Beachcombing
As the tide retreats, it leaves behind
Once hidden treasures, for folk to find.
Left revealed, is a long strip of shiny, wet sand,
Where treasures, now at their journey’s end, will land.
By the sea, small pieces of glass have been ground,
Leaving their once sharp edges, smooth and round.
There are a few fallen feathers from visiting gulls.
Smooth, egg-shaped pebbles – both shiny and dull.
Shells of all shapes, such as cones, conches, and scallops,
Are washed ashore by the powerful sea, as it gallops.
There are lions’ paws, kings’ crowns, tulips, angel wings,
Slipper shells, jewel boxes, moon snails and other things.
Sugar Kelp, Bladderwrack and Dead Man’s Fingers,
Are some of the seaweeds which, on the shore, linger.
The sight of numerous pieces of discarded litter,
Leaves behind a taste, in my mouth, that is bitter.
Pieces of driftwood, many with interesting shapes,
From the endlessly shifting sea, make their escape.
If, along a sandy beach, you take a relaxing wander,
There are many treasures on which you can ponder.
Folk can while away many an hour of pleasure,
Sifting amongst all the newly arrived treasure.
An hour or two spent exploring a sandy cove,
Can potentially reveal a whole treasure trove.
poem by Angela Wybrow
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Related quotes
In The Shallows
AMONG the shallows where the sand
Is golden and the waves are small,
I love to lie, and to my hand
How many little treasures fall!
What shells and seaweed grace the shore,
What happy birds on happy wings,
And for companions, what a store
Of humble, happy, living things!
Yet the sea's depths are also mine,
And in the old days I used to dive
Into the caves, where corals shine
And where the shimmering mer-folk live.
I am the master of the sea
In deeps where fairy flowers uncurl;
That treasure-house belongs to me,
Those amber halls, those stairs of pearl.
But now thereto I go no more,
Because of all the argosies,
Deep sunk upon the ocean floor,
Where all the world's lost treasure lies.
Where loveless laughter curls the lips
Of wild sea creatures at their sport
About the bones of noble ships,
My ships, that never came to port.
poem by Edith Nesbit
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When Crystal Hearts Are Broken
When crystal hearts are broken
You cannot make repair.
The warmth and love you cherished
Turns then, to cold despair.
Its pieces of love shattered;
Though small, shall sparkle still.
So gather them as treasures
And keep them, if you will.
For crystal hearts when broken;
Though shattered and no more,
Are treasured for their beauty
Displayed to you before.
The pieces, just remember,
Though sometimes hid away;
Still sparkle like a treasure
When they're put on display.
The world should see such treasures
Because they're oh so rare.
Crystal hearts add value
To lives of cold despair.
And crystal, when it sparkles
In whole, or just in part;
Still is, of all its vessels,
True love's most favored heart.
poem by Greenwolfe 1962
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One fine Day: perhaps for J T Ellison
The sea lies millpond calm and still, obedient to the Goddess’ will.
She has decreed it must be so and thus the ocean far below.
Represses its own urgent needs and to the Goddess’ will accedes.
Its gleaming surface satin smooth. It has no choice to tell the truth
The mistress of both sea and sky.Sees no good reason to say why.
She chose serenity tonight; she rules the sea and has the right
to give instructions to sea which must obey immediately.
Sometimes she lets the breakers roar as they approach the rocky shore.
The daily tides which ebb and flow, she will allow to come and go.
Although there is no urgency she knows of their necessity
The high tide will sweep clean the beach and leave behind its furthest reach.
A tide line marked by oddities which have been carried on the seas
From here and there and everywhere. Jetsam which can be foul or fair. Beachcombers will explore to see what treasures they can take for free.
Though they prefer the aftermath of some fierce storm that shows the wrath of the ocean in angry mood. Because they have long understood.
The treasures which they hope to find, an angry sea will leave behind.
A tranquil night produces less of valuables that will impress.
