Resources:

http://www.livescience.com/61229-weird-sea-monsters-of-2017.html

******************************

Once You Were a Mermaid

Now it is your hand in mine, fingers a clutch of frail feathers.
Not much left but spines. Autumn apples, asters’ powder sweeten
evening’s breeze. The last crickets, those that survive
frost in crevices chant their sleigh bell monotone.
Skies open, a coverlet turned inside-out,
satin, silk, coral, a gray soft as ashes. Then, heavy. Then the rains.

Rains lift you, carry you to the sand, leave you on ocean’s porch.
You, little more than a sodden bird within reach
of wavelets’ chuckle. Private conversations water
holds among all its selves. I hear it in your paintings: waterfalls,
pool, ocean, a glacial lake. Moon slices sky silks,
shivers a path upon the water. I release your fingers.
Your luminous eyes glow in the dark.

” Go on…” I whisper, urging you while water smacks,
its lips, silvers your old, old bones. My palms, clams.

I scrub my eyes, salt-itches, sea-scent confuses me,
your feet, frail fins, your legs to tail. At the moment
when the water and fear have risen high in both
our hearts, you realize, once, so long ago you can’t remember,
you were a mermaid, and I, your water baby.

Water closes over your head. Your gills blossom.
Phosphorescence trails your passage.
Everyone knows you can’t cling to a mermaid,
just for a moment, then you feel her slip into the sea.

-Rachael Ikins

By 如何在国内连接国外网站

Sometimes we look for monsters

in the wrong places or

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that we are searching for them at all;

earth rent, we want to peer into scars,

we wonder what new abyss to descend,

and here are ghosts and fangs enough,

so many vents of fury

sulphuring the blackness.

Yet we journey on by fathoms,

compressed, water weighted –

we see dark stars, but what if

we find that there are no real demons

lurking at these depths after all,

no stinging trail of malignancy?

Then we might uncover the brightness

哪些方法可众浏览国外网站

哪些方法可众浏览国外网站

who light up this permanence of night

with their strange beauty.

-Rachel Deering

-Neal Zetter

The difference between us

She’s looking at me, I’m looking at her. She’s posing for the camera ,see?
You know how the story goes; boy meets girl.

I first saw her, out at the Rocks, tail wrapped round her like a cat, basking in the afternoon sun. She was combing her hair (no doubt to get all the seaweed and sea salt spray out). Not with a normal comb, no; with a cuttlefish bone.

She was singing, a strange sort of sound, as if the Ocean was birthing a new wave or life form. Not a tune I recognised, at any rate.

I knew the risks, had heard all those tales about the siren calls, sailors being lured to their deaths, smashed on the rocks.

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She wasn’t much of a conversationalist .But she liked her bling, had it all laid out, treating the shore like it was her boudoir or something! So not so much different to the girls I had been out with before, in that way.

But yet, so very, very different…

I was already thinking of where I should take her on a date whilst we made small talk- the new fish restaurant on the Quay, maybe?

She said she couldn’t commit to man or land, said that the difference between us wouldn’t work.

Still, she let me take the photo anyway, and we left it at that.

国外中文网站、直播总受限？光年路由轻松解决_中华网 - China:2021-3-5 · 众所周知，在国内我伔是用不了YouTube、Facebook等软件的，很多人都在抱怨想看国外的视频或者访问国外网站需要“翻墙”。其实，与国内的上网环境相比，国外网络环境同样堪忧!相信不少身在海外的留学生或者移民，

-Roshni Beeharry

大陆怎么浏览外国网站 Mermaid from Outer Space

Chunks of cheap comet ice
fall from her shroud. Unwinding,
she revives (as in the mythic cycle),
she stands, she melts parts of herself:
dead, living, alien, marine.
Sandy tail, pearl-plastered,
half-human, half-mackerel,
she stirs up red and blue spirals,
ungraphable numbers.
The street mermaid from outer space
travels through perception
in stages,
disembarking from her flying saucer,
hovering on the boardwalk,
becoming the sea.

—Tucker Lieberman

‘the mermaid’

is written, is said, may be sung,
another day. a smudge is all it takes
to start.

once started move on. it may be the wrong
item, it is, just, what it is now, a label.

it rained most of the day ,the roof leaked.

a friend returned that evening.

i will draw the mermaid, with a fish.

哪些方法可众浏览国外网站

The Sea Monsters Lesson.

