"seasalt" poems
i.
Next to the seashore
Of Boracay beach;
Seahorse's oscillate
To the turquoise seep.
ii.
Dawn turneth dusk
As the firefly's light;
The hole's in the sky
Burning brightly, heaven's sight.
iii.
Mine inamorata valentine
Covered in seasalt salve;
Out of the deep blue
She arise's from the shell's.
v.
Walking toward's me
Coming mine way;
We lay upon ourn blanket
Whilst cuddling, reminiscing the day.
©Brandon nagley
©Lonesome poet's poetry
©Earl Jane nagley dedication
Aug 31, 2015
Aug 31, 2015 at 1:56 PM UTC
swim until you can’t see land
until names etched deep in cardiac tissue blur
and fade, scored over with seasalt and creases of a million maps,
a secret stash of maps. absurd and hoarded and crumpled under carseats and
rolled neat
and boastful in umbrella holders or worse, framed and hung
Maps jotted freehand on napkins stained with tea and mustard and left
to be bused with the crusts and pocketful of change.
swim until you can’t read the maps.
the lines to here from there are arteries
on your fresh, clean heart.
Nov 4, 2012
Nov 4, 2012 at 12:15 AM UTC
Crashing waves against the crunch of sand
Touches my feet
Sinking into the softness beneath me
As the water stains my toes blue
And paints goosebumps
Paints chills
Across my legs
Up to my stomach
Full of the same crashing waves
Those which curl
And spin in whirlpools
Up to my chest
Into my lungs full of seasalt
And the bitterness of the morning sun
Down every branching vein
That reminds me of mangrove roots
Yet pale and blue
So small and delicate
It reaches my own shaking fingers
And to the rosiness of my cheeks
All I hear is the soft ringing of windchimes in my ears
And the splash that dissipates into nothing but tiny droplets
Maybe that’s what keeps me awake at night.
May 24, 2021
May 24, 2021 at 8:22 AM UTC
i am wearing a kimono,
this sheer, garish, floral shred of fabric that wafts about my frame.
the cafe people snip at it with their eyes full of sharp edges.
ive been here all day
the view is terrible,
the music
is like the sound of a snail in seasalt.
little
crackles
of wet flesh hot and retreating, no, burning.
but i am so tired I cant move.
maybe it isn't so bad,
maybe I am just being difficult...
everything,
even the kiss colored leaves that
toss themselves down the boulevard,
seem shrill to me.
all i can
think about
is what you said to me last night
"a pretty face is a loaded gun"
tearing holes into me with your angry eyes.
you know
the line itself is crap,
a splinter in this thigh,
it is snapping, that line, under all the meaning
i gave it in my drunken storm.
i walk along that line,
as though it is stretched between sky scrapers,
high above like a tightrope.
today all the great buildings that surround, give me perspective on my size,
and they hiss
as great, hollow objects seem to do sometimes.
now that iam awake
i see that it doesn't make sense
when you said it
you were swimming in a gin bath and
playing the poet with a shredded heart
but iam trying to give you credit
and find something other then an image
-image of my body
with a heavy, black barrel protruding from my throat
and a tantalizing trigger, curling like a tongue taunting you
to pull it
and blow your ******* skull apart-
you were just trying to offend me thats what i see.
dont blame this face, you are just angry.
goddamm the music here sounds like nails!
that man over there with the sloppylips looks like he might disintegrate
in worse shape then me I think,
I hope.
anyways i was saying dont blame this face
thats right i say iam beautiful,
you said it first though.
though you only said it, in search of the trigger.
christ,
we all need to get up and go,
this place is like a horse's mouth
lets all get up and walk out together in a thread of gorgeous bodies who just
wont take it anymore. lets go.
forget it. wait
what was i saying?