The early birds who comb the beach above the high tides which can reach much further when theres been a storm and far exceed their usual norm.
Tomorrow morning they will find the sea has not left much behind.
But they will still search carefully because they think that there might be
some treasure they have missed before. When they have searched the sandy shore
Beach combers are a hopeful breed, they know one day they will succeed.
Grow rich beyond their wildest dreams their heads are full of madcap schemes
of what they’ll do as wealthy men but keep on searching until then.
It has been known before today that some beachcombers came away
with golden doubloons by the score which they discovered on the shore.
I do not claim this can’t be true. I think such finds are rare and few.
I have researched the evidence and find that most is sheer nonsense.
But local legends long endure although no one can say for sure.
That any treasure ship was wrecked along this coast but I suspect.
That it makes little difference, dreamers aren’t known for common sense.
8-Jan-09
Http: // blog.myspace.com/poeticpiers
poem by Ivor Or Ivor.e Hogg
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Nuggets Of History
Watching the tide slowly recede,
wondering what treasures it left behind.
What little nuggets of history
it has left lying on the shore.
Walking along the damp sand,
you look for something
that might just catch your eye.
A rare coin from a distant era
lost in a shipwreck somewhere.
A slice of someone’s life
from a long gone past,
or it could be an old bowl
someone had eaten from.
Now its fragments have washed ashore
and lay in front of you.
A token given back from the sea
in place of lives it stole.
You may find these and many more
if you walk along a quiet shore
just as the sea recedes
to carry on it journey once more.
Roaming restlessly
on this earth, it calls its home.
22 September 2008
poem by David Harris
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A Wounded Angel
How sad to see
thousands of butterfly wings
freshly plucked
scattered on the ground.
How sad to see
Wounded Angels flounder
at the cliffs edge
one by one
falling into the abyss,
a young girl holding
out her hand
trying to hold her sandy heart
pieces
from sifting through her fingers
grain by grain
blown away by the wind,
Orphan Eyes
slowly closing-
taken by the Caped One.
How sad to see The Haunted of the World
closing the door to Hope,
Rainbow pieces
scattered along
the freeways.
All these sad scenes-
blazing memories-
motivate us
to say
never again to:
ripped up butterfly wings;
wounded angels floundering
atomized sandy young girl hearts;
dead children,
Hope murdered in the streets
Rainbows crying sadly
along side our freeways.
All too sad.
All too much
to ever forget.
All the more necessary to prevent.
Humans
should not tolerate this,
we
mustn't.
poem by Lonnie Hicks
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Ashore, ashore with the tide’s flow
Ashore, ashore with the tide’s flow
As in a sack some thing washed in:
And lay amidst the shells
And pebbles of the shore
Amidst the lapping of the waters rude
And the sea-waves’ roar.
Ashore, ashore with the tide’s flow
The sea-waves washed her in
One eye was closed the other open
And on her golden hair
Were drops of red:
Wild lapped the sea-waves and the cloud
Frowned on the sea-shore
Amidst the lapping of the waters rude
And the sea-waves’ roar.
How many winters rude have skimmed
Their frozen fingers on the white breast
Of the pale moon-lit lake a-dreaming sound
How many a Spring of green
Has come and gone:
Since that ashore, ashore with the tide’s flow
The sea-waves washed her in
Her clothes that rich were tattered were
Unseemly with the smoke of cigars
And the drunk smell of alcohol
Her look was wild and sad and raw:
Wild lapped the sea-waves and the cloud
Frowned on the sea-shore
Amidst the lapping of the waters rude
And the sea-waves’ roar.
poem by Emmanuel George Cefai
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Microphone Fiend
Yo, I was a fiend before I became a teen
I melted microphone instead of cones of ice cream
Music orientated so when hip-hop was originated
Fitted like pieces of puzzles, complicated
Shot grabbed the mic and try to say, yes yall!
