A Mountshannon October Morning
The stranger sat upon the park bench,
and looked across the Lough.
Smoke from his pipe
blended with the cool morning breeze.
The distant mountains patchwork of green
sat under the hand of dawn’s rolling mist.
The white capped dark waters rolled endlessly against the shore,
nudging the sheltering boats against their moorings,
and washed over shoreline rocks
speckled with lichen and moss.
A pair of swans with their signets sheltered
in the calmer waters of the harbour
away from the white capped waves.
The sun edged its way into the sky,
from behind the sleeping mountains,
spreading red and oranged fingers
to touch the retreating night clouds.
The village adopted ginger cat
made his morning patrol
along the harbour’s sleeping boats,
in a search for breakfast.
The autumn coloured tree leaves,
fluttered in the morning breeze
as the wind and waves rolling
over the shore bound rocks disturbing
the dawning silence.
poem by David Harris
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The Fishing Village From Across The Bay
The quiet solitude
of brown fishing boats,
anchors weighed,
riding gently, the soft
movement of the calm waters.
Silent slapping. As the waves
kiss the sides of the boats,
their masts tall and strung
with spiderweb riggings.
Loose canvas flaps idly with
the passing of a breeze,
tugging against the anchor.
Tiredly, the sun continues
its slow journey home, reaching
honey-gold fingers of warmth
through the blanket of clouds.
The orb of power-filled
light-giving energy gives one last
defiant flash as it breaks momentarily
through the clouds.
A dog barks from across the bay
and white puffs of smoke
rise slowly, lazily to meet
the clouds. The sleepy village
readies itself for the sleep
that will bring the new day,
and the sun, rested
from its duties of the day before.
The waves continue to lap
gently against the fishing boats,
Silhouetted gently against the
golden stretch of water from across the bay.
Silence sets in and prayers are
said before bed, and good night
kisses are exchanged and
then the lights are extinguished,
from across the bay.
poem by Kevin Parkin
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From Gordon’s bay harbour
From Gordon’s bay harbour
we took a boat
along the coast
of False Bay
and your fingers
knotted through mine
while we sailed
into the ocean.
The launch went up and down
the waves of a calm sea
although a light breeze
was blowing, throwing
drops of spray
into our faces.
Your cheeks were glowing
and your eyes
had the look of adventure
and anticipation
and we took several photographs
of the scenic mountains,
the beaches and shore.
We stopped sailing
at a island of rock
protruding from the waves
that was covered with seals,
which they called Cape sea lions.
The stench of seal dung
and rotting fish
hang heavy in the air
and the boat was rolling to and fro
as well as up and down
and you and some
of the other passengers
got really seasick
and very nauseous.
I took some more photos
trying to ignore the stench
and photographed seals,
waves braking over the rocks,
and everything
but the sea around us.
Those seals had their eyes open
unlike us
for predators like sharks
and shrieking as a saw
going through a board
while more got on those rocks
and sharks started to circle
that island and the boat
and we also felt
like something in the food chain
and were relieved
when the boat’s engine
started again
at the first try.
poem by Gert Strydom
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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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The Good Soul
Peacefully wandering,
is your good soul,
over the mountains, oceans
and the earth whole
through the villages,
balmy woods and fields,
in the morning breeze,
over the green leaves
moving with the clouds
from place to place,
leaping with the waves
at the shore as they race
sometimes, you sit still,
quietly on a dew,
or on my cheek, you trickle,
in the raindrops few.
poem by Dr Madhavi Grace
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A Stranger On The Shore
The waves rush up around my feet
from an early morning tide.
Seagulls bob up and down
resting on the water
waiting patiently
for the underlining currents
to carry their breakfast in.
The sky is dark and cloudy
with the looks of an approaching storm.
I stand here as an observer
as life goes on around.
A stranger on the shore
waiting here for no one,
breathing in the fresh salt air
filled with ecstasy at all that I see.
The regal white crowned waves
dancing momentarily around my feet.
They say the world is your oyster
and the pearl is all you see.
From my lonely vigil,
I gather wisdom in
as I stand alone at each morning tide
a stranger on the shore.
poem by David Harris
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The Shell
AND then I pressed the shell
Close to my ear
And listened well,
And straightway like a bell
Came low and clear
The slow, sad murmur of the distant seas,
Whipped by an icy breeze
Upon a shore
Wind-swept and desolate.
It was a sunless strand that never bore
The footprint of a man,
Nor felt the weight
Since time began
Of any human quality or stir
Save what the dreary winds and waves incur.