Feb 1, 2010
Feb 1, 2010 at 9:27 PM UTC
“As old as man,
Way back before the past…”
Said by the historian in the perpetual cemetery,
His book and ours open on the same blank page
“What is to become of us,
we are just memories of sound in a silent room”
The image of man
Tearing down his own tower of babel
with an “Eloi!, Eloi!” to himself
Grasping at the light
Without thought of the fire
All felony and no fingerprint
forever
And I watch
And I watch
And after my illness, I walk alone
And notice the words of children
collecting sun in a bucket
To 80 years from Spanish misery
To Syrian sand and tears
Mixing with the shores of ****** and Liverpool, London and Lemuria
Nothing gathered
Nothing gained
We slip further into the walls of parliament
Slip into the walls of web, corridors of code
And hear of occultist cataclysm
and those so intelligent all before them is dismissed
(“eloi, eloi, I am eloi!”)
In cold grey-green bathrooms
of flatblocks or apartment buildings
licking seasalt and gunpowder
from the fingers of our Atlantic cousins
In human skin suits
Oct 6, 2016
Oct 6, 2016 at 7:21 AM UTC
The last words of an upstart
Coming into their own
Feels like the heart stopped but the fire has grown
Wild and strange
Bristles with energy
****** expression unchanged
The face of adversity might’ve put on some weight
Surface unearthly
Distorted and framed in odd spotlight
Reflection is way beyond my means but I’m alright
The waves stay unchanged
Adamant in resolve and I’ve learned from the same mix of granite and seasalt
Great leaps come grand skyfall
I wish you sun rays
Sometimes I even wish I could stay
But we have our own fates
They clashed for a time but now we part ways
Just til the next time our paths cross and blaze trails across the skyline
Whirlwinds and paradise
Never missing the heartlines
Forever kissing the starlight
Jun 26, 2015
Jun 26, 2015 at 2:26 PM UTC
Bittersweet butterscotch summers
Beachside with you
Seasalt caramel evenings with beer
So saccharine sweet
Baby, please break my heart
Chocolate mint biscuits
Break easier than my heart
I’m a lolly shop of love
And I thought I had the flavour
You would take upon your mouth
But I was wrong
Take my feelings
Snap them like honeycomb shards
I know you can do it
Nothing tastes sweet for me anymore
Please, I’m sick of stirring batter
That I cannot bake
I’m choking on bitter almonds
But I would never feed you
Cinnamon cyanide cupcakes
Take a drink from my angel cake cup
Honey lemon tea from me
Or drop the tea cup on the floor
Burn my dulcet agony
Or listen to the tick-tock timer
Because I want to close up shop
Break my candy heart
Between your teeth,
My bubblegum boy, and burst your bubble
Or kiss me with your laffy-taffy lips
Sweet temptation
And sweeter bliss
With this power over me
The choice is yours
But please, break my heart,
My sweet heart
Jul 1, 2018
Jul 1, 2018 at 7:01 AM UTC
She smelled of burned skin and sunscreen
And as I watched every grain of sand
Find its way past
Endless legs and golden hair
I couldn't help myself but wonder
If her lips would taste like seasalt
With a touch of honey ***
Jun 12, 2015
Jun 12, 2015 at 6:48 AM UTC
Sadness is blowing all across the sidewalks here. This town is an old scar, worn on the arms of too-tough teenage skinheads. I don’t belong here anymore.
I tried to become someone who fades into the background here, just another curly head in a sea of Texas hair, but I’m too different to be the same. I come from water, brownstones, and seasalt air. I don’t belong here anymore.
And so I write letters back to Boston and empty homesickness into little paper cups, saving it for later. I can be alright here, growing up and meeting people I could’ve never imagined, if I want it. The question is, do I? I feel like I don’t belong here anymore.
Did I ever?
Apr 23, 2013
Apr 23, 2013 at 5:55 PM UTC
As rough and as difficult
life may well be
it's still so deeply beautiful
down in the
philippines
The beauty of the village
might not be apparent
at first glance.
What deters at first
might be the killing
and the nature of a life
dictated by chance.