Welcome to dry land class.
Today we’re learning about similes.
Smiles no chance like.
Sea monsters pictures
See?
Now describe them using the words ‘as’ or ‘like’.
Like what?
Something you think we’ll know.
Who will drown first?
Governor Blobfish
Karen Kraken.
Section 18 toothed shark.
Parking Catfish.
Creeper Octopus.
Leviathan Judge.
Mother-in-law Jellyfish.
Officer Hydra.

Mixed metaphor warm-up.
Come up for air.
Some people see monsters.
I see humans
Life lines on rafts.
Salty lipped lies told by others before.
Far from shore
Certain to go under
Without noticing.

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-Paul Brookes (This first appeared in Visual Verse)

Fishman

She loves him.
though he is water.

Her mam says When I gift you
a fishes tail it will hurt
every time you use it
to and fro like a wave.

It will seem to him
怎样快速打开国外网站

I will give you a tongue.
Every time you sing to him
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You will have each other,
but I will lose you.

-Paul Brookes

-Over the Rail Out to the Irish Sea by Paul Brookes

We picked our way down
to Peppercombe bay,
where the cliffs are paprika
and the grey stones wait
quietly, to be ground by the surf;
through the green hush of trees
to the place where there’s only
the wide sky and the salt sea.

-Sarah Connor

jagged teeth of rocks
black spikes along the shoreline
the slow hush of waves

-Bronwen Griffiths

Obsession

The sucking hiss of the indrawn breath of the tide
draws the land closer, grain by grain,

stealing, in tiny increments,
the gift it takes for itself and piles back on the shore.

This compulsion I know: drawn to the granite edges of you,
again turned aside.

Close as the heart’s core, or as far away as the moon,
are the sources of the timeless force that binds you to me.

Age by age;
tide by tide;
by the dark magic of gravity I take you now.

I am the ocean and you are my shore.
You will come to me.
Grain by grain, you will come to me.

-Yvonne Marjot

Precariously,
between slimy sea rock pools
I see it scuttles

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Sand clouds billows blown
hide fresh prey from predator
who waits all to clear

-Paul Brookes

In isolation
pools await the next tidal door
into the wider sea

-Paul Brookes

Beachcombing.

Useful resources:

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http://www.countryfile.com/how-to/outdoor-skills/beachcombing-guide-things-to-find-along-the-seashore-and-best-beaches-in-the-uk/

http://www.mcsuk.org/blog/post/gillian-burke-plastic-

__________________________________________________________________________________________

-John Hawkhead

怎样才能浏览国外网址 beach combing–

Beach roses
Make me cry

Pickets washed bare
Dune’s graceful curves

Hidden horizon
Hope offered

Silver foam
Chases plover

Chase me
I submit

I feel the smell
Of sailors yells
And maiden’s tears ashore

Laid my back on rock
And watched the clock
Of night sky rolling in

As sun sinks down
Below blue line
Dark silhouette
Embraces mine

Sea frost caresses me
Moist cold lustily
Grabs my bones

Grey mist expanse
you are now home

Gull screech
Soul search
I think I will die
If not here

怎么进入国外的网页

-Karin B

 

 

 

Collecting Sea Glass with Janis

for Janis 大陆怎么浏览外国网站

We could be people in a painting,
two women arm in arm, laughing.
A sudden slap of sea air and sand

and still we laugh as we continue
our walk along the beach recalling
silly superstitions handed down

from our mothers: Never cross knives
or put shoes on a table. I confess
I once walked under a ladder.

‘Sea glass is the answer,’ Janis reassures,
‘find frosted red, rare pink or
kelly-green and wear it for luck
on a necklace of seaweed like a mermaid.’

-Catherine Graham (The poem was previously published in Reach Poetry magazine)

.instruct’d .

Posted on August 24, 2018
There will be a cotton hankie and a bag of beach combed pieces.

Some are very tiny so I tips them onto something white to see. Set up is lining them into rows onto the hankie. I make up categories for the rows and use even the tiniest bits too.

-sbm

Beach Combers

All the decades we wandered the beach
my hand in yours, driftwood, fossils, shells
cracked-open, trickle to an end with sun’s
Autumnal roseate set. The sea
claims you.

It was always the sea, even after you clawed your way
from tail fin to legs, bare feet stamping a pattern
along soft, wet sand. The sea sighed, let you go,
promised to return to lay claim.

Mind muddled by mermaid song, you rest
on your pile of pillows like a small child with
stunned, round eyes. ” How did I get here?”
You ask me while the waves roll in, tide rises,

licks at your feet. Skin the color of storm skies.
I answer ” You got old.” Because it is truth.
Denial, no more. Sea-salt corrodes everything,
dissolves castles we built from upended buckets of sand.

