"seashell" poems
#there are the ones
that feel it climb up
the shadow towards the light,
hesitation on every rung,
each wave of the arising
overwhelms unabated ―
and woe betides those
who are on the run
from a storm's deluge
A rousing ocean breeze
stirs inside the memory
of an unframed seashell
lying on the hearth mantel;
heightened sensitivity
lapping soundlessly,
spindrift plashing
the shoreline
of another world's
feigned peace
Perhaps the muted voice
of guilty pleasures,
hushed by their own
hidden truths
Feeling the unfelt textures
of every stifled vibration
left unbreathed
The naked truth befallen
so cold and lonely
Running in circles,
volatile as all those
unspoken excitations raging ―
and the whispers of those
who hear not
the voices in the wind
An emotionally enslaved heart
tarries, marooned high and dry
in a memory on a distant sand bar
lain fallow for so long ―
stagnant darkness
of an unsated soul
gathered on the back
of a parched tongue
sullied wordless
Rising up through
a dusty hieroglyph corridor
through an unlocked
labyrinth gate; vestige echoes
from somewhere left behind
in an incomprehensible
abandoned wake
It's getting harder and harder
for an insatiable soul to breathe ...
climbing up a tree trunk―
up within the silence
of the listening tree
Toes dug into
the rough bark furrows ―
fingers reaching upwards
beyond their deepest known grasp
A shadow stranded
out on a hangin' bough
hearkening without ears that hear:
“perhaps they’ll listen now“
the wingless bird sings
in psalms that fly away
on tattered feathers
over untamed waters roil
Back to nature’s waning youth,
the bough bends unbroken
to taste the freedom
of the wild absolving seas
Jesse Stillwater
June 2018
Jul 12, 2018
Jul 12, 2018 at 12:41 PM UTC
I have done it again.
One year in every ten
I manage it----
A sort of walking miracle, my skin
Bright as a **** lampshade,
My right foot
A paperweight,
My face a featureless, fine
Jew linen.
Peel off the napkin
0 my enemy.
Do I terrify?----
The nose, the eye pits, the full set of teeth?
The sour breath
Will vanish in a day.
Soon, soon the flesh
The grave cave ate will be
At home on me
And I a smiling woman.
I am only thirty.
And like the cat I have nine times to die.
This is Number Three.
What a trash
To annihilate each decade.
What a million filaments.
The peanut-crunching crowd
Shoves in to see
Them unwrap me hand and foot
The big strip tease.
Gentlemen, ladies
These are my hands
My knees.
I may be skin and bone,
Nevertheless, I am the same, identical woman.
The first time it happened I was ten.
It was an accident.
The second time I meant
To last it out and not come back at all.
I rocked shut
As a seashell.
They had to call and call
And pick the worms off me like sticky pearls.
Dying
Is an art, like everything else,
I do it exceptionally well.
I do it so it feels like hell.
I do it so it feels real.
I guess you could say I've a call.
It's easy enough to do it in a cell.
It's easy enough to do it and stay put.
It's the theatrical
Comeback in broad day
To the same place, the same face, the same brute
Amused shout:
'A miracle!'
That knocks me out.
There is a charge
For the eyeing of my scars, there is a charge
For the hearing of my heart----
It really goes.
And there is a charge, a very large charge
For a word or a touch
Or a bit of blood
Or a piece of my hair or my clothes.
So, so, Herr Doktor.
So, Herr Enemy.
I am your opus,
I am your valuable,
The pure gold baby
That melts to a shriek.
I turn and burn.
Do not think I underestimate your great concern.
Ash, ash ---
You poke and stir.
Flesh, bone, there is nothing there----
A cake of soap,
A wedding ring,
A gold filling.
Herr God, Herr Lucifer
Beware
Beware.
Out of the ash
I rise with my red hair
And I eat men like air.
26k
i want to say something haunting and profound
about the twisting in my abdomen
and the red stain blooming between my legs—
but all I can think about is how far ******* gone I am
and how much it hurts to be a 19 year old girl
with a brain like a jagged seashell
Jul 25, 2014
Jul 25, 2014 at 1:54 AM UTC
We picked the seashells on the shore,
You hear them whisper in your ears,
I always love to hear you share what they speak,
Their words with different voices,
I always thought you just pretend,
So I pretended to understand,
Now you are far
Beyond the horizon that we see
Whenever we watch the sun wake and sleep,
I picked a seashell on the shore
And hear it whisper in my ear,
I hear your voice saying I love you.
Aug 6, 2015
Aug 6, 2015 at 3:02 PM UTC
when i was a boy,
i collected seashells.
i had the most beautiful collection
when i was a boy.
i dreamt of seashells
and what i dreamt was beside
me every morning of everday
when i was a boy.
i had red ones and blue ones
white ones and rounds ones
ones of beauty and of majesty
when i was a boy.
the world marvelled at my collection
the world coveted my collection
i had the most beautiful seashell collection
when i was a boy.
one day i looked out through a window
and saw a boy walking along the beach
he picked up the plainest of seashells
and smiled
i raged and raged and raged
for forty days and forty nights
i raged
when i was a boy.
