"seafront" poems
On the prom, in chairs of similar design
actors, support artists and crew.
Chatted in between takes as the sun shone
around the The Cafe' television set.
In a seaside town they each came together
that day it was unsettled weather.
The atmosphere was friendly nobody left out
congenial conversation not forced.
That created the mood for a great shoot
as a new comedy series was made.
On the seafront with a train ride there
passers by were everywhere.
Actors were also rehearsing another scene
under a canopy while it rained.
Fascinated I watched and laughed as well
feeling part of that moment.
In this privileged spot to observe first hand
by the sea close to the sand.
The Foureyed Poet.
Jul 26, 2011
Jul 26, 2011 at 4:17 AM UTC
As I move on the streets of Mangalore city on the west seafront,
It is an afternoon and the sun is starkly overhead,
Burning, roasting in the hot-dry sky of May.
While en route the beach I passed from a really silent street,
Then I pass from the side of the Rosario Cathedral,
The only person I notice was a young vendor.
The vendor is a little girl who looked determined to empty her stock,
I peered into her basket and was pleased to see in it,
Even today I believe she sits there by the street.
Sitting in the rain or in the harsh, merciless sun she prays to the God,
Just back to her the church apparently has some priority line to Him,
She bribes Him a beautiful sea shell or two if He sends some buyers...
Though I do not need any sea shells, but I still go and spare a look,
I choose a pair of green sea shells and pay her for it,
Because she sells the sea shells by the street side.
Aug 27, 2014
Aug 27, 2014 at 9:55 AM UTC
There The Cafe stood where once it was bare
a new monument in Weston Super Mare.
Why was it not placed in this location before
it would create tourism more.
The Cafe on the promenade not a listed grade
not open for any public trade.
Like it had always been part of local tradition
sitting in that strategic position.
Tourists trying hard to get in there for tea
the menu even looked good to me.
Others were desperate for the fancy loo
it was a TV set they hadn't a clue.
On the long wide seafront it's no real
though has that old Cafe appeal.
With a feel it's been there since the ark
it's Cyril's the place is a lark.
A hub of comical characters as they interact
the central point of fun in fact.
But the series has now been wrapped
evermore will the site be mapped.
Sadly The Cafe will be packed away
knowing it may return one day.
I know it will rise again.
The Foureyed Poet.
Sep 14, 2011
Sep 14, 2011 at 5:26 AM UTC
I met Netanya
at the rail station
it was January and cold
and she was dressed up
in the blue overcoat
and headscarf
and I was
in my combat style
overcoat and hat
you made it ok?
I said
yes he asked
where I was going
and I said
for a walk to get him
out of my head
she said
we got tickets
and boarded a train
and off we went
to Brighton
the carriage was crowded
but we seemed alone
or so it felt to me
will he imagine you
going to Brighton?
no he won't think anything
too busy watching TV
and drinking his beer
she said
she held my hand
and talked of her kids
and her father
who wasn't well
and looking forward
to meeting you
she added
I looked at her
as she spoke
her hair dark and curled
her eyes bright as stars
we made it to Brighton
and got off the train
and walked down
to the seafront
hand in hand
the sky dark
stars
moon
and lights from shops
and pier
and somewhere
out there
I thought
another life
another world
buzzes on
while here we walked on
along the seafront
taking in the scene
the smell of salt
and sound of sea
crashing on the shore
and her hand small
warm in mine
and the sense
of life going on around
and I feeling
(oh)so fine.
Aug 16, 2014
Aug 16, 2014 at 4:47 AM UTC
That last time in Brighton
Back in 1980 was a dead
Lost. The old haunts seemed
Changed, the restaurants
Closed or changed hands,
The seafront less friendly,
Less romantic, the glamour
Gone, all high dreams spent.
Pity really we ever went.
But we did, you at least,
Trying to bring it back to life
That old love, that closeness,
That cold-night rush-to-coast
By train romance, that last
Time just memory, being put
To rest, I guess. Even that crap
Hotel had closed down where
We made love on those *****
Weekends, where one midday,
We unconcerned about that
Office block across the way,
With office workers, maybe
Spying, as we had *** that day.