Water rises inside you, sponges soaked from lungs
that once held air enough to shout.

I draw your name in the sand with a stick.
Your face coalesces from the shadows, you and me,
that photograph last April, me, a princess, you,
our castle’s queen. Then you laid your body upon the beach,
bones and wrack yourself. Translucent skin, opal eyes,
waiting for the water.
Waiting for the water.

-Rachael Ikins

Friday: 怎样可众上国外网站 Marine 怎样才能浏览国外网址 Does For Us?

At Bayard’s Cove we’d throw
Tennis ball after tennis ball
Out for the family dog to fetch.
The beach was wracked with drift
Wood, salt scored bric-a-brac-
Matter that the waves sent back.
Long gone, but still I see his head
Above the surf’s lip,
The lick of water in his wake

-Peter Boughton

I see a thin line
which might be half sea
the other half, sky

-Elly Nobbs

Chimes

#SlamWords
We are broken,
whatever you do,
place his letter in a bottle
let us sail to where
lemons and oranges grow
blow shapes on the glass
slowly turning around
let it go with the tides
into the perfect dream
floating on the chimes

-Fi

The seaside

tastes of particles of salt
Swimming
in puddles of vinegar
Atop
Crunchy batter
Surrounding
cod.
The coast
Tastes of sugar
Sprinkled atop
Freshly fried
Donuts,
Babies in trollies scream
For smooth ice cream.

-Anthony J.P.

Dora Incites the Sea–国内如何上国外网站 to Lament

Sees him at the far end of the strand,
squamous in rubbery weed, his knees bobbing
urchins, his lean trunk leaning, sea-treasure for her.

After it all (they mate, like carapaces, in parentheses)
Dora feels coolness in new places, lifts a reused
razor shell, mother-of-pearly and straight

and signals out to the swell of mouldering green.
Dora is electric, in love, and deep water.
Dora, Dora, Dora, in which dread is.

People people the beach, peering
through splayed hands, appealing:
DAW-RAAaargh. A boat sees her passing.

Sea-scribbler’s chest buckles
in aftershock—his quill is primed:
squid-inked and witful.

——————————–

From:
Monica’s Overcoat of Flesh, Nine Arches Press, 2024

-Geraldine Clarkson

Our Hands

Sea stars on the glass.
Sweat toward each other.
Pores open to give kisses
that never touch skin.

Sunlight-fine hairs
on their backs burnished,
late afternoon.

Evenings we send messages
in bottles that float a sparkling cyber-sea, only a wall between us.
Thicker than air, ten feet of granite.

But thin enough I hear you
from the bed where I float toward
a dream: tap-tap-tap,
you tap some song. I sleep
knowing you
are still there.

-Rachael Ikins

Another Tide

Another Place by Anthony Gormley at Crosby Beach

His metal men, barnacled and lichened
stand firm on the beach. I’ve touched them,
marvelled at their beautiful limbs, the penis,
the proud bones of the feet. Each made the same
but changed by different encounters with the sea.
I’ve stood beside them, posed for photographs.

Today, they were dark dots in the spring tide
as the Irish Sea battered them, beating the Mersey
into coffee-coloured spray, thick with silt.
Salt spurted at walkers, the bitter wind
drove fingers to whiteness. The hundred
iron men appeared and disappeared, unmoved.

Do they look out, across the river
back to an Ireland they left on a harvest ticket,
riding the sea fourth class, saving every penny
to send home? Long before the famines,
they crossed backwards and forwards as if
the sea were nothing more than a road of water.

Blight came and hunger followed:
Fever, famine, emigration, deportation.
Tides recede, salt dries on rusted faces.
History’s hard stories are still told here.
Had they tongues to sing, they would voice
a hundred songs of yearning for home.

-Angela Topping

First published in Not A Drop (Beautiful Dragons 2016)

seafoam
spray the rocks
after a boom

~ Christina Chin

rising tide
pounding the rocks
a submerged Islet

~ Christina Chin

salt spray.

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i had not met her before, went in on the off chance. waited a while till she
was free.

she did it different, said nice things about my skin. in a small way she gave
me confidence.

i bought the quiche, sat in the cathedral grounds.

used the salt spray, and did not die.
of it

sbm.

come gently with birth
come gently with life
grow with the place
until we grew beyond how it was

beyond the culture and crowding
thinking
becoming unsettled
moving
retaining memory

1.

cycling the promenade hoping
some one will love us some day

baking down dunes
walking down tracks
barefoot hoping for less paving in town

2. humbling for a home
walking looking in windows
will some one want us
house us?

