a tideline is much too fast, i think
to obscure every detail of
i know this isn't a crescendo and
yes i realise it's not always
but there's not enough of a
distance to turn the light out
you're farther than i can reach
but everything settles
a simmering of muscle under skin
unobscured and heavy.

Anthropogenic artefacts
Heart attacks
hearts attacked
Dead calm gyre
Tide line debris
You and me
and I
Beach combing
the detritus
of us
and them
and they
Invasive spaces
hidden faces
aroma of decay
Kicking over seaweed mounds
Lost and founds
Seeking out sun sparkled jewels
the aroma of decay
the plastic looks like ruby
the netting gossamer light
life moves amongst the mass
massing moving living
and dying
I save one shell
to liberate the memory
To fix it
in the opalescent bisque
pocketed
treasured
that tide line
left behind remains
from us
all of us
Everyone tries
amongst the stinking tangle
of uselessness
of spoil
to see the value
to seek and love the life
appreciating
interpreting
beauty in our tideline
Personal life left overs
the things we leave behind
left behind
beached beyond doubt
dried beyond quenching
Those hours
objects
people and places
those cruel elements
took away
Stripped from us
only to dispose of them
because they could
because we could not stop them
Tide line
physical
metaphorical
epitomized by those eyes
that shell
the reason
why walking on beaches
makes us feel better

the wavelets,
nibble
at our toes.
as my boy
and i comb
the tideline,
for tiny treasures.
curls blowing,
ever which way
in the salt
tanged breeze.
little hand holds
red bucket,
the
clicksnickclack
of shells
already collected
is a comforting sound.
as we
meander along,
soon we
will turn
and
wander homeward
to warmth
leaving the sealife
to their own
care.....until,
the next time.

i walk...
out into the sun,
through the creaking gate,
down accross the strip
of brown driedup grass,
over the already warm,
under my feet, tarmac
to the roads crumbling edge,
all the while, the kookaburras are laughing
with glee and the rainbow
lorikeets, are gossiping about me....
i walk down the cliff side steps, seventy three and
then one last, doozy jump,
onto the squeaking sand.
stop a moment now, to
shed my shoes and shirt,
down to the tideline...
now, i am leaving land,
for wave and froth and
beating water, keep striding
through, to the deeper salt
and then, suspended,
in the ocean.....
feeling free...
as i give myself to it and it gives to me....

          **back to the mother,
      my souls own, delight,          
   saltwater  washing
                           heals all.

walking on the beach
yesterday we picked
up a scallop shell

white to ivory on the outside
multi shades of purple within
truly a beautiful thing

once home and hearth to the scallop
or plate to the serving of he
after his demise

sometimes decorative window
on the sandcastles side
sometimes shovel to dig themoat
to turn back the tide

not often but at a pinch
a rental for a naked crab
til a better fit is found

platter for a sea bird's feast

marker for a lost wicket
in game of rounds
or beach cricket

necklace on silver thread
part of small creature roof
as the tide surges over head

if we had found two
could claim it at a bra
for small breasted
mermaid too.

once part of life, vibrant and small
eventually to, become particles
of sand, tossed about in wave
and sea.

the scallop shell,
what beauty
delicate but strong,
calcium at its finest

tideline jewel,
and a great skimming tool

we left the scallop shell
with the waves, to continue
it's journey, we gave it more days

my insomnia has gifted me unexpectedly
on this pre dawn morning.
i share the beach
with a single sand plover and a large work crew of sandbubbler *****
as they work their spherical graffitti magic.

i expect if i thought long enough,
my mind may make the practical connection, between the darting and bobbing of the stiff stilt,
red, legged bird
and the hyperalert scurryings of soft shelled, orb infatuated, crustaceans.

but, i prefer to play peekaboo witb the sun,
as it peeks it's sleepy rotound rim over the rippling bedsheets of the ocean's horizon.
eyes blinking, crafting opulent dusky lavenders and apricot oranges,
that meander lazily across, the brightening skybed.

i am alone on the beach until,
the next soul comes
this is my kingdom.
i stand firm and
breathe the tang of salted lands.

