"rockpool" poems - Hello Poetry

I go Along that lichen path so white, and straight so assertive of mystical quality along the barren rocky coast I am old now and what were once white houses on far off misty shores are now gulls against cloud sitting in the water Here is a special place A place of many childhoods my childhood but still here steadfast against this changing world I cast my offering in a Penny into this rockpool which has forever faithfully been named the wishing well.

0

Oct 22, 2010

Oct 22, 2010 at 2:30 PM UTC

tam-robbie

The Wishing Well

I go Along that lichen path so white, and straight so assertive of mystical quality along the barren rocky coast I am old now and what were once white houses on far off misty shores are now gulls against cloud sitting in the water Here is a special place A place of many childhoods my childhood but still here steadfast against this changing world I cast my offering in a Penny into this rockpool which has forever faithfully been named the wishing well.

20

Get me the telephone.. I need the fix in a voice like I once needed methadone.. ..I hate being alone. Get me the words in a book.. Give me a look at these things that are living. Give me some giving. Sometimes, late at night..when there's nothing around..the world's without sound..and I sit in the chair.. ..it's like I'm not really there.. ...like I've moved out in time..and I'm in a space that's not mine..and these moments go on..like the words in a song they run slow through the night where I'm sat in the chair and thinking I might not be here. Fear is a part of it..a big piece of the start of it and Lord knows I'm not brave..I'm not the hero who could confront a dragon and save a maiden from death..I have to save up to save for my next breath but that's cool. I see the face of the coward in the reflections of a fool..in a rockpool by the beach..and I'm still out of reach as I sit in the chair.. Not here or not there the chair is in nowhere..and as I ponder on this.. I think of a kiss that I stole long ago..In the old railway shed where the older girl led me and fed me her lips. I can feel my mind slipping away..late at night as I wait for the forthcoming day..it's okay. Sat in my chair I just go with the flow, wherever it is that my minds wants to go.. I go too.

0

Nov 26, 2012

Nov 26, 2012 at 9:06 AM UTC

john-edward-smallshaw

Absent friends

Get me the telephone.. I need the fix in a voice like I once needed methadone.. ..I hate being alone. Get me the words in a book.. Give me a look at these things that are living. Give me some giving. Sometimes, late at night..when there's nothing around..the world's without sound..and I sit in the chair.. ..it's like I'm not really there.. ...like I've moved out in time..and I'm in a space that's not mine..and these moments go on..like the words in a song they run slow through the night where I'm sat in the chair and thinking I might not be here. Fear is a part of it..a big piece of the start of it and Lord knows I'm not brave..I'm not the hero who could confront a dragon and save a maiden from death..I have to save up to save for my next breath but that's cool. I see the face of the coward in the reflections of a fool..in a rockpool by the beach..and I'm still out of reach as I sit in the chair.. Not here or not there the chair is in nowhere..and as I ponder on this.. I think of a kiss that I stole long ago..In the old railway shed where the older girl led me and fed me her lips. I can feel my mind slipping away..late at night as I wait for the forthcoming day..it's okay. Sat in my chair I just go with the flow, wherever it is that my minds wants to go.. I go too.

16

Rays ***** fingernails coffee sundress, sunhat Sunday morning

0

Mar 4, 2015

Mar 4, 2015 at 4:44 AM UTC

ellay2

Rockpool Cafe

Rays ***** fingernails coffee sundress, sunhat Sunday morning

5

Round and round we go, two and thrice in throw, Whilst hand in hand in fairy land. We dance and prance around the rockpool, Until the last one cannot stand. I lay down in that busy rockpool and finally open my heart unto the floods, This once impregnable fortress finally lowers its rusted and seized port cullis one last time. With the moss of ages and the barnacles uprooted and torn away it lowers its decaying drawbridge, To let the tide wash in and carry out on its ebb, all of its ache, sadness and regrets far out into the vastness of the ocean. The soul and spirit is empty you see, The heart has now been opened for the waves and tides. There is no fire nor fuel left in the furnace, Not even a dying ember nor spark, but only a withered rose stem which finally succumbed to the dark.. All that resides left in incredible depths, Is fine *** ash, Only good for shovelling up and scattering on the fields to maybe start again. And those vines of that crop which fed once in abundance will grow strong, tall, fine and straight like youthful men, Feeding off of the nourishment of past memories. In time when these mighty vines look back to their roots, Their hearts will ache to find their mighty benefactor. Once again they will return to that ancestral home, To *** some ash and plant a striking red rose in that tended bed. Without their knowing a buried ember disturbed is glowing, and forgotten roots, soon shoot and expand. To once again become the source of wisdom, the all knowing, Soon to bring life back to this long lost forgotten land.