Yes, the last time in Brighton
Was a lost cause; even the sad
Photographs we had taken there
Showed the dead love in faces
And eyes. The clicking camera,
Someone once said, never lies.
May 5, 2013
May 5, 2013 at 2:48 PM UTC
I'm watching an old Soviet movie
one without English subtitles
the whole day it hasn't stopped raining
the opening shots are of a foggy
seafront, a lone figure walking
a guy on a bicycle holding a puppy
riding past someone leaning on the corner
of a house in which the light
suddenly comes on & a couple appear
later on, a budding romance
between two holidaymakers in this, the Crimea
slow-paced, this movie reminds
me of an Aki Kaurismaki
& I want to share it with the world
& muse on how the Crimea
saw Pushkin, Chekhov, Mayakovsky
amongst others visiting it's shores
the whole day it hasn't stopped raining
& I don't know if I feel even more English
now or Russian or whether it's all just a trick
Jul 26, 2015
Jul 26, 2015 at 3:35 PM UTC
I was waiting for a simple message from you that
we both know was never to come. I sat impatiently
atop the cities tallest building and watched the coming
storm. I witnessed the water beat the feeble earth
into submission and it looked alright to me. But then
the raging sinless sea swallowed the shore. The end
of our hometown (est. 1919) took about a minute
and a half. A man leapt out of his chair and said it
was amazing as the punishing, purifying wave tore
into his home of 20 years. The coin laundromats and
malls became the shallows and downtown by the Top 40
radio station became the deep. Clown fish swam amongst
the stop lights, trash cans and satellite dishes. And a
coral reef began to grow deeply into the brick of the tasty
Greek restaurant at the corner of MLK and Main. Eels and
rays swam up the sidewalks and hammerheads patroled
the submerged skyscrapers. Admittedly, a lot of the
busy people who didn’t take the time to look out their
smudged windows and watch the water devour the flood
walls and seafront property didn’t make it out of their
homes and cars and schools and businesses. And those
people that didn’t make it to the outskirts of the metro in
time were quickly drowned and integrated breathlessly into
the oceanic food chain. The deep began to kiss my ankles
and I thought I would surely drown. I surmised that you
probably weren’t thinking about us at that moment and that
it was for the best. You had other matters on your mind.
I watched a miniature apocalypse take place and
I thought I should probably call and quickly tell you
that everything you ever loved was gone or going.
I decided against it.
Anything I say to you is gonna come out wrong anyway.
Aug 25, 2012
Aug 25, 2012 at 2:11 AM UTC
What steps he took, after losing his edge
Cocky **** running wild in days, never slept
Took drugs, took women, took men
Never slept again
What cliffs she admired, after seeing the edge
Tormented in fuzzy daydream childhood afternoons
She came down and stayed for days
An obsession with time to the point of stasis
I think I'm losing my edge
He thinks he's dead again
She lost the bed again
A faceless man was sat on a bench by the seafront
Hood high, said goodbye
Told me his missed the old style, wants more
Told him I was tired and this is whorish
What vines are these, that bound my ankles
and I was screaming into vacuums, grand clocks, strange houses
Safe houses that become embers
Magic men, shaman, shaggy hair, danced there
To use words in multiple places, placing clues
A whole story, absolute, read it backwards, forewords
iTunes shuffle function, on the poetry of the soul
(if it exists)
But he lost his edge again
Yes he went to Africa, saw the face of God and the Devil, unification
Iboga, uneasy stomach, vomited and killed them all
Watched the world burn, and children dance
Bluebell Lucy on arrival, back home
Taunted the skies, saved the proletariat
Grew wild roots and sang, some seraph
Admittedly not an architect, or a poet or **********
How many people have made these allusions
Sold drugs, killed men, ran home, all there, ghost of government
Hedgerows grew wild, were noticed and cut down
Still praise beatitude, Ginsberg, love-made, Kerouac, still plays
She was Hannah and she was Malcolm, also Marvin
He was them too, all the same, transcendental self-infatuation
Peach trees, coloured blinds, ashy scattered floorboards
Burnt home, music playing, popular culture
All free-form even with formality
A stream of conscious way of life
Outlook unsure
He thought he lost his edge
Turns out s/he never had it
Dec 26, 2013
Dec 26, 2013 at 12:26 PM UTC
Even in the train it is cold.