Jun 19, 2010
Jun 19, 2010 at 6:41 PM UTC
Let us gather seashells
Collect them and dump them in our pails
Then we'll hold a seashell
Then we will bow our heads and close our eyes
And we will say prayers for each other
And pray about things that weigh upon
Our hearts.
~Marian~
Apr 3, 2013
Apr 3, 2013 at 5:57 PM UTC
Sometimes I wish
I was a seashell on the beach
That you would pick up
And keep forever.
Jun 30, 2014
Jun 30, 2014 at 4:28 PM UTC
am i more than a thought
crossed paths with teenagers who knew
no better than to travel down
seashell encrusted beaches
holding hands with the waves as
they left footprints in the sand
Feb 17, 2014
Feb 17, 2014 at 9:10 PM UTC
The Island of a thousand smiles
a thousand miles across the sea
waits patiently for me.
I row as fast as I can go
but influenced by wind and tides
that guide me in all different ways
I am at sea a thousand days.
The smiles wear thin waiting for me to sail in
and
the Island sits so patiently.
Its pearly whites sit tight for me
but I am all at
sea.
May 1, 2013
May 1, 2013 at 1:00 AM UTC
That seashell
you gave me
that looked like a turtle
I threw away
That Marine hoodie
that was "too small for you"
My best friend hid it away.
The entire two letters
you wrote me
live at the bottom of my "junk" drawer.
I deleted you off my facebook
hoping it might help.
I don't bring you up
and walk away from others
if your name is in the conversation.
I fall off the wagon
sometimes
and look at your photo.
But have improved
I rarely notice if your name
is in any of my novels.
I laugh out loud
that your name is Frank.
Blunt,
Straightforward,
Honest.
If only you could live up to your name.
I cried oceans when you went away.
Appropriate considering you're now an ocean away.
I didn't leave my apartment for days.
I've been sleeping on my couch
my bed is stained.
It was a crush
It never should have been more.
But after four years
I only loved you more.
Once in awhile now
this depression sinks in.
And I can hide your things, throw them away,
I can delete you off my page, I can avoid your name.
But these memories will always stay.
Jun 16, 2010
Jun 16, 2010 at 12:55 AM UTC
dark, mysterious waves
roll in the night
as the full moon
casts down a glorious light.
all is still,
not a single sound
until you reach
the smooth, sandy ground.
down there no sand is stirred;
a lonesome seashell sits un-turned.
the purple-pink shell catches
a glimpse of the moon
and from them on dreams
of landing on the lagoon.
but she is too deep into the blue
not a single creature can help her move.
so she sits and waits
for the rest of time
muttering soft calls,
"that moon will be mine..."
May 8, 2013
May 8, 2013 at 5:52 PM UTC
worldly belongings
paper pencils pillows pretzels
bedtime things
blankets pillows secrets sighs
shuddering words
chill moist blossom cinder
seashell emptiness
can you hear the ocean?
Dec 31, 2011
Dec 31, 2011 at 11:27 PM UTC
A seashell
within a seashell
within a seashell
maybe i’m the pearl,
maybe i’m the grain of sand
how would you know
what i am?
layers upon layers
of calcified shine
years upon years
of soaking in the brine
till the scent of the sea
is in my blood
and the song of the whales
is my voice
hold me close to your ear
listen to me sometime
i’ll whisper to you secrets
in oceany rhyme
and if you feel my gentle heat
radiating in your palm
know that it is me
telling you who i am
-Vijayalakshmi Harish
17.09.2012
Copyright © Vijayalakshmi Harish
Sep 17, 2012
Sep 17, 2012 at 6:52 AM UTC
Come let’s squeeze in
while the sphere’s moon-lit cheek
turns her other sunny-cheek.
Come let’s mingle in the splash
while the sunup basks in
swims across the dewy green.
Come let’s try it again
while we are alive and breathing
there is a time for everything.
Come let’s be creative no ocean is deep
while a pearl shines in the seashell.
A handful of earth is wrapped
in the midst of a colossal airy space,
there is still a wonder in ****** green!
Jun 12, 2017
Jun 12, 2017 at 10:38 AM UTC
Peaceful turmoil, and a roar
So blue. The gentle sounds
Come crashing over you. Puckered
Green in a scope white and true.
How can you lose hope
With such beauties around you?
Mar 16, 2012
Mar 16, 2012 at 2:21 AM UTC
sometimes
beside you
when i should be sleeping
i put my ear to your mouth
and i can hear
the rhythm of your breathing
like waves that roar
inside a seashell
it keeps me awake
when all else is quiet
and i forget
about all the loves
and unloves
all the smudges i tried
to unsmudge
all the things before you
and sometimes
beside you
when i should be sleeping
i imagine myself
to be so much more than i am
i imagine myself
inside a seashell
i imagine myself
as a wave
Jun 21, 2015
Jun 21, 2015 at 9:52 AM UTC
Her body was a shell drawn up from the sea.
If you put your ear to her heart
You'd hear a thousand pieces rattle,
A broken orchestra that longed to be free.