And in the hush of waters was the sound
Of pebbles rolling round,
For ever rolling with a hollow sound.
And bubbling sea-weeds as the waters go
Swish to and fro
Their long, cold tentacles of slimy grey.
There was no day,
Nor ever came a night
Setting the stars alight
To wonder at the moon:
Was twilight only and the frightened croon,
Smitten to whimpers, of the dreary wind
And waves that journeyed blind-
And then I loosed my ear ... O, it was sweet
To hear a cart go jolting down the street.
poem by James Stephens
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Ghost Of Our Love
Watching the waves rolling to the shore,
as I sit throwing pebbles into the water.
The smoke from my cigarette
drifts over my head,
caught in the evening breeze.
Pictures of you move across my mind,
and I sit wondering
how many waves you will see
before you reach that distant shore,
where your new life will begin.
Tears leak from my eyes,
as I remember
why you were sailing away.
There was nothing I could say
to make you stay.
The storms were too long,
too dark in intensity,
and too many.
Now you are going half a world away.
I wish you luck my love.
Standing I look out, at the restless sea.
For a few moments,
an almost eternity.
I stand there seeing nothing,
but curling while rolling waves.
’Good luck and goodbye.’
I whispered in the breeze
before turning away,
heading back to n empty home
that is waiting for me.
The ghost of our love,
my only company.
As I reach the path,
there is a light on within.
My key slips into the lock,
it turns and the door opens.
Your silhouette stands there
with arms outstretched.
Is this just a ghost of out love?
Our fingertips touch
and my heart begins to beat once more.
poem by David Harris
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Curling Waters
The tide rolls in on curling waters,
then stretches its fingers to touch the shore.
It hisses as each wave breaks
and its white waters pound against
the sands and rolling stones.
We can sit for hours watching
its endless race
to see which finger
can go farthest up the shore.
Its waters then retreat
as a new wave takes its place.
25 September 2008
poem by David Harris
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The Echoing Sounds Of The Ocean Waves
I LISTEN TO THE ECHOING SOUNDS
OF THE OCEAN WAVES HITTING THE SHORE
AND THE SEAGULS FLYING DOWN
TRYING TO CATCH MORE
WHILE MOUNTAINS SEEM SO FAR
AND THE PEOPLE ON THERE SAIL BOATS WAVING
NOT KNOWING WHO YOU ARE
AND TIME DON'T MOVE THE HOURS STAND STILL
WHEN YOUR OUT IN THE OCEAN ENJOYING THE AIR
NOW THE SWEET BREEZE RUFFLES YOUR HAIR
BUT YOU DON'T CARE
YOUR JUST LETTING YOUR SELF BE FREE
JUST LISTENING TO ECHOING SOUNDS
OF THE OCEAN WAVES HITTING THE SHORE
poem by Bruce Martone
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Two Weeks Into September
Two weeks into September the leaves begin to brown
In the groves and in the Town Park of in and near Millstreet Town
And soon the redwing thrushes in the old fields will be seen
When the gray frost of the cold morning does temporarily cloak the green,
Two weeks into September by the mountains far away
Few singing birds at daybreak do sing to greet the day
Yet in my flights of fancy i hear the jackdaws call
And i hear the robin singing in the cool days of the Fall
With a tongue that can't stop babbling every night and every day
The old stream from the mountains to the river winds it's way
And on a rock in the river around where the rapid waters flow
The dark brown dipper is singing the one with breast as white as snow
And on the second week of September by the mountains far north of here
The shortening days are getting cooler in the Autumn of the year.
poem by Francis Duggan
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When the Fishing Boats Go Out
When the lucent skies of morning flush with dawning rose once more,
And waves of golden glory break adown the sunrise shore,
And o'er the arch of heaven pied films of vapor float.
There's joyance and there's freedom when the fishing boats go out.
The wind is blowing freshly up from far, uncharted caves,
And sending sparkling kisses o'er the brows of virgin waves,
While routed dawn-mists shiveroh, far and fast they flee,
Pierced by the shafts of sunrise athwart the merry sea!
Behind us, fair, light-smitten hills in dappled splendor lie,
Before us the wide ocean runs to meet the limpid sky
Our hearts are full of poignant life, and care has fled afar
As sweeps the white-winged fishing fleet across the harbor bar.
[Page 35]
The sea is calling to us in a blithesome voice and free,
There's keenest rapture on its breast and boundless liberty!