Netanya snuggles closer to me,
her eyes searching me,
her hand clutching mine.
Had a job getting out,
she says.
Does he know
where you are going?
No, I just said
I was going out.
Was he suspicious.
Who cares?
She breathes out,
her breath like smoke;
it fills our area
of the carriage.
Why Brighton?
I like it there;
it reminds me
of my childhood.
She lays her head
on my shoulder,
her hand holding mine;
warmth moving
through mine.
Outside it is dark;
evening sky menacing.
How are things?
We rowed,
we always row.
I look at her hair
on my shoulder,
dark, wavy.
Won't going out
for so long
make things worse?
I hope so;
I hope he moves out,
hope he moves away.
What about the kids?
They'll understand,
kids do;
they like you.
I look out
at the passing view,
lights in the distance
from passing
villages or towns,
trees swimming past.
We arrive at Brighton rail station,
get out the train
and walk into the town
hand in hand.
We must come here
and stay the weekend.
When?
When we can.
I look at her beside me.
She's serious.
What would he say?
He'll say nothing.
He thinks it's just
a mid-life crisis
and I’ll get over it.
We walk down
to the seafront;
the wind and cold
biting at us.
The sea's rough.
I like it rough,
I like to sense
nature's power,
she says,
snuggling
close to me.
We go into a shelter
and sit down
in the semi-dark.
We kiss and embrace.
No one is about.
It seems far
from my usual world,
kind of surreal.
Her lips are on mine.
Feel her pulse.
Her living through me
and I through her;
I feel along her back,
feeling the smooth coat
she is wearing;
my fingers sensing
and imaging
what ever is beneath.
We sit there
for what seems hours,
kissing, holding,
looking out
at the rough sea.
Was I being
someone else
or was I just
being me?
Dec 6, 2014
Dec 6, 2014 at 3:37 AM UTC
The empress of the lighthouse
can see for years and nautical miles
and she can never be lost at sea.
The empress of the lighthouse
could save every sailor who smiles,
but she doesn't.
The empress of the lighthouse
is empress only of a house
when she leaves the light off.
The empress of the lighthouse
got tired of waiting for ships to come in,
so she doused the light in her seafront tower.
Now everyone she loves
and everyone who loves her
will forever be lost at sea.
Jul 16, 2017
Jul 16, 2017 at 2:34 PM UTC
The coach capsized and spilled its freight,
a glut of rabid reprobates,
who swarm towards a sea of lights
and fill their cups with harbour nights.
We do not heed the lighthouse glare,
or match the fortune-teller's stare.
We storm the cliffs as if to pillage
the gift shops of this seaside village.
We mill around a restaurant's doors
and nip at hot dogs with our claws.
Stockpiling rock up by the stick,
whilst wearing hats marked 'Kiss Me Quick'.
Because we cannot hear their cries
for whispered arcade lullabies,
the gulls will dance above the tide
and mock sandcastle suicides.
The distant fort once planted proud,
clings to the hillside like a shroud.
Its craggy face a last dissuasion,
against the sea's saline invasion.
Perhaps the Ferris wheel's arc,
can count each dawn against the dark.
A spotlight shone upon each heart,
as we rehearse our weathered parts.
Pastime play or parlor show,
we forget the lines we ought to know
and stumble on with blind devotion,
to pour our years into the ocean.
And yet! We catch the child's smile,
projected on a seafront mile.
His mirth casts doubt upon the claim,
that each new act concludes the same.
The beach begins and ends each dance,
each interval a second chance
to wake the youth we put to sleep
and cast the hourglass into the deep.
Mar 4, 2014
Mar 4, 2014 at 11:25 AM UTC
Brighton on the seafront is shining like a silver dollar in the sun
And she is dancing to the rhythm of the seagulls and imaginary bass drums
It is winter, should be colder but the gentle breeze is warm
All around her is her own hair like the breakers of some pre-raphaelite storm
I see Bassie Gracie, Brighton by the sea, hey Gracie
She plays reggae, she plays ska, she plays jazz,
she loves them all, hey Gracie
I am walking back along the sea front, back the way we've come
The sun's kiss grows weaker and I miss her but that doesn’t get me down
For the rhythm of her baselines entwine the ripped fabric of my mind
And every time I see those breakers I'll remember that pre-raphaelite storm
I saw Bassie Gracie, Brighton by the sea, hey Gracie
She plays reggae, she plays ska, she plays jazz,
she loves them all, hey Gracie
Jan 9, 2019
Jan 9, 2019 at 5:23 AM UTC
Somewhere in South End when you were fun
You took my hand and you made me run
Up past the prison to the seafront
You climbed the cliff edge and took the plunge
Why can't we laugh now like we did then?
