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Tim Emminger Jul 2016
I found a seashell on the shore
I raised it to my ear
Just to see what I hear
I heard the sea roar
My mind started to explore
I found a seashell on the shore

I found a seashell on the shore
I raised it to my ear
Just to see what I hear
I heard the waves racing to me
It set my mind free and helped me find peace
I found a seashell by the shore, next to the sea

Find your seashell on the shore
Raise it to your ear
What do you hear
How does it make you feel
Find your seashell on the shore, the freedom is real
Marian Apr 2013
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.

Inspired by a Dvd my parents and I like to watch. I dedicate this poem to my Mom!! She is my dearest friend and sister. . . EVER!!!!! :) :) ~<3 ~<3
gee Jun 2015
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
published here:
brinn Jan 10
your smile
reminds me of seashell.

it’s pretty
beautiful, actually.
you may think
it looks like every other seashell  
but it doesn’t.
your seashell is special.

i want to keep it
all to myself.
but i know it’s selfish to
find a beautiful seashell
and take it, keeping it
locked up on a shelf.

it makes me feel
like i’m home.
that seashell reminds
me of all the times
i’ve spent in the place
i love the most.

but when you look
it’s completely hollow.
there’s nothing behind
that seashell.
it’s sad just how empty it is.
Amethyst May 2013
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..."
this was originally typed on my old laptop that didn't have a functioning SHIFT or CAPS LOCK button. sorry.
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
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.
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.
Copyright © 2010 Jacqueline Ivascu
Someone brought me a seashell.

Singing inside
is a sea from a map.
My heart
fills up with water
and little tiny fish,
silvery, shadowy.

Someone brought me a seashell.
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

Copyright © Vijayalakshmi Harish
random nonsense inspired by my cover photo...
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
the Island sits so patiently.
Its pearly whites sit tight for me
but I am all at
nivek Oct 2015
Listening real close to a seashell strapped to your ear
you can hear the rising tides of your blood
as your forever at work heart bleeds in and out
passing around the sea air ****** in through your mouth.
mediocrity Feb 2018
On a bed of wet sand and seaweed left behind
by the receding tide rests
a seashell,

A testament to survival of even the softest forms of life,
now fractured and empty but
still beautiful.

Press it to your ear and listen closely. Can you hear?
That distant roar like crashing waves?
The ocean? No, it's

A song sung in low, muffled moans, a lamentation for the
hollow space inside that was once called
a home.

Lamentation for an existence that once held purpose,
to protect and defend seekers of shelter as a
glistening shield, not

A shell too cracked for all but the most desperate of
hermit ***** to hide in for more than
a moment.

The seashell weeps, for it can do nothing but lie,
beautiful and useless and

Crying too softly to be heard
except by those who

Until the day when a warm, gentle hand scoops it from its
lonely bed of sand into a bucket with
reverence and care

To take it to a place far from the ocean's teeming depths and
the beach's salty shore,

To be ground to luminescence and serve as the star
of eye-catching jewelry that frames the face like
a work of art, or

To adorn the sand castles of children that will inevitably be
washed away, though never forgotten, like
childhood itself, or

To be a cherished memento of that day when you tossed your
fears into the sea and walked away with a sunburn and a
fit of infectious laughter.

The seashell weeps, cradled in its simple plastic bucket,
a ferry into the unknown where perhaps,

That which is
hollow and
broken is
sometimes tho u gotta pick u up and throw u in the gotdamn bucket urself
Jesse stillwater Jul 2018
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
a friend sent  a link to a deeply thought provoking modern classic 70's song about Vincent Van Gogh and the complexities of imperfection some of us relate .... i'd listened to the words prior but never heard before now.

  Title is last final lyric line from:  "Vincent" (Starry, Starry night) 1971
Stu Harley May 2016
a replica of
your heartbeat
sound of
a seashell
Kelly Jul 2015
O beautiful seashell,
sitting atop my dresser--

whiter than the purest milk,
or untouched snow.
Smooth and chalky,
as if crafted by a potter.

O beautiful seashell,
sitting atop my dresser--

crushed under the weight
of a fallen frame containing
the oldest photo
of my friend and I.

O beautiful seashell,
sitting atop my dresser--

I'm sorry to say you've suffered
from the same fate
as my

O beautiful seashell,
sitting atop my dresser--

she shattered us into
dozens of tiny pieces,
and left me as the only fool
bothering to pick them up.
Ben Ryan Mar 2012
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?
OliviaAutumn Jan 2015
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.
Sometimes we can feel broken. The thing is too often I break myself.
Stephan Aug 2016

Cast among the downpour,
gates beneath dark clouds are left open
The creek is rising, drowning underbrush,
darkening tree trunks,
moving swiftly the discarded,
Collecting at the walls of this place,
as stone and mortar slowly crumble

From a desperate vantage point
overlooking nature’s angry powers
I see a shape, a floating aura,
eyelet gown of gold stitch, woven ribbon dreams
Mahogany hair flowing, eyes captivating,
drifting atop muddied raging waters,
directing the flow with blown kiss persuasion

Suddenly swept away, barely a breath remains,
swallowing life in surrendering gulps
Flailing intoxicated waves, undertow’s grasp,
when a hand reaches, fingers interlock
Glazing blue skies whisper in sunlit reflections,
ocean breezes soothe washed out tides,
as a sand dollar wishes on a seashell

And now upon this beach I lie safely within soft arms,
tasting her mimosa lips, warm and sweet
I drink in her flavor neath palm tree shadows,
cool in the heat, but hot of her skin
My heart hears the glistening, tingling my senses,
awashing me in desires impossible to imagine,
as I happily drown in her
Olivia Kent Sep 2014
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
Something a touch different.
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.

