Monday, May 26, 2014

Driftwood sketches (hand on heart)

Day dream
night scene
sun blinds
moonshine
dawn tide
faded light
sand in shoes
it’s old news

Coffee break
body shakes
cut grass
needn’t ask
black jam
long man
driftwood
it’s all good

From Beachy Head
to sofa bed
Long Reef
to good grief
the aftershocks
the lock stock
a red hand
sun tanned

Hawley sings
a child swings
Orion’s belt
the sky melts
spread light
like marmite
if it’s Earl Grey
it’s Tuesday

The lakes edge
sleepy head
red wine
not this time
a butterfly
flits by
a dolphin glides
the ocean wide

Painted beach
cold feet
golden mile
warm smile
hot shower
stolen hours
a sea mist

the last kiss

Sunday, May 25, 2014

Cornish Cliffs

Those moments, tasted once and never done,
Of long surf breaking in the mid-day sun.
A far-off blow-hole booming like a gun-

The seagulls plane and circle out of sight
Below this thirsty, thrift-encrusted height,
The veined sea-campion buds burst into white

And gorse turns tawny orange, seen beside
Pale drifts of primroses cascading wide
To where the slate falls sheer into the tide.

More than in gardened Surrey, nature spills
A wealth of heather, kidney-vetch and squills
Over these long-defended Cornish hills.

A gun-emplacement of the latest war
Looks older than the hill fort built before
Saxon or Norman headed for the shore.

And in the shadowless, unclouded glare
Deep blue above us fades to whiteness where
A misty sea-line meets the wash of air.

Nut-smell of gorse and honey-smell of ling
Waft out to sea the freshness of the spring
On sunny shallows, green and whispering.

The wideness which the lark-song gives the sky
Shrinks at the clang of sea-birds sailing by
Whose notes are tuned to days when seas are high.

From today's calm, the lane's enclosing green
Leads inland to a usual Cornish scene-
Slate cottages with sycamore between,

Small fields and tellymasts and wires and poles
With, as the everlasting ocean rolls,
Two chapels built for half a hundred souls. 

John Betjeman

Friday, May 16, 2014

She paints the sea red

The moon paints her lips red, opens the door and shines. Her jewels glisten on the curves of the water as her hips dance to rhythm of nature.

Thursday, May 15, 2014

Poetry (in ocean)


Viking
North Utsire
South Utsire
Forties
Cromarty
Forth
Tyne
Dogger
Fisher
German Bight
Humber
Thames
Dover
Wight
Portland
Plymouth
Biscay
Trafalgar
FitzRoy
(Finisterre)
Sole
Lundy
Fastnet
Irish Sea
Shannon
Rockall
Malin
Hebrides
Bailey
Fair Isle
Faeroes
Southeast Iceland