Each man is master of his craft, its gleaming sails out-blown,
And far behind him on the shore a home he calls his own.
Salt is the breath of ocean slopes and fresher blows the breeze,
And swifter still each bounding keel cuts through the combing seas,
Athwart our masts the shadows of the dipping sea-gulls float,
And all the water-world's alive when the fishing boats go out.
poem by Lucy Maud Montgomery
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Everyday Movement
Everyday Movement
Millions of scattered translucent dewdrops,
mark many secluded and misty hilltops,
sparkling gems enchased on the flora,
waiting to be picked up by the morning’s aurora.
Lethargic clouds float in a cerulean sky,
climbing up and up onto a mountain high,
endlessly drifting in a cobalt coloured seamless stream,
rising out of Thunder’s reach into an afternoon dream.
A wild white stag darts between the trees,
following a faint scent; caught upon the breeze,
startled by evening thunder’s earthly laughter reprise,
It carelessly leaves a trademark trail for hunters to surmise.
Rolling surf rides the peaks of ocean waves,
the shining moon pulling reign so the crests’ behaves,
clammy crabs breach sandy beachheads; wary of stalkers,
while lunar light leaves an argent passage to halcyon waters.
poem by Dale Mullock
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Morning Time
Wind was blowing through the trees
I could hear the rustling of their leaves
The morning sun sneaking through the clouds
Birds singing morning sounds
For i love this time i say
Morning of a new day
I wonder what the day has in store
In the distance i hear the waves crashing the shore
For it is morning time and all is a buzz
From the depths of the oceans
To the skies above
Good morning morning i always say
My your a beautiful day
Maybe you might rain today
Your still beautiful anyway
The sombre breeze that blows around
The birds singing
As i spread my blanket on the ground
So i lay here looking into the sky
Motionless waiting and watching the world pass me by
A few drops of rain speckle my face
I would not give up being here for any place
Coming In To Harbour
Well I dreamed I saw you sailing in upon a sleek white schooner
You were slipping over shallow water
You were coming into harbour, you were coming into harbour
With the wind in all your sails
You were carrying a cargo that was richer than riches
More gold than gold and much more real than real
New born babe in your arms and his cool blue eyes gazed up
Yes his cool eyes gazed upon a fresh world, one yet to be made
I was standing on the shoreline looking out over the sea
And I saw your white sail appearing on the horizon
I was standing on the shoreline just looking out over the sea
And I saw your white sail appearing on the horizon
You were coming into harbour, you were coming into harbour
In the bright light, the bright light, longer than the 20th century
song performed by by Waterboys
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Ships Passing In Night Born
ships are sailing upon turn tide flowing river waters
light is dance happy mellow yellows closing long day
soon sunset will add flame reds fingers yellow gold
sun sets sinks into still sea upon horizon home shores
dust light fades shadows creep in stealth murky images
suddenly black dawns night deep darkness speaks in glory
starlight sparkles upon enchanted waters river ebbs flows
passage across bar out into ocean waves rocks emotions
soon short journeys made upon ocean waters salts senses
watch shoreline beach grey sands invisible stretch wet away
waters dark painted ocean oil black sparkles in flow waves
beach sands perfume night with residue heat breeze vapours
poem by Terence George Craddock
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Where The Land Meets The Ocean
The great white waves of the Pacific how loudly they do roar
And crash against the volcanic rocks that guard the ocean shore
The silver gulls above the beach are calling as they fly
And the terns dive in shallow waters for small sea things from the sky,
The feeling is so refreshing on your skin saltwater spray
'Tis nice to be by the ocean on a breezy Autumn day
In a place far off of the highway and far from the noisy street
A place where Nature reign Supreme where the land and ocean meet
The huge surf waves are rolling foamy and white as snow
At the awesome power of Nature my wonder only grow
Though not a seafaring person from land I love to watch the big waves roll
It has been a watery grave for many an ocean out of control
Where the land meets the ocean on a March evening in the Fall
A memory for to cherish and in the future to recall.
poem by Francis Duggan
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Summer Breeze
a straw hat on my head
dark sunglasses on my eyes
cotton beach shorts
barefoot i walk along the shore
i stop a while
the summer breeze is so cool
early morning
the sea is peaceful
the trees spreading branches
a shower of yellowing leaves
for the passing air
the sun spreads the first rays
a fine morning
a promising day
for you and me
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Morning Song Of Senlin
It is morning, Senlin says, and in the morning
When the light drips through the shutters like the dew,
I arise, I face the sunrise,
And do the things my fathers learned to do.