They tried to take it, and say that Im too small
Cool, cause I dont get upset
I kick a hole in the speaker, pull the plug, then I jet
Back to the lab ...without a mic to grab
So then I add all the rhymes I had
One after the another one, then I make another one
To dis the opposite then ask if the brothers done
I get a craving like I fiend for nicotine
But I dont need a cigarette, know what I mean?
Im raging, ripping up the stage and
Dont it sound amazing cause every rhyme is made and
Thought of, cuz its sort of...an addiction,
Magnatized by the mixing
E-f-f-e-c-t
A smooth operator operating correctly.
An e-f-f-e-c-t
A smooth operator operating correctly.
E-f-f-e-c-t
A smooth operator operating correctly.
An e-f-f-e-c-t
A smooth operator operating correctly.
But back to the problem, I gotta habit,
You cant solve it, you silly rabbit
The prescription is a hypertone thats thorough when
I fiend for a microphone like heroin
Soon as the bass kicks, I need a fix
Gimme a stage and a mic and a mix
And Ill put you in a mood or is it a state of
Unawareness? beware, its the reanamator!
A menace to a microphone, a lethal weapon
An assasinator, if the people aint stepping
You see a part of me that you never seen
When Im fiending for a microphone.
Cause I take it to the maximum, I cant relax see, im
Hype as a hyperchrondriac cause the rap be one
Hell of a antidote, something you cant smoke
More than dope, youre trying to move away but you cant, youre broke
More than cracked up, you should have backed up
For those who act up need to be more than smacked up
E-f-f-e-c-t
A smooth operator operating correctly.
An e-f-f-e-c-t
A smooth operator operating correctly.
An e-f-f-e-c-t
A smooth operator operating correctly.
An e-f-f-e-c-t
A smooth operator operating correctly.
A smooth operator operating correctly.
A smooth operator operating correctly.
A smooth operator operating correctly.
A smooth operator operating correctly.
Uh!
Music orientated so when hip-hop was originated ...originated
Fitted like pieces of puzzles, complicated ...complicated
Music orientated so when hip-hop was originated ...originated
Fitted like pieces of puzzles, complicated ...complicated
Music orientated so when hip-hop was originated ...originated
Fitted like pieces of puzzles, complicated ...complicated
Music orientated so when hip-hop was originated ...originated
Fitted like pieces of puzzles, complicated ...complicated
Music orientated so when hip-hop was originated
Fitted like pieces of puzzles, complicated
Music orientated so when hip-hop was originated
Fitted like pieces of puzzles, complicated
Music orientated so when hip-hop was originated
Fitted like pieces of puzzles, complicated
Music orientated so when hip-hop was originated
Fitted like pieces of puzzles, complicated
cause Im an e-f-f-e-c-t
A smooth operator operating correctly
An e-f-f-e-c-t
A smooth operator operating correctly
An e-f-f-e-c-t
A smooth operator operating correctly
An e-f-f-e-c-t
A smooth operator operating correctly
A smooth operator operating correctly
A smooth operator operating correctly
A smooth operator operating correctly
cause Im an e-f-f-e-c-t
song performed by by Rage Against The Machine
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Driftwood
Pieces of wood intertwined like the bodies of lovers
Smooth edges ridges and curves for me to discover
Entangled branches held together building a new form
Intimate confrontations left behind by a great storm
The wood shows cracks like the wrinkles of skin
Bleached out by salt and sun a piece of art therein
To me my love - you seem like the driftwood I found
You are beautiful and smooth all the way around
Your expressions are throughtful and sad at the same time
My heart you have captured committing a victimless crime
You carry the marks of life and adventure on your face
I would love to drown in your arms within your embrace
Like pieces of driftwood connected by fate together
With you I can withstand life in any kind of weather
I want to become a better me with you forever around
Like the beautiful wood we are for eternity bound
© 2011
poem by Kristina Louisa Carr
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Enchant
The waves roll up the shore
across a sandy beach
as couples watch the waters
weave in between their toes.