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

Out of the ash
I rise with my red hair
And I eat men like air.
starling Jul 2014
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
Olivia Kent May 2016
I picked up an empty seashell.
Thought I'd find it silent.
I held close up to my ear.
It really was a little queer.
For, from the shell came a lovely voice.
Deep but understanding.
It said I had a choice.

I stopped, then I thought.
My heart was trapped inside I was well and truly caught.
A shell that spoke!
Well I never.
I looked closely into the hollow and there I saw two eyes.
Must have been really tiny.

I placed the shell back on the sand.
Walked away with  head in hands.
Baffled if not a little bemused.
As I walked away I heard a crunch.

Felt a hand upon my shoulder.
I jumped somewhat startled.
Jumped near out of my skin.
Turned on my heels.
To see who was there.
Tall dark and handsome.
Before me he stood.
A broken shell revealed something so good.
How he got in there,
I'll never know.
I'll never know or if indeed that's where he's from.
Perhaps he was just the soul of the sea.
He was stood there, next to me.
ordained Jun 2015
& if I held you to my ear I could feel your heartbeat, slow and content with my hand on your chest (speeding up as it moves down, down)

I could feel the softness of your skin, turned the deep pink of a blushing girl—the sun's work— and holding the heat of that close star's burning tendrils

I could feel movement in your muscles as your arm curls around my waist lazily, an afterthought, like it's a natural instinct to pull me tighter in your sleep

I could feel shivers on my bony spine while you kiss iridescence behind my eyes in the way your lips press where my jaw meets my neck

I could feel an utter wholeness that I've missed for so long


You're too far away, a distance that even the "phone call" between the ocean and the little child pressing the shell against her ear cannot fix
Idiosyncrasy Aug 2015
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.
Cheryl Dec 2014
The flower of the Alps told the seashell: "You're shining"
The seashell told the sea: "You echo"
The sea told the boat: "You're shuddering"
The boat told the fire: "You're glowing brightly"
The fire told me: "I glow less brightly than her eyes"
The boat told me: "I shudder less than your heart does when she appears"
The sea told me: "I echo less than her name does in your love-making"
The seashell told me: "I shine less brightly than the phosphorus of desire in your hollow dream"
The flower of the Alps told me: "She's beautiful"
I said: "She's beautiful, so beautiful, she moves me."

i forgot the writer's name i'm so sorry
Sometimes I wish
I was a seashell on the beach
That you would pick up
And keep forever.
Antinganting: A magical charm or good luck piece.
here i await
the dawn’s first light
to shrug off the cool caress
of the moonbeams
silver tinged, fingernailish beauty
i am a lustrous
princess of the deep
yet i’m here
on this sandy beach
for you sunbeam
i’d gladly leave
my home, my hearth,
everything that speaks familiarity
to welcome your strangeness
soak myself in it, imbibe it,
as i have loved the brine
now i wish to fly with you
on your gold-tipped wings
redolent of your perfumed warmth

so then sunshine,
shall we elope?

- Vijayalakshmi Harish
  Copyright © Vijayalakshmi Harish
A rewrite of one of my older poems which seems to have been accidentally deleted. I could not find the backup of the poem either, so I had to rewrite it. Hopefully its better than the original (written in on 25th September, 2012).
Poetic T Apr 2017
I'd just fixed the echo of
tears that
                grazed within me.

Then coalescing before me,
                            you smiled,
                                it was a hit & run.
Thrown back in ruination
as my emotions bled.

You never even checked,
you just proceeded,
and I again
                  was a broken seashell.
Katelyn Feb 2014
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
Vince Paige Jun 2010
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.
07:56 PM 12/7/04
Jay M Wong Sep 2018
She’s like a seashell drifting upon the shore,
Awaiting someone to truly see her worth,
And grasp her beauty to which they’ll adore,
Like the shell aimlessly sitting upon the earth.
Her love’s a treasure that they’ve yet to know,
For there’s so much more than what you see,
She’s but a blessing down to her very soul,
Like the seashell, a gift from the sea.
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?
chuck a stetson Jul 2011
I heard John
sing a song
a sweet melody
for his ocean child
with seashell eyes —
windy smile

his lyrics halved
into meaningless
his heart subdued
in one morning moon
bring tears dripped
on eighth notes
crossed out by Salinger

I listen again
this time through
cupped seashell
on ocean musk
only to see
this chick
with golden hair
glimmering, shimmering
in the floating sky

she smiles
she sings
her name

©2011 chuck a stetson
Shofi Ahmed Jun 2017
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!
Peter Balkus Oct 2018
I love sea.
In my previous life
I must have been a sailor
or seagull,
or a seashell.

This life scares me,
but I'm not scared to die.
I know I will be a sailor
or a seagull,
or a seashell
in the afterlife.
Em MacKenzie Apr 2017
The Canal is frozen solid,
near by my car tempts fate with races.
In my last goodbye each "I" is dotted,
with broken hearts and sad faces.
It reads; "I'm never going to leave you,
my ghost can float along in your life.
While each moving noise will deceive you,
and I'll be bound to you as if your wife."

So you tore me up like an old receipt,
just another object you don't wish to keep,
but you can't return as I did not sell,
I should've seen down payment before I fell.
Do I even know you? I'd like to believe I once did,
A conclusion I drew, and from the beauty you hid.
It's more painful for me to ask,  than for you to have to hear,
I guess you switch up your new mask, at the start of each new year.

I feel so hollow inside my torn up chest,
to the point where I'm not sure which side my heart does rest.
Left or right, I just can't decide,
and it calls out silently, but the beats seem to hide.
For I still grasp at my clothes, I wish to forcefully pull each thread,
as the inner turmoil impose, on my already swollen head.
That is now flooding this page, an explanation to your fully aware mind,
I'm just past that blissful stage, that we could never really find.

— The End —