3. finding the two above
settling for the place where folk
come to holiday beautiful
while we work the bones of it
the grit beneath

bournemouth beautiful

the reason beneath the move away
is beyond any words i have just
now
where folk
come to holiday beautiful

-sbm

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All is the same there.
I left the stone yet the storms may have moved it a little.
I said hello to your hotel.
Yes the Durley Dene is good with a spa and a wonderful cream some tea oh and chandeliers of course. The other Bournemouth hotel whose name I forget was all mirrored furniture and starchy tablecloths.
Saw two films in the little cinema with a fellow traveller while others sheltered from the storm in the hotel lounge with sandwiches and games.
I avoid private views so a day at home after a quick trip into Dolgellau for the post etc. Hope you have a real good time in Dunoon.
Oh there is a good photography exhibition at Burgh Hall and the cafe is open there too. The library is open in the Queens hall and has stunning views.
A friend showed me her photos of whales up the watter. ..teaching their offspring to hunt. The watter turned red. It is said they swam up to Glasgow where they turned and headed back.
The framers up the back road may be open so one can visit his pet lizard. Have

-fun.

-sbm

Ps. There is a shop on a corner in Dunoon. Named Doon the Watter that sells Waverley posters. Rather good.

The Cloud Breakers

plunge and spill in the oceaned sky,
refract in a curve a gust of breath.

Cirrus ripples, cumulonimbus breakers,
your spirit observes as it rises above yourself

spread on a blanket laid on watered memory sand.

Out of body, out of mind, look at the lilted lap
at your feet of cloud tumble, wax and wane

of moon tempered ruffled white.

A tide of clouds inches down,
leaves a faint thought
of where it has been.

-Paul Brookes

Friend

A friend is a buddy, a partner, a pal
A friend’s anywhere, anytime, anyhow
When troubles are piled up
Like fries on a plate
A real friend is there and will not let you wait

A friend will ply your lungs with laughter
A friend will be your sticking plaster
Make you happy ever after
A safety net
A sure-fire bet

A friend is a neighbour, a backer, an aide
Who smooths your rough edges when you’re worn and frayed
When loneliness beckons
Or hopelessness looms
Their kindness will catapult you to the moon

A friend will not refuse a mission
A friend will fuel your optimism
Tough cement that heals division
Erase the blue
Is what they do

A friend’s a companion, a comrade a chum
There are other numbers but they’re number one
When days are huge mountains
Far too tall to climb
A friend is the leg-up that’s lifting you high

A friend will not have cause to doubt you
A friend won’t want to live without you
Even when disaster clouts you
Secure as locks
Like solid rocks

A friend is a buddy, a partner, a pal
A friend’s anywhere, anytime, anyhow.

-Neal Zetter

‘we were friends’ 

more than that with promises

that faded into silence.

i woke this morning the same,

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mists and biblical sheep

resting.

a new grave here,

a new grave near,

while all is growing,

there.

a cloud hangs in the valley

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cdn加速技术 - 随意贴:cdn加速是提升网站的打开速度的吗,cdn加速能提高多少有没有 答：不必考虑服务器的投入与托管、不必考虑新增带宽的成本、不必考虑多台服务器的镜像同步、不必考虑更多的管理维护技术人员。

-sbm

.friends.

. we are friends .

we are friends , we met in the lane.

the words sound like poetry, the quiet
voice sounds shouting in this silence.

it can make windows and opportunities,
space to accompany the music.

travel far and in between, play the right notes,
write notes, and then maybe, all will come

clear. or not.

i need that stop.

sbm.

‘friends.

i am sorry to hear of your day
if you able
the detail
i can listen
a new day
goldfinches on seeding knapweed
simple things

i was to cut it down soon
now i shall not

they balance so sweetly
eating the seed

yesterday was charming
i looked at the trees with clover
underlay
i looked at the garden

i will go again
another day

6.56
late summer
worrying

about friends

-sbm

On Female Friends

Both tote cans of lager,
all in black leggings

get the weekly shop in.
One says to the other who

packs the shop “I’ll stand
on his face. Tell him.

I’ll stamp on his face.”
The next couple,

“Mam, you buy the weirdest.
What’s suet for the birds? Fat balls?”