there is a deep silence
in my soul,
which i take to be completeness.
with neoteric expectancy and unchained exuberance,
i turn and run along
the firm sand's, edge of the high tideline leaving fading, ephemeral footprints
behind me,
scattering the little crabworkers every
which way.
i run in rhythm with the crashing waves
and we eat up the sand
until i am spent.

i sit and watch as the riders of the wave arrive.
their lithe young frames silhouetted by sunlight,
they stand at ten feet tall.
i wave and hand my kingdom over to the knights on fibreglass coursiers.
they mount their steeds
and begin the morning's tidal hunt,
for the perfect wave

and we would get up early
so early that the stars
would still sit high
in the dark night sky

we would drink milo
out of plastic cups
and eat oval arrowroot biscuits
spread thickly with butter

we would line up to go to the loo
one last time before piling into
the old car, sliding across bench seats
half our world packed into the boot

then we were off, on the old country roads
still sleepy for the first couple of towns
stopping at Jacaranda for a cup of tea
lukewarm, milky and sweet from the thermos
half a cheese sandwich each, and a fearful trip
to the draughty long drop toilet...looking for redbacks
the whole time, but only finding spinning daddy long legs

after that back into the car, for two hours of
winding our way down, the big hill,
listening for the clearnote  call of the bellbird,
watching for wallabies and wombats on the road fringe
and the bigger kangaroos, bouncing away
across the clearings...

at the bottom of the hill, Grafton a quick stop
to stretch our legs eat the cupcake,
used to bribe us into decent behavior up to that point
and another vist to the conveniences.
before the run down the coast,
past the big white resort
and into Brooms Head,
for a week of surf and sun
fish and chips, buckets of prawns,
frosty fruits and sunny boys
in tent and caravan,  
swimmers and towels,
we were tribal and free,
roaming the tideline
staying up at the campfire,
sleeping and waking
with the birds......
always such an adventure....
those idyllic days of summer

wandering the almost deserted beach
linen slacks turned up to
the knees and a flowing
shirt that flags out behind her.
hat in hand she stoops and rifles through the firm tideline sand and deftly flicks her treasure into a plastic blue bucket.  her feet shift to accomodate the salt water wavelets that play tag
with her manicured toes.
she glances sideways at the sea
judging time and tide
as she gathers her bucket
of pipis
destined for the dinner table.

Wish me away,
Because my darkness can never mix with your sunshine smile,
As I try to play insanity for joy the only thing that changes is the way my face looks,

                         My poker face,
Trying to play a game I'm failing at only gets me as far as hello,
                             Or goodbye

Or I'm sorry,

I'm sorry for my masks,
I only wear them because I can't tell if someone is doing the same to me.
My insanity is my bliss and bliss has become this apology,
I think I've mistaken bliss for ecstasy and I miss more than I hit because mirages are the only thing I actually see,

               Except for maybe your smile,
With a hint of those ocean blue eyes
Like the pacific tide line,
I tend to find myself wishing I wasn't just one of those guys on the side lines
The other side of the rainbow should I say...

I guess that was my fault because I missed out when it was my time to shine so,
Let me start again,

Hi.
I have a tendency of holding onto things that won't hold me back in return;
Like your soft hands,
Cause holding them gives me the hope that maybe the warmth from
Your heart would maybe reach mine
Maybe just maybe,
And that maybe holding on would lead to our fingers being more than just platonically intertwined,
That dancing with you doesn't really mean more than just friendship with me,
I've mistaken my own desperation for you liking me,
I'm sorry
My darkness is blinding
So seeing an angel take form in a blond is sight defining,
Because my far sightedness mixed with my astigmatism so looking I had to walk backwards to see what was happening in front of me again,

Your blinding to me
The Bane of my existence is wishing for things instead of acting
My tideline is a rip current
I don't want to drag you down with me

          So wish me away,
Because my past is passing into my present
And I'm forgetting that the gift of today is the present,
So,
I need to present to you this apology
Here it goes,
I'm
Sorry

What happens now?
Now this poem will wash away like me,
Holding on to you is like leaving the darkness permanently,
See,
I have a tendency of holding onto things that won't hold me back in return,
and I don't,
I don't want to drag you down with me

Sanibel's white sands
Tideline shown by seashells
Refreshing gulf breeze