"shearwaters" poems - Hello Poetry

Crumpled feathers tumbled on the waves, Part-interred in low-tide sandy graves. High-tides flush and dig them up again; King-tides dump them where they will remain. Tangled bodies salted from the surf, Shearwaters drowned and turning into earth. Sun and rain will soon make hollow bones Little whistles when the west wind moans.

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Jun 26, 2010

Jun 26, 2010 at 2:18 PM UTC

mark-allinson

Spring Storm

Crumpled feathers tumbled on the waves, Part-interred in low-tide sandy graves. High-tides flush and dig them up again; King-tides dump them where they will remain. Tangled bodies salted from the surf, Shearwaters drowned and turning into earth. Sun and rain will soon make hollow bones Little whistles when the west wind moans.

8

The furrows are drying in a woodlouse summer. Each quiet year proves they were inexpertly dug. Empty eye sockets the flowerbeds shrivel and each tulip bulb is just a useless ******** Earthworks crumble into riverbanks, the defective rock dances bed-ward. The clay browns the water. In the dusty corridors of sunlight we are the balled up little hedgehog late for the earthworm and the screen-saver, bouncing but never touching the corner. I’ve sat dumb and still as words dwindle on a screen. Somewhere else hands delve into crowns of sticky, soaked poppy. Wet and soft they stink of sugar. Liberated calves with liberated hoofs gambol in mud and rough tongues curl on apple picking fingers. Slugs glisten With fairy-tale arrogance. Happy and fat in a giant’s vegetable patch. Somewhere else the smell of low-tide isn’t a crusting of salt, seagulls, ******* and a reminder of torpid shallows but profound ovulation. Nesting puffins, shearwaters, an ocean view cottage. Shepard’s peachy sky. Summer is willing. Keep calm. Count her freckles. I’ve walked through the forest seen hearts in trees. Bark grows, gold stars roll and the guileless acolyte, not hungry but dry bends over a keyboard and counts an orchard’s wealth in slushy apples. Mud and sand on the carpet. Eyes sticky and red. Not black.

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Aug 2, 2017

Aug 2, 2017 at 12:30 PM UTC

joe-bradley

Mud and Sand on the Carpet

The furrows are drying in a woodlouse summer. Each quiet year proves they were inexpertly dug. Empty eye sockets the flowerbeds shrivel and each tulip bulb is just a useless ******** Earthworks crumble into riverbanks, the defective rock dances bed-ward. The clay browns the water. In the dusty corridors of sunlight we are the balled up little hedgehog late for the earthworm and the screen-saver, bouncing but never touching the corner. I’ve sat dumb and still as words dwindle on a screen. Somewhere else hands delve into crowns of sticky, soaked poppy. Wet and soft they stink of sugar. Liberated calves with liberated hoofs gambol in mud and rough tongues curl on apple picking fingers. Slugs glisten With fairy-tale arrogance. Happy and fat in a giant’s vegetable patch. Somewhere else the smell of low-tide isn’t a crusting of salt, seagulls, ******* and a reminder of torpid shallows but profound ovulation. Nesting puffins, shearwaters, an ocean view cottage. Shepard’s peachy sky. Summer is willing. Keep calm. Count her freckles. I’ve walked through the forest seen hearts in trees. Bark grows, gold stars roll and the guileless acolyte, not hungry but dry bends over a keyboard and counts an orchard’s wealth in slushy apples. Mud and sand on the carpet. Eyes sticky and red. Not black.

52

I rollover on the bed face the wall stare at the lines and cracks. I give the wall a talking to, tell me lies. I'll tell you my lies. and i'm telling the wall, the future looks bright. i'm planning my own crazy, this time, i use a black magic marker, draw a wide rectangular picture window across the white wall, then sand, seashore, and sea stacks in the ocean. can you smell the salt air? i'm asking my wall. don't look at me cracks, like that. the wall sighs, and the bones of this old building reply with a moan. i'm inventing my own madness, so look, the sand pipers are darting here and there across the sand avoiding the gentle lapping of the waves. and the long wing shearwaters flying low, gliding, just barely above the tips of waves. i'm planning my own foolishness. some loves last for so long like a song without a name and you never know when love will walk into a heart and I'm going to run far away from sidewalk ledges rooms with cracks in the wall, far away from here. and, Oh, wall, hang not the albatross around my neck.

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Jan 31, 2025

Jan 31, 2025 at 10:04 PM UTC

guy-scutellaro

///the cracks in the wall///small room, no window///

I rollover on the bed face the wall stare at the lines and cracks. I give the wall a talking to, tell me lies. I'll tell you my lies. and i'm telling the wall, the future looks bright. i'm planning my own crazy, this time, i use a black magic marker, draw a wide rectangular picture window across the white wall, then sand, seashore, and sea stacks in the ocean. can you smell the salt air? i'm asking my wall. don't look at me cracks, like that. the wall sighs, and the bones of this old building reply with a moan. i'm inventing my own madness, so look, the sand pipers are darting here and there across the sand avoiding the gentle lapping of the waves. and the long wing shearwaters flying low, gliding, just barely above the tips of waves. i'm planning my own foolishness. some loves last for so long like a song without a name and you never know when love will walk into a heart and I'm going to run far away from sidewalk ledges rooms with cracks in the wall, far away from here. and, Oh, wall, hang not the albatross around my neck.

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