How come I see you and ache instead?
How come you only look pleased in bed?
Let's climb the cliff edge and jump again
Read more: Glass Animals - Pork Soda Lyrics | MetroLyrics
Mar 11, 2017
Mar 11, 2017 at 10:23 AM UTC
- for him a.k.a Rembrandt, a fellow poet & love of my life-
I think of you in the conservatory
of the Little Harp Inn, on the seafront
is this where you came too
is this the place you meant
in your poems when you spoke
in them of the ‘ glass tearooms’?
a ginger waiter brings a couple
their tea. Outside, a thunderstorm is raging
suddenly, there sounds a cry:
‘’ Look, the roof is leaking!’’
& bright lightning again splits the sky
just like love, striking
Everyone laughs in wonder
& an old lady walks by in pink
outside, without an umbrella
in this, Clevedon in the summer
Aug 23, 2015
Aug 23, 2015 at 10:00 AM UTC
When a poem speak in confidence
That is how I am as I walk the street of Brooklyn
me, a poem of mystery, a bite senility though
in my sensate world:
I know ones pride, can over shadow them
Never ride ones pride. Especially when the
price of victory is high but so are the rewards.
Did our former leader congratulate the new President?
Maybe I missed his speech,
pride is born in the heart
Ego is born in the mind
today is November 10th 2020:
My job can be so frustrating at times,
during these times of uncertainty
I have to push on daily,
to have a joyful moment,
at the work place
Give thank in all circumstances,
but I will never uttered those words
That is was God work:
it was because of my inner fears.
That led me to stay as long
as I did at the seafront:
The world feels lighter these days,
Satan power is lessening,
Death has lost its sting ( 1 Corinthians 15:55
For the first time in this country
A black female is the vice president of America
And what bring a smile on my face,
She attend the same college as my younger daughter
Howard University.. Thumps up !
When I was a teenager,
I went swimming late one night
In the cold water down the harbor Road,
A poem was created that night, little did I knew
Here I am rehashing those memories…..
A happy mood clouds our judgement
Words, words, images and the truth
Michael might not remember, but I remember,
The city lights and the whispering of the wind:
My shivering slender body was a poem inside and out:
When my poems speak in confidence, I walk, the walk
In the street of Brooklyn..
Nov 11, 2020
Nov 11, 2020 at 9:07 AM UTC
Just in the Offing
So much we miss just beyond mortal wit we truly walk paths of life but the sailing skies how inviting we
Miss because it involves more than just the central part of our cares and existence it takes dreaming
Believing and forsaking the very thing that has us captured we are possessed but not possessing that
Something that holds us fast it becomes trying showing it’s not for us but we persist there is a man
That owned a seafront home day after he sat for hours and did nothing but gaze out to sea don’t get
Me wrong he could go anywhere in this world and did but the one trip he needed the trip of discovery
He never took he never looked into the unseen into the real the face the movement the essentiality of
Twilight the irreversible gleaming the power that is unsettling but it settles all things
The mundane the rudimentary flows out and away when we call to this life giving force it takes men and
Women who are adequate then it empties out the waste the unnecessary like spring without the
Blooming it would be spring but not the spring we know and love why settle for thistles alone demand
The glory of the flower a super structure resides all around but you remain impoverished you were
Made as a gift but you bowed down and inwardly you have reduced the rays that are lying dormant
You’re still born your vibrancy your life giving force has been dulled that it creates only a lack of interest
All is needed is ignite the soul that holy part that infused glory the tidings that all ache to see and hear in
A land of waste the derelict who forgot to be bright the guest that never wears out his or her welcome
They are real they have the goods of two worlds they tirelessly stretch themselves to be of value for
Others truly we pass this way but once we can be a fiery wheel or an empty cloud that promises but
Gives lifeless effort when magnetic qualities are called for be a dream extender with just the smallest
Impetus you can fan the flame of another to greatness you are the only one given this assignment if you
neglect this blessed right you will bring two lives down like a kite less sky clear or gray what a story has
Been missed when it was too have been pronounced grandeur now mediocrity that lifts and inspires
none this is the cost of life lived unto ourselves
May 19, 2012
May 19, 2012 at 11:42 AM UTC
The tattooist’s lines
Soften
Turn to blue
Faiths have
An anchor
And forget me knot
Marks time
Within a beachfront kiosk
Mattress in rear
Note on shutters
Saying
Back in 15 minutes
Older than her waist size
Younger than the priced
Sunday Sport tabloid
Talking of big ****
And WW2 bomber on the moon
That she’d folded
As though sleeves rolled up
Her name imprinted
Each stick of rock
On the seafront
When anyone talked of Faith
Pink words
Always turned blue
Apr 23, 2025
Apr 23, 2025 at 9:53 AM UTC
I remember the night
I meet you.