The moonlight bathes them
as they walk along the shore.
The sun has rested its head
within a glowing sunset
that fired up the evening sky
leaving the moon to enchant
the lovers as they walked by
along the sandy shore,
leaving only their footprints
to be washed away for ever more.
20 November 2008
poem by David Harris
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Treasure Hunt
I've been around the world in my mind
Seeking treasures I did not find;
Chasing the rainbow on an endless trail
Just like a puppy chasing it's tail.
To the depths of the great blue sea
Seeking that which was hidden from me;
Just what is it I'm looking for?
When I find it, will I still want more?
What will fill my every need,
Turn my mind from ravenous greed;
What will satisfy my hunt for treasure?
What will overflow my life with pleasure?
Time flies by as I grow old
Still looking for that pot of gold,
Never once stopping to realize
It was always there before my eyes
A well marked trail in the form of a cross
Leading to treasures that will never be lost;
No sorrow, no greed, an endless life of pleasure,
The end of the rainbow with heavenly treasure.
poem by Ronald E. Blacklock
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Delighted, Delirious! 22.09.09
The house is in good taste except
next to my bed, a water hyacinth
and white flowers, a riot of pink
a little doll, glittering fairy
wings in a purple hue
Books and pictures of fairies
stuffed animals, sea-shells on
a string, a shiny butterfly, purple
beads, no-one can take my kitsch
away
No-one can criticise my taste in
my room, I am rich when I look
at my treasures, as precious as
beautiful thoughts, my production
sheet was correct
For the first time ever - I am
so glad, so delighted
so delirious!
poem by Margaret Alice
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Gliding In The Air
A bird is wrestling the wind with its feathers,
Even then the flight is smooth, as smooth as the air.
Best of the eagles are against the flight of others,
Eventually they look like a mouth, as smooth as the air.
A strange spectacle has been captured in the rain,
After a bird, not reptile, does fly south, as smooth as the air.
When strangers bespeak a multifarious journey through the air,
I gather it is more than just levitation or youth, as smooth as the air.
I love the young journey to the east,
A happy rhythm up north, as smooth as the air.
Why do we hesitate to look powerful?
When we glide in the sky, as smooth as the air.
poem by Naveed Akram
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Memories Of The Beach
We went to the beach to get wind in our hair
to stand on the sand and simply to stare.
To let the surf tickle toes and dampen our clothes
as we played 'run away'
from the wavelets at play.
We went to the beach to climb on the rocks
find cool shallow pools where we'd take of our socks,
and peer in the waters to see what we might find
that the waves of the sea,
had last left behind.
We went to the beach to find coloured shells
the kind that when placed to our ears
make the sound of the ocean appear,
and gathered rocks that we never would find
in the places we walked,
for most of the time.
We went to the beach and all that, we did find
and the smell of the salt refreshed our tired minds.
I'll never forget the laughter and sounds
and the freedom to run,
on that wet sandy ground.
We went to the beach my family and I
and there we were one,
with the ocean, the beach, and the sky.
poem by David Taylor
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Glass Beach
Glass Beach
Waves gently crash
in distant froths salty brine
on drawback sand.
Beach pebbles rattle
smooth curved and worn
upon shoreline wash.
People gossip.
saunter back to vans
full of sandy hope
and scratched legs
with brush off hands
on sunburn red.
Fish swim batter fat
to be served with chips
and curry pot sauce.
An alcoholic sea
laps upon a beach
of glass broken bottles.
Fields Of Gold
There are fields of Gold behind the little house
Filled with the greatest of treasures
Bronze, Gold and Silver
Do you remember?
Remember our childhood, Our life’s
The shinning Silver sparkling in the skies
The brightest Bronze hidden under the ground
The greatest Gold glimmering through the fields
Can you see them?
Picture it in your mind
All the times we danced
Every time we laughed
Where we used to love
Or have you forgotten?