“It’s your dad’s dinner, pet”
They both laugh.

-Paul Brookes (From my collection “Please Take Change”, Cyberwit.net, 2018)

My Strangers

are friends who haven’t been estranged yet.

All my mates are strangers.
I keep them at a distance.

Chat to them in third person.
Internet on my mobile tells me

when I’ve to give them best wishes
for a special occasion like anniversaries.

They inspire closeness and loyalty.
I can trust them.

They know me.
What I eat, sup.

laugh at.

Strangers are more intimate than friends.

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Oarfish

Narwhals

Narwhals

-Marcy Erb (Artwork she says was inspired by my project. I am honoured.)

-Neal Zetter

The Tench

The only remarkable thing I can say that’s concerning the tench
It doesn’t waste time writing poems of me while it sits on a bench

-Al Barz

-Rachael Ikins

She says of it:

The cowfish is…an acrylic, mixed media painting. This is a poisonous ocean fish. I like painting faces and eyes in particular and this guy just looks like hebis swimming straight at you to see what’s going on. The cowfish title is “Does This Color Make Me Look Fat?” Is quite large bigger than 16” x 20”. The original is available as are prints if something grabs someone’s fancy. People can direct message me on my arts page Ask the Girl Arts on FaceBook.

打开国外网站

Welcome, silver swimmer,
leaper of rocks and sills,
darer of foam and roar,
glittering life-giver.

Offer to our hooks and reels
your own bright self.

We mark your coming,
first of the shoals,
sign of our thriving,
fattener of gaunt bodies,
saviour of fading children.

We will dress you with eagle feathers,
lay to rest on red cedar bark,
sever your head with the best mussel shell,
boil a new kettle,
place you in fresh water.

Your gracious gift is honoured,
not a morsel wasted.

Fly higher, flashing river bird,
fins whirr like wings,
tail lash in joy.
We will win freedom together,
you from the bonds of flesh,
we from our mortal hunger.

Go home, swimmer friend,
now you have met our elders.
Tell your brethren they are always welcome

怎样才能浏览国外网址

She Says “. It opens my Indigo Dreams collection ‘Someone was here’. ”

.whales.

the title got me thinking

we had comics on tuesdays and thursdays
from the middle shop up the hill

sometimes there was a whale
in the story with a picture

round grey with a fountain in it’s head
it’s tail akimbo later

i learned that they don’t look like that
really .

he said

real stars do not have points .

i guess i shall never see a whale
though some bones are over the door
in mallwyd church porch

up the road

-sbm

Journey Home

Mother-moon pulls me east.
Fat silver face, 13 days into
trembling month on the lip
of summer.

I feel my roots,
in my gut, do not try to resist. I am
a small crab who scuttles 25 miles,
white-wash,
beach sand, leave

poetry threads,
necklace strands,
claw marks
with my sisters.

Almost six decades
ago I floated, plankton
until sea tossed me
onto land.

When wind and waves rise
I cling to a rock. There are bugs,
rotting minnows and
seaweeds to sort.

In the moonlight
we savor. We grip,
burrow, lose a claw
to a predator. Yet,

my sisters are my home,
25 miles in one night
following the beckoning silver fingers of Mother-moon.

-Rachael Ikins

open sea
a clam shuts tighter
in the pebbles

国内如何访问国外的网站

running tide
in the rock pool
foraging sea bass

~ Christina Chin

Two Tied

fishtails. Mam and me,
Swim away from his slaughter

offriends and neighbours,
fall of Ash and mortar,

Taste of burning skin.
Not sure who me father is,

As me mam goes with owt
in trousers. Her first names

Promiscuous but folk, ‘specially men
call her Promise. She calls me Lust.

Me Dad could be Chaos or War.
Me mam’s been with both.

We’ve scarpered from Destruction
who clamours atta end on us all.

Mam and me lept into watta,
as fish tied together wi ship rope

So as we can’t drift apart,
tho ad be glad if we could

as ad like a life a me own
not chained to her,

and how can I tell her
am getting younger by the day.

Soon al be a bairn with a bow and arra
and tiny wings shooting me

Arras off not bothered who they hit,
an consequences of giving folk

bits of mesen, so their bodies hanker
like me mam after owt with a pulse.

-Paul Brookes

(From my as yet unpublished collaboration with Iranian artist Hiva Moazed: Kosshali)

_Rachael Ikins

She Says: This is pen and ink with colored pencil. Title is “Weee!!” A baby sea turtle.