You where my pride and passion.
We met on
the seafront at scarbrough.
the sky was blue
you said that my eye's
shone like pearl's.
You where my pride and passion
on that night.
Dec 9, 2013
Dec 9, 2013 at 4:35 PM UTC
You know we flew once?
Standing, watching the seafront
And we lept together
Caught on the wind a feather.
We spread our arms, flapped and whistled,
(I still remember how my neck hair bristled.)
We swooped close to the water to catch the sea spray,
While drenching your yellow matted hay.
And then back up again, into the gale,
To be thrown in whichever direction it did prevail.
The gulls cackled and laughed as we floundered in the air,
The secret to flying is not one they’ll share.
Your acidic eyes told me the secret was a lie,
All the gulls told you was to live and not die.
But when I landed you were no more,
And I was left standing on the shore.
Jun 2, 2013
Jun 2, 2013 at 7:36 AM UTC
that was the night we went downtown and I snuck to the bathroom
to take off my underwear,
only to come back and shove the small knot of fabric deep into the pocket of your jeans.
the pink mesh ones with the lace trim.
I liked the way you looked at me.
in a way that conveyed your understanding.
that we shared this little secret among the throngs of people that surrounded us.
through the infinite noise and slush of cider filled cups,
the jostling bodies, the whistle of the wind along the seafront.
amidst all this,
still this one
silent
and simple exchange was shared.
how delicious are memories such as this
when recalled on nights like these.
Aug 30, 2015
Aug 30, 2015 at 8:17 PM UTC
And that is all he's after,
said Nesta, that and me
at his disposal at any time
of day, as if I had no need
of my own time, as if I were
just for his pleasure, just
for his enjoyment, and that
time in Brighton, and him
saying: I brought a girl here
once, big she was, had it all
and did she pleasure me? O
Jesus, he said, she could and
did, and we did it over five
times one night, and the bed
old it was rocked noisily, and
the people in the next room
banged on the wall, but we
banged back, and laughed, and
that time we ate that the posh
restaurant in the town, and he
boasted he brought that *****
here, and fed her up, and later
fed up in another way, O he is
a one, and to think my mother,
bless her Irish heart, warned me
about him, said: he's no good;
I’ve seen his type before, he'll
have his way, and leave you
for another, but he hasn't, least
not so far, and if he did? well
serve her right who gets him
next, that's all I can say, and
to think I fell for his patter,
for his old flannel, and him
dressed to the nines, his hair
creamed down, and not a hair
out of place, and he said: after
the show tonight( some show
on the seafront pier), we want
to be up for it don't we,(himself
he means), want to have a good
meal out, and drink or two, and
back to the room and get down
to it, I wondered many times,
what I saw in him, was it the
patter? or the way he dressed?
or just him being what he wasn't
but what I wanted him to be?
and maybe that is all he's after,
that and his loud stupid laughter.
Sep 28, 2016
Sep 28, 2016 at 3:10 PM UTC
Squawks of terror from
mother and child,
a scene never making Hitchcock's
final cut. Competing gulls flap,
swoop,
kamikazi dive bomb
for fallen fried clams. Boardwalkers smeared
in cocktail sauce and blue cotton candy
sweet and sticky. Shrills sounding,
"kitta-wa-aaakee, kitta-wa-aaakee"
as wings slap in spun sugary goo.