Forgotten the good, Forgotten the bad
Every memory
Every moment
Every word
I wish you’d remember
To turn back time, So you could take me
Take me to the gold
To the fields on a summers day
To our fields, our treasure
The Silver, The Bronze
The Gold
But the treasures gone
The house still remains
The fields just as empty as the day we left
Times have changed
Our life’s have changed
Our Silver gone dull
Our Bronze all rusted
Our Gold long forgotten
It was never there
The winds of time and turns of the earth have seen to that
But I remember
I cry for the children who found the greatest of treasures and those who lost it so soon after
And I dream of dancing and singing and running and laughter, of the treasures that lie in the fields of Gold.
poem by Carrie Halliday
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Glass Beach
Glass Beach
Waves gently crash
in distant froths salty brine
on drawback sand.
Beach pebbles rattle
smooth curved and worn
upon shoreline wash.
People gossip.
saunter back to vans
full of sandy hope
and scratched legs
with brush off hands
on sunburn red.
Fish swim batter fat
to be served with chips
and curry pot sauce.
An alcoholic sea
laps upon a beach
of glass broken bottles.
poem by Adrian Cox
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Beach after storm
The largest stones are piled against the sea-wall
since that huge storm, a hundred years ago.
For the sea will never leave the beach alone –
might you think it would fling
the smallest stones the furthest?
No – to re-assert its power,
it challenges the heftiest resistance,
with inexhaustible, ruthless determination
rolling, thrusting, flinging in impatient storm
the largest, furthest; then grading with such patient delicacy
over the years, the smooth but fine-scratched stones
of so many colours – how can it have found,
how long for it to find, so many lucent colours of wet stone?
These sometime finds – searching with a child’s fine eye –
of purest pebbled marble - how many thousand miles
has the sea rolled these from southern shores?
And these smooth stones of reddest brick,
or rubbed, etched glass? Or ancient serpentine,
bright green?
Then after a night of wildest storm,
the air intoxicating with its ozone,
new treasures thrown up on the beach:
green glass globes from fishing nets,
cork mats, boat wood, torn seaweed
in thick chunks like beached, exhausted octopods;
the beach re-shaped; even some parabolas of sand
while the seethe… keesh… of the dying storm
draws incessantly, then spews the finest shingle
in its maw like a hungry concrete-mixer.
The beach spreads out its shining, wet
new treasure for the child-bright eye.
This afternoon, the rock pools will be full;
all will be new; sea-god a child again.
poem by Michael Shepherd
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A Parable
BETWEEN the sandhills and the sea
A narrow strip of silver sand,
Whereon a little maid doth stand,
Who picks up shells continually
Between the sandhills and the sea.
Far as her wondering eyes can reach
A Vastness, heaving grey in grey
To the frayed edges where the day
Furls his red standard on the breach,
Between the skyline and the beach.
The waters of the flowing tide
Cast up the seapink shells and weed;
She toys with shells, and doth not heed
The ocean, which on every side
Is closing round her vast and wide.
It creeps her way as if in play,
Pink shells at her pink feet to cast;
But now the wild waves hold her fast,
And bear her off and melt away
A Vastness heaving gray in gray.
poem by Mathilde Blind
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At Low Tide
at low tide
try walking on the shallow water
now be surprised
for you can see the edible snails
the treasures of the sea
right at your feet
ready for your picking
it is what happens too
at the lowest ebb
of your life
keep on going then
for the same treasures
shall lay beside your feet
keep looking
just keep looking
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Relish Small Pleasures
Relish small pleasures
As they are the treasure
That season our lives
With joy that survive
And show us new hopes
And new laws to cope
With troubles of life
That do survive
For life is a trip
Whose journey as a grip
To hold joy and sorrow
And dull and bright tomorrow
So its good for us all
To enjoy all big and small
Joy and life's pleasure
As they are great treasures.
poem by Seema Chowdhury
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