It is an art trading card available as well.

Sea Cucumber

Both by Rachael Ikins

Feeling, Ironic

Manatee,
Solemnly seeking
A place for life,
The peace of warm waters –
Do you feel?
Or, is that a curse
Singularly
Reserved
For what we call
Humanity?

Humanity,
Violently seeking
To restore – What? Order?
With tear gas, and oppression.
Do you feel?
Or is that a gift
Singularly
Reserved
For the greater
Animal kingdom?

-st

Links And Bios

-Al Barz

A performance poet and event organiser who’s been around the block many years, Al Barz now resides in a semi-rural West Midland alcove. Responsible for Spoke in the Lamp event, and SpokeScreen during lockdown, Al keeps popping up at pubs, theatres, cafes, festivals when a slot
appears, adding to his many semi-rural alcoves within high-heeled media platforms.

Calgary Bay on Mull

-Yvonne Marjot

saltmarsh at Cape May

-Wendy Notarnicola

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Formby Sands

This beach is not for sunbathing,
not at this time of year.
Inland, birds may sing
and hawthorn’s pink tips
froth in the woods, but here

wind makes new partings
in my hair, blows shell-grit
ground by sea-roiling
into my mouth and eyes.
The dunes have swallowed you.

I wade through shifting sand
which sucks and ripples
as I try to follow.
Words are ripped from my mouth.
Where are you? I flounder

think I’ll never find you again
scale sand hills close to crying,
not that anyone would hear me
in this banshee place
of screaming gusts and gulls.

When we find each other
between dips and rises, your calling
and mine, things we dare not say
rise like distant waves,
glitter in cold spring light.

-Angela Topping

a blue heron wades
through its own reflection –
salt marsh at high tide

windy morning –
a flock of sandpipers
huddle by the dunes

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Saltmarsh in October

Small groups of skylarks rise and spiral-soar
and distant curlews keen their plaintive cry.
Runnels and peaty pools reflect the sky.
The wind disturbs the rushes and my hair,
like a new lover’s rough caress – and flings
the gulls about the sky on paper wings.
My feet are silent on the sandy path
save when they step, unheeding, on the black
pods of the pistol-popping bladder-wrack,
strange to my ears – while stretched, before my eyes,
in orange, russet, lichen-yellow hues,
the marshland lies in many-textured bands,
a sampler by a needlewoman’s hand,
its hem a distant estuary-blue.

-Jenni Wyn Hyatt

First published online in ‘The Road not Taken, a Journal of Formal Verse’, Fall 2015

Tuesday: The Strandline

-John Hawkhead

Along the Strandline

Bare feet squelch furtively,
lungs gag at weeds
fermenting, lamenting.
Foraging for sea soft glass
in amongst deserted
debris, snickered at, avoided.
A milky thread laces
slippery orange,
hesitant fingers pincer,
easing away gunk,
held up to the solitary sun
a string of forgotten pearls.

-Anna Chorlton

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Its purpose, woven
across the landscape.
East Strand, a beach of shells:
mussels and clams. Cast overboard,
washed up; stranded.
Above the high tide line
lobster pot pyramids.

Stone walls, pincushion
bleached-wood net needles,
colourful markers, buoys
and floats, decorate gardens.
Lawns quilted by drying nets.
The harbour seal, circles,
disturbs oily rainbows.

Ebb and flow history, the rise
and fall of quotas, trawlers
trailed to bog-land. Burnt.
Those who remember
and those who don’t.

-Gaynor Kane

-Rachael Ikins

Not Quite Low Enough

High tide’s
strand line mostly
dried eelgrass where you stand
near the lighthouse; the blue herons
aren’t here.

-Elly Nobbs

gentle breeze
in her wet tangled hair
the ocean smell

~ Christina Chin
The Haiku Foundation
Photo Teresa Cobb

Stranded

The bandstand by the strandline
rocks. I dive to salvage
the wreckage of what you have been
saying between the sips of pale ale.

In the part we don’t see sand often,
yet my ears seem to be filled with
the golden grains. The local pickpocket
returns my perpetual empty wallet.

The bandstand now play Good Vibrations.
I love the colourful clothes. Sunlight fiddles
with things premonition proclaims
as soon to be lost. We are white noise.

In buzzing flickers the image of the strandline
stares at the dead whale drifting this way.
……………………
……………………
Three Dead Lines
.
days stroll by strandlines

the misplaced swab test result
and town-lanes emptied

-Kushal Poddar