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Aug 24, 2018

Aug 24, 2018 at 9:14 AM UTC

mark-penfold

The Rockpool Heart

Round and round we go, two and thrice in throw, Whilst hand in hand in fairy land. We dance and prance around the rockpool, Until the last one cannot stand. I lay down in that busy rockpool and finally open my heart unto the floods, This once impregnable fortress finally lowers its rusted and seized port cullis one last time. With the moss of ages and the barnacles uprooted and torn away it lowers its decaying drawbridge, To let the tide wash in and carry out on its ebb, all of its ache, sadness and regrets far out into the vastness of the ocean. The soul and spirit is empty you see, The heart has now been opened for the waves and tides. There is no fire nor fuel left in the furnace, Not even a dying ember nor spark, but only a withered rose stem which finally succumbed to the dark.. All that resides left in incredible depths, Is fine *** ash, Only good for shovelling up and scattering on the fields to maybe start again. And those vines of that crop which fed once in abundance will grow strong, tall, fine and straight like youthful men, Feeding off of the nourishment of past memories. In time when these mighty vines look back to their roots, Their hearts will ache to find their mighty benefactor. Once again they will return to that ancestral home, To *** some ash and plant a striking red rose in that tended bed. Without their knowing a buried ember disturbed is glowing, and forgotten roots, soon shoot and expand. To once again become the source of wisdom, the all knowing, Soon to bring life back to this long lost forgotten land.

24

Even as I ebb away there'll always be a time to say, how much I loved your gentle touch. That kiss,,oh how my lips will miss that kiss when everything that's in me dies, and as I ebb away your eyes will stay with me and I'll still say to thee how much I loved your gentle touch.

0

Jun 2, 2014

Jun 2, 2014 at 8:20 PM UTC

john-edward-smallshaw

Rockpool

Even as I ebb away there'll always be a time to say, how much I loved your gentle touch. That kiss,,oh how my lips will miss that kiss when everything that's in me dies, and as I ebb away your eyes will stay with me and I'll still say to thee how much I loved your gentle touch.

15

Take me away on a lily pad boat Push it away from the shore Let the current catch us and carry us downstream I can't take this anymore. We can dance with the frogs And do the dragonfly waltz Sing the kingfisher's song And swim with the ducks I want to forget all that's gone wrong. I'll only weep in the shade, In the company of the willows Never again will I have to cry alone And I'll float like a feather In the cool summer breeze And leave all the lives I have known. I can sway with the reeds in a little rockpool Let the seaweed tangle in my hair Let the sand become my skin And replace my eyes with shells I'll let this water replace my air. The mud at the bottom of this babbling brook is thick And it's urging me further, tugging at my feet I'm too tired for this, I can't fight it anymore... Whoever said death could be sweet?

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Nov 4, 2014

Nov 4, 2014 at 10:56 AM UTC

tommy-1

Swampland

Take me away on a lily pad boat Push it away from the shore Let the current catch us and carry us downstream I can't take this anymore. We can dance with the frogs And do the dragonfly waltz Sing the kingfisher's song And swim with the ducks I want to forget all that's gone wrong. I'll only weep in the shade, In the company of the willows Never again will I have to cry alone And I'll float like a feather In the cool summer breeze And leave all the lives I have known. I can sway with the reeds in a little rockpool Let the seaweed tangle in my hair Let the sand become my skin And replace my eyes with shells I'll let this water replace my air. The mud at the bottom of this babbling brook is thick And it's urging me further, tugging at my feet I'm too tired for this, I can't fight it anymore... Whoever said death could be sweet?

24

I How will you remember me, will you form my shape as is my way, my veins swollen with a veiled rejoice that hides my burial chamber beneath a shrouded veil of contempt. Who will remember me? A fighting roaring man drunk as sand an outside storm that weathered faces in a rising sky full of snow horsemen, that draw your eyes upwardly then fall below their peculiar time. II How shall I be remembered? A lover that blazed a trail every midnight, he that stole and sold hearts in a single beat, fashionable runt, cool in summers heady days that ran from a friends sisters bed before her age. Who would remember? The love the labour the sweat the boundless hours working for cruel light, a family pace of a snails want that sweet cruel need that never shy’s and I am bound by my fragile word. III My brother, my sisters voices I hear with a clear ring gutted on cold stone ground in frost and I knew love before my maidens mouth whispered through thickets of thorns and bramble. Who will remember them? It’s the breath from those that rant, clergymen with fierce eyes that talk in fondness, yet would perish when their birds fly unknown before deaths curtain is closed and comital spoke. Lost in my map, my life, my day in poise. IV Now I sigh long into the day. My steepled church sky soars far above me and days grow shorter with every passing mouth. Saints and sinners ride together in fallen flames as I look for an open eye in this mudded rockpool water. And I remember; with long armed embrace that I kissed maidens lips when they were young with starry eyes and was carefree with strong clasp of bone and in this third season fall Autumn was taught that forever was my sea, but a few hours between. All this long before my grave and dying light.

