosts of old sailors that have drowned at sea,
now it is time to join these restless souls of the sea as I feel the cold water around my feet,
I am chained to a rock of granite as punishment for my sins and a smugglers name I'll keep.
By Christos Andreas Kourtis
By NeonSolaris
© 2008 NeonSolaris (All rights reserved)
Sep 3, 2013
Sep 3, 2013 at 4:24 PM UTC
Bobbing to a swaying gait,
Torch light bounces at the edge of the world.
Laughter and larks hushed like the shushing waves,
As we crumple daisies and kick the tops off mole hills.
Home is only a field away,
But in the adjusting night, sleeping undercover never seemed so
surplus to requirement.
Clear skies, rum-bellies,
A watery film between the heavens and earth make freckle impressions on the sky,
Blemishes on perfect tone but it's all the more beautiful for it.
Deep indigo, emerald green, pillar box red then bed.
Zips bid the outside world goodnight.
Goodnight to hedgerows and gorse and guide ropes.
Goodnight rabbit warrens and linnet nests and bog asphodel.
Goodnight puffins and the minky whales and the surf.
Goodnight salty hair, goodnight cold noses, goodnight.
Oct 23, 2019
Oct 23, 2019 at 10:51 AM UTC
but at 4am,
when I can't sleep;
and my bed is uncomfortable;
and my mind is racing;
you would be in my head,
the taste of your lips on mine as the smell of your puffins fills my nostrils.
I would think of your hair
and how it would fall down your waist
so beautifully, and your eyes;
how I could melt staring into them.
and then I would feel okay.
I would feel like I could breathe,
as I see you in my dreams.
Jul 5, 2014
Jul 5, 2014 at 12:25 AM UTC
Serene mountains
Majestic waterways
Quaint towns and colorful people
Your serenity is precious
Lush greenness
Joy and respect of Nature
Awe and wonder
Island devine
Stones of History
Abbeys and churches filled with stories
Incredible isle of Puffins
Seagulls await your lunch swooping down for take out
Celtic and Nordic charms and humbles locals
Enchants visitors
Respect and wonder at every turn
Culture and creature living in tandem
C@rainbowchaser2021
Sep 3, 2021
Sep 3, 2021 at 10:23 PM UTC
The furrows are drying
in a woodlouse summer.
Each quiet year proves
they were inexpertly dug.
Empty eye sockets
the flowerbeds shrivel
and each tulip bulb is just
a useless ********
Earthworks crumble into riverbanks,
the defective rock
dances bed-ward.
The clay browns the water.
In the dusty corridors of sunlight
we are the balled up
little hedgehog
late for the earthworm
and the screen-saver, bouncing
but never touching the corner.
I’ve sat dumb and still as
words dwindle on a screen.
Somewhere else hands delve
into crowns of sticky, soaked poppy.
Wet and soft they stink
of sugar.
Liberated calves with
liberated hoofs gambol in mud
and rough tongues
curl on apple picking fingers.
Slugs glisten
With fairy-tale arrogance.
Happy and fat in a giant’s
vegetable patch.
Somewhere else the smell of low-tide
isn’t a crusting of salt,
seagulls, ******* and
a reminder of torpid shallows
but profound ovulation.
Nesting puffins, shearwaters,
an ocean view cottage.
Shepard’s peachy sky.
Summer is willing. Keep calm.
Count her freckles.
I’ve walked through the forest
seen hearts in trees.
Bark grows, gold stars roll
and the guileless acolyte,
not hungry but dry
bends over a keyboard
and counts an orchard’s
wealth in slushy apples.
Mud and sand on the carpet.
Eyes sticky and red. Not black.
Aug 2, 2017
Aug 2, 2017 at 12:30 PM UTC
The gulls sweep in, squawking
sky spiraling upon clear sun bright
morning air, perhaps disputing
my unintended trespass into
their natural domain.
The comical Puffins have returned,
doing their Charlie Chaplin waddle
across the surf rippled sand, eating
whatever comes to beak or hand.
The ocean's salty wet scents embrace
me like an old friend. Flipping off
my croc clogs I roll up my pant legs,
to feel the comforting sand and shallow
surf between my toes, to be one with
this wonderful day and our mother the
sea. Reverting to being a child again
for an hour or two, mostly alone on
this beach, say for the birds, waves
and sun upon my face.
Mar 26, 2024
Mar 26, 2024 at 4:30 PM UTC