Stars in the purple dusk above the rooftops
Pale in a saffron mist and seem to die,
And I myself on a swiftly tilting planet
Stand before a glass and tie my tie.
Vine leaves tap my window,
Dew-drops sing to the garden stones,
The robin chips in the chinaberry tree
Repeating three clear tones.
It is morning. I stand by the mirror
And tie my tie once more.
While waves far off in a pale rose twilight
Crash on a white sand shore.
I stand by a mirror and comb my hair:
How small and white my face!—
The green earth tilts through a sphere of air
And bathes in a flame of space.
There are houses hanging above the stars
And stars hung under a sea. . .
And a sun far off in a shell of silence
Dapples my walls for me. . .
It is morning, Senlin says, and in the morning
Should I not pause in the light to remember God?
Upright and firm I stand on a star unstable,
He is immense and lonely as a cloud.
I will dedicate this moment before my mirror
To him alone, and for him I will comb my hair.
Accept these humble offerings, cloud of silence!
I will think of you as I descend the stair.
Vine leaves tap my window,
The snail-track shines on the stones,
Dew-drops flash from the chinaberry tree
Repeating two clear tones.
It is morning, I awake from a bed of silence,
Shining I rise from the starless waters of sleep.
The walls are about me still as in the evening,
I am the same, and the same name still I keep.
The earth revolves with me, yet makes no motion,
The stars pale silently in a coral sky.
In a whistling void I stand before my mirror,
Unconcerned, I tie my tie.
There are horses neighing on far-off hills
Tossing their long white manes,
And mountains flash in the rose-white dusk,
Their shoulders black with rains. . .
It is morning. I stand by the mirror
And surprise my soul once more;
The blue air rushes above my ceiling,
There are suns beneath my floor. . .
. . . It is morning, Senlin says, I ascend from darkness
And depart on the winds of space for I know not where,
My watch is wound, a key is in my pocket,
And the sky is darkened as I descend the stair.
There are shadows across the windows, clouds in heaven,
And a god among the stars; and I will go
Thinking of him as I might think of daybreak
And humming a tune I know. . .
Vine-leaves tap at the window,
Dew-drops sing to the garden stones,
The robin chirps in the chinaberry tree
Repeating three clear tones.
poem by Conrad Potter Aiken
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Above Lavender Bay
’Tis glorious morning everywhere
Save where the alleys lie—
I see the fleecy steam jets bid
“Good morning” to the sky.
The gullies of the waratah
Are near, with fall and pool,
And by the shadowed western rocks
The bays are fresh and cool.
To “points” that hint of Italy—
Of Italy and Spain—
I see the busy ferry boats
Come nosing round again.
To the toy station down below
I see the toy trains run—
(I wonder when those ferry boats
Will get their business done?)
Above the Bay called Lavender
This bard is domiciled,
Where up through rich, dark greenery
The red-tiled roofs are piled—
(At least some are—I hope that soon
They all shall be red-tiled)—
A moonlight night in middle-age
That makes one feel a child.
Close over, to the nearer left—
That feels the ocean breeze—
A full moon in a dim blue sky
A church spire and dark trees.
And, further right, the harsher heights
Of Mosman, Double Bay,
And Rose Bay, with their scattered lights,
Have softened with the day.
And fair across to where we know
The shelving sea cliffs are—
The lighthouse, with a still faint glow,
Beneath a twinkling star.
Across the harbour from the right,
And fairly in a line,
The Clock-tower on the City Hall,
A ship-mast and a pine.
The pale and bright, yet dusky blue,
And crossed by fleecy bars,
Flings out the brilliant city lights,
The moonlight and the stars—
And like a transformation scene,
On sheet glass down below,
The fairy-lighted ferry boats
Are gliding to and fro.
poem by Henry Lawson
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[Month of] June
Rise up, and do begin the day's adorning;
The Summer dark is but the dawn of day.
The last of sunset fades into the morning,
The morning calls you from the dark away.
The holy mist, the white mist of the morning,
Was wreathing upward on my lonely way.
The way was waiting for your own adorning
That should complete the broad adorned day.
Rise up, and do begin the day's adorning;
The little eastern clouds are dapple grey:
There will be wind among the leaves to-day;
It is the very promise of the morning.
Lux Tua Via Mea: your light's my way -
Then do rise up and make it perfect day.
poem by Hilaire Belloc
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