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Feb 2, 2019

Feb 2, 2019 at 7:14 PM UTC

nolittleboy

Before my grave and dying light

I How will you remember me, will you form my shape as is my way, my veins swollen with a veiled rejoice that hides my burial chamber beneath a shrouded veil of contempt. Who will remember me? A fighting roaring man drunk as sand an outside storm that weathered faces in a rising sky full of snow horsemen, that draw your eyes upwardly then fall below their peculiar time. II How shall I be remembered? A lover that blazed a trail every midnight, he that stole and sold hearts in a single beat, fashionable runt, cool in summers heady days that ran from a friends sisters bed before her age. Who would remember? The love the labour the sweat the boundless hours working for cruel light, a family pace of a snails want that sweet cruel need that never shy’s and I am bound by my fragile word. III My brother, my sisters voices I hear with a clear ring gutted on cold stone ground in frost and I knew love before my maidens mouth whispered through thickets of thorns and bramble. Who will remember them? It’s the breath from those that rant, clergymen with fierce eyes that talk in fondness, yet would perish when their birds fly unknown before deaths curtain is closed and comital spoke. Lost in my map, my life, my day in poise. IV Now I sigh long into the day. My steepled church sky soars far above me and days grow shorter with every passing mouth. Saints and sinners ride together in fallen flames as I look for an open eye in this mudded rockpool water. And I remember; with long armed embrace that I kissed maidens lips when they were young with starry eyes and was carefree with strong clasp of bone and in this third season fall Autumn was taught that forever was my sea, but a few hours between. All this long before my grave and dying light.

47

John Smallshaw 26 November 2012 at 04:21 · West Ham Absent friends. Get me the telephone, I need the fix in a voice like I once needed methadone I hate being alone. Get me the words in a book Give me a look at these things that are living. Give me some giving. Sometimes, late at night when there's nothing around the world's without sound and I sit in the chair it's like I'm not really there, like I've moved out in time and I'm in a space that's not mine and these moments go on like the words in a song they run slow through the night where I'm sat in the chair and thinking I might not be here. Fear is a part of it a big piece of the start of it and Lord knows I'm not brave, I'm not the hero who could confront a dragon and save a maiden from death, I have to save up to save for my next breath, but that's cool. I see the face of the coward in the reflections of a fool in a rockpool by the beach and I'm still out of reach as I sit in the chair. Not here or not there the chair is in nowhere and as I ponder on this, I think of a kiss that I stole long ago in the old railway shed where the older girl led me and fed me her lips. I can feel my mind slipping away late at night as I wait for the forthcoming day it's okay. Sat in my chair I just go with the flow, wherever it is that my mind wants to go.. I go too.

0

Nov 26, 2015

Nov 26, 2015 at 3:42 PM UTC

john-edward-smallshaw

Absent friends

John Smallshaw 26 November 2012 at 04:21 · West Ham Absent friends. Get me the telephone, I need the fix in a voice like I once needed methadone I hate being alone. Get me the words in a book Give me a look at these things that are living. Give me some giving. Sometimes, late at night when there's nothing around the world's without sound and I sit in the chair it's like I'm not really there, like I've moved out in time and I'm in a space that's not mine and these moments go on like the words in a song they run slow through the night where I'm sat in the chair and thinking I might not be here. Fear is a part of it a big piece of the start of it and Lord knows I'm not brave, I'm not the hero who could confront a dragon and save a maiden from death, I have to save up to save for my next breath, but that's cool. I see the face of the coward in the reflections of a fool in a rockpool by the beach and I'm still out of reach as I sit in the chair. Not here or not there the chair is in nowhere and as I ponder on this, I think of a kiss that I stole long ago in the old railway shed where the older girl led me and fed me her lips. I can feel my mind slipping away late at night as I wait for the forthcoming day it's okay. Sat in my chair I just go with the flow, wherever it is that my mind wants to go.. I go too.

20

The rockpool an upturned stone a bucket for a cell

0

Oct 17, 2021

Oct 17, 2021 at 4:10 AM UTC