She is tarred and feathered.
Gull down! Gull down!
Weekend warriors in Atlantic City
never saw it coming.
The sea wind whips westward
and ocean regurgitates all matter
of gunk. Tampons, syringes, punctured
floaties in shapes of ducks and dragons,
it is ever there
in the gleaming reflection of casinos,
for homeless veterans
to scavenge upon.
Even wounded gulls eat better.
Apr 24, 2016
Apr 24, 2016 at 7:49 AM UTC
Under the Bridge, along the Promenade: we
walked with words trickling through our
waxy lips. Where the Seafront was all silk.
Where the Waxwings, sealed wax tips,
lumbered about the Empyrean yonder:
splayed upon a Canvas
of Sapphire and Azure.
Before the Starry Night has come.
Before we reached the Shore only to
Digress.
"Liebe verleiht Flügel,"
I heard, or read in a Book.
The Streets are crimson rust;
The Spectators in Sanitariums watched
drab passersby. They shambled and
coughed admixt the crowded room, only
to find the Peristyle vacant and dead.
A Mantic Women, cards of dread,
stands on the corner; our
eyes catched, and She speaks:
"Wo bist du?"
"Wo bist du?"
Louder and fists shaking:
"Wo bist du?"
The buildings doddered, filled with
Cuscuta.
In Montauk, where we met, now withered,
covered in snow, I stood - my comportment
unsteady. Flashing in the distance I see
Point Light - Captain Kidd musing with his
Money Ponds - an Angel guiding wonderous
blights - The Recognitions, blimey,
Mr. Gaddis has gone blind - The Faustian
apotheosis abound -
The Streets are crimson rust
filled with dread.
Smelling of Jack-by-the-hedge -
I'm walking...
Noctivagant aura permeates -
Mich.
Jan 29, 2018
Jan 29, 2018 at 8:18 PM UTC
Footprints in the sand.
It’s quiet now; it’s not like it was last night.
All the hangovers are asleep, they have never seen the morning light.
They are dreaming of last night’s fires
And drinking away the days before,
As I sit here upon my rock contemplating the world…
The sea is calm, the wind is quiet; there are birds flying in the sky.
In the distance I can see an oil tanker, slowly floating by.
There are no people here to catch the sun rise,
So I can happily wait until it arrives;
So peacefully I write…
I have my blanket, my picnic breakfast and a vision so wide;
It goes on for miles in every direction
And this picture is illuminated by the dawns early light.
I can see beyond the sand and on past the lifeguard tower;
There is nobody here that needs saving and nobody to guard a life.
As the cliffs remain after years of waves,
All around me I can see the seafront.
I can see the next town over; there are only a few lights on
And I can see the approaching morning sun…
It is hidden behind the man-made buildings, but soon it will rise
And I alone shall be a witness to its beauty
And still I continue to write…
As the pages become clearer with every passing minute,
Eventually I create a full stop, as I have reached the finish;
But my words do not seem complete, so I get to my feet to think.
I turn my back towards the horizon and I speak into the wind…
You have blessed me this day, for all the noise has been taken away.
All thoughts are being quiet; I have a place I can drift again.
So I thank you for your company and all you have given to me;
It is sad to know that my dreams are only ever,
Pebble’s thrown away into the sea.
Reclaim what is yours and wash away all our damage;
We have walked upon your sand enough.
Take it all back into the sea,
For we can no longer stand by and watch
And continue to walk here;
We have already walked here too much.
Take back what is yours, for it was never ours to keep.
This rock I sat upon has been waiting to speak,
For a thousand years, it has helped us to stand tall,
While people use it as a stepping stone,
To get to a place where we can be at one with the world;
But this stone is the shape of you, for you are made of the Earth
And I am just a visitor…you were here first.
I never did find my peace and quiet,
But I felt at ease as the beach went back to the sea.
I rose to my feet to make a change
And not one footprint in the sand did I leave.
(C)2017 Aa Harvey. All Rights Reserved.
Apr 25, 2018
Apr 25, 2018 at 11:15 AM UTC