Jan 17, 2015
Jan 17, 2015 at 1:57 PM UTC
The dayseye hugging the earth
in August, ha! Spring is
gone down in purple,
weeds stand high in the corn,
the rainbeaten furrow
is clotted with sorrel
and crabgrass, the
branch is black under
the heavy mass of the leaves—
The sun is upon a
slender green stem
ribbed lengthwise.
He lies on his back—
it is a woman also—
he regards his former
majesty and
round the yellow center,
split and creviced and done into
minute flowerheads, he sends out
his twenty rays— a little
and the wind is among them
to grow cool there!
One turns the thing over
in his hand and looks
at it from the rear: brownedged,
green and pointed scales
armor his yellow.
But turn and turn,
the crisp petals remain
brief, translucent, greenfastened,
barely touching at the edges:
blades of limpid seashell.
5.9k
She sat on the shore line with a shell to her ear.
Wanting the sound of the sea to reveal,
if her sweetheart were anywhere near.
Sadly, as she clutched it so close to that ear.
She feared never would she see him again,
after his trip to Port au Spain.
Her pain,
it so fiercely burned into her side .
As she somehow realised,
that his love was maybe denied.
And she cried until the setting sun ,
fell from the sky.
When all was said and done.
Walked and walked til she was gone.
The sun did set,
he and her henceforth met.
Over the foam, they did roam,
The fisherman and his lost lover
(c) Livvi
Sep 29, 2014
Sep 29, 2014 at 9:15 AM UTC
seashell minds, if you
listen closely you can hear
the salt roars of oceans.
the emerald ebb
and flow of ideas that
adds spice to our lives.
we are all drops of
liquid fantasy in this
untamed sea of life.
Jan 4, 2014
Jan 4, 2014 at 4:03 AM UTC
It follows my movements
behind a seashell,
every few steps
it drops the cup
over it's shoulder
prolifically it shifts
positions, so do I,
as slight of hand.
If the secret of love
is buried in his armpit,
and it is, maniacally.
Tho' not the kind
you buy at the movies,
of optimist derringers,
smoking guns.
Still,
flight begins when
the sun goes down
it shifts euphemistic trees
like shadow puppets
into walls of passion,
makes bulimia dreams
of doughnut holes,
something sweet
craving bakery counters
and bagels take up
the lonesome place
still ringing in our ears,
my ears,
placards hanging lobes
of the emotionally distressed,
handicapped dangle
I can't move my tongue
...again.
But, they still hear love
whisper their name
just before
the dawn becomes.
Sunny rising sonic
boom that scatters the birds
all into synchronized
sign language.
We strain,
to hear them sing anthems
over the roof tops,
it makes us happy to hear
every time,
just one more time.
Jun 11, 2015
Jun 11, 2015 at 9:56 PM UTC
if you find one happiness
like the barrel on your head
loaded with a pocket of air for you to breathe
then you know that if you sink
to atmospheric tides
you must find fresher barrels
when the novelty declines
and the oxygen gives way
to the oceanic brine
for the last moments of time
you’re chin-up on a water bed
the water cradles your esophagus
and then you find you surely must
find some fresher air to breathe
but to search is to be dissatisfied
to question once is to imply
that everything can be replied
with answers and with truth
that bucket on your head
running out of salty air
to stay is to slip into death
like listening to the ocean in a seashell
till slow blood flows in too few waves
but could you not also swim?
abandon the comfortable end
for the off chance that some underwater shelter
will serve you shots of oxygen?
the funny thing you find
when you let dying pleasure go
and you’re suspended, all alone
the gas trapped beneath
was too stale for you to breathe
but enough to buoy the unburdened barrel
into swiftly surfacing
Dec 13, 2011
Dec 13, 2011 at 6:37 AM UTC
.
She collected sea shells
I collected sand
She searched for the perfect one
I reached down my hand
I carried a bucket
A basket she did whirl
Mine was filled with tiny grains
Hers with mother of pearl
She came out each morning
Me, just late at night
She adored the sunrise
I loved the moon light
Then one day it happened
My alarm clock didn’t ring
I woke to a rising sun
It was the weirdest thing
I ran down to the shoreline
My bucket in my hand
It’s then I saw her gorgeous face
While I collected sand
I found a perfect seashell
And watched her eyes grow wide
She held out her basket
I placed the shell inside
Then she reached down before me
And gathered in her hand
I held out my bucket
She filled it up with sand
And now each day and evening
We walk along the shore
She told me that she loves me
And her I do adore
So if you see us out there
Strolling hand in hand
Know...she’s collecting sea shells
And I’m collecting sand
Apr 28, 2015
Apr 28, 2015 at 6:58 PM UTC
***But the sea knew that
the mermaid was in love,
for her singing opened every
seashell to show her its pearl...***
Sep 3, 2016
Sep 3, 2016 at 1:37 PM UTC
san diego sun waves waft
in through the grime-claimed window
above the cucumber melon colored tub,
and onto a seashell embroidery,
salmon pink
lukewarm soak plus one more drink
May 12, 2014
May 12, 2014 at 6:21 PM UTC