But once you start accepting,
adapting and reflecting,
you'll notice that it's just
the island way of living.
Nurture nature's native nest,
share what yield the fields have held,
food to feed for feeling folk,
care about your neighbors health.
Live in tune with natures wrath
but don't exceed her measure
stick to filipino paths,
thus warmth and generosity
will provide you with pleasure.
Red Horse Strong for everyone,
Tuba, Tanduay and San Miguel.
Menthols, **** and beetlenut,
you just have to treat us well.
Sabong's not for the soft,
it's difficult to watch.
Roosters duel over
who avoids the cooking ***
blades fly through the air
and blood adorns
the sand with spots.
The winner stays a champion,
the loser's in a plastic bag, granting us that evenings dinner
and we've just made our money back.
Wet markets aplenty,
with fish you've never seen before.
Smells of seasalt, blood and gore,
mix to form a memory,
akin to sobering melody.
Watch out for the Aswang
and do not break a mirror.
Keep the deadbolt shut at night,
to avoid unpleasant surprises.
The ocean's at your doorstep
and so are the bananas
and the coconuts.
Skinny teens disguised with bandanas,
strapped, riding through the village.
Don't worry they're just cousins,
standing vigil, chasing cops.
Fistfight near the fish ponds,
neither one backs down.
Tilapia watch eagerly
for who'll sink to the ground.
Their brother came by earlier
selling pastries with his friend.
Buy three each for everyone,
your total's fifty cents.
Everywhere there's laughter,
music, sun and food.
Really nothing better
than the filipino mood.
Jul 29, 2025
Jul 29, 2025 at 10:00 AM UTC
got back to my apartment
got ****** up as hell
to remind myself
of all the things that are me
stars and mountains,
an idividual gravity
sang sad songs
filled with Eddie, breathing
and seasalt
to bring forth my occult
the little witchcraft in my skin
I washed it down with a cigarette
to remind myself
don't give in
Jan 21, 2015
Jan 21, 2015 at 2:37 AM UTC
"The sea cannot be his, cannot be his. The sea cannot be his."
He woke up on her side of the bed, an echo pounding down deep in his head. "The sea..."
He reached for the bottles he kept within arm's reach - as he struggled to twist off the first cap, his key keeper knocked on the door before walking in a breakfast tray elegantly arranged. A feast for two.
Although by now the knocks had become mute, this one was as different as yesterday's, carrying the sound of hope. A flash flood of memories filled his head. He thought of what he would say only to drop the bottle of pills, cursing under his breath as the door slowly opened.
His heart bled a little bit. The room darkened - the pound in his head returned bringing him to a rage of black tears. He tasted salt. It burned more than the tip of the tongue, corroding his pride before clinging like oysters to his vocal cords, blocking his airway.
His keeper entered the room in goose feather gloves and goose feather shoes - setting down the tray, she picked up each pill from the floor and bed and pointed to a letter-sized envelope sitting on one corner of the tray. "This one came early this morning."
He picked up the envelope, held it up to the light of the keeper's eyes and then brought it to his nose. Taking in more than a few breaths, he fell asleep.
The sea...
He sat on the rocks of Gibraltar. He crossed the sea with his eyes before resting them in the dim light of the old light house.
Breathing in waves, exhaling seasalt and fear, he opened the envelope and began to read.
May 4, 2016
May 4, 2016 at 12:38 PM UTC
golden sunlight shines down on the white sand
glaring onto our backs, freshly rubbed with sunscreen
you just jumped out of the ocean, your hair glistening with seasalt
i was never a fan of the water
but you get me to try new things
smiling in my sundress, i look over my book at your face
your eyes are scrunched as you take a bite out of your sandwich
that you crafted so experimentally yourself
i return my gaze to the pages and you put your arm around me
looking back at you makes me realize how lucky i am
Apr 13, 2020
Apr 13, 2020 at 4:55 AM UTC