At the salt march
When the wind is adrift
not a pebble of sand is stirring
at the salt marsh vapours lift
snipes, sandpipers, curlews run
racing out before you
as brown grey spots in the early morning sun,
the flat stretches of sand glisten shining
waves ripple in gently from the sea
in the distance a ship’s horn is whining
and sea and sky meets at the horizon,
seagulls fill the air in screeching flocks
while some fly on and on until they are gone.
poem by Gert Strydom
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The Calling Of The Trees
The wind.
The calling of the trees,
Whose leaves flow
Endlessly through the wind,
Calling the sound,
Of water,
Like waves
Of the beach.
Beyond.
The row of trees
Standing in line
Along the shore,
Through them
Pass to where
Green grey water
Meets the sand,
In constant push
Through the shorebirds legs.
Crows call, geese horn
And the wind
Flows steady, strong and sure.
The wind smelling of salt and green.
(7.18.7 The View)
poem by Heather Z. Hanna
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Constantly Waves Toss And Fling (Persian / Rubiyat Quatrains)
Constantly waves toss and fling,
with water and sand are covering
the outstretched white shell filled beach
as more and more tiny grains they bring
and this process is present night and day,
as waters roll out in the bay
while seagulls sandpipers peck around
screech run and play.
poem by Gert Strydom
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The Flying Dutchman
The blue water stretches
as far as visibility allows to see
and there’s fog
rising white before the storm
out of the water.
The dusk becomes grey
and the sea from blue to dark black
while the night
darker than ink, as only companion
folds over the old ancient ship.
It’s Van der Decken standing as tiller man
behind the big wheel
and forever he steers the ship
on the journey that she goes.
Always cursing
his loud voice thunders
like lightning falling around him
for sailors to tend the sails right
and sails are hoisted crunching, groaning and trembling
with strong ropes
and the ship jumps
over the smashing waves.
Like a phantom
the Flying Dutchman appears
with white sails like a wraith
over the horizon
where it sails before a storm with speed.
The ship becomes lager
as the storm wind
brings her closer
and you hear her creak
against the power of the wind.
There’s thunder bolts blinding suddenly
and sea birds flies screeching
out in front of her,
while Van der Decken’s skeleton
drills his men powerless
to set the sails right
that is vibrating against the wind.
“How long still Lord, ”
echoes against the sea and sky,
without a answer
ever coming
and suddenly the ship is gone
as if it disappeared in the naught.
poem by Gert Strydom
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When The Ship Comes In
(dylan)
Oh the time will come up
When the winds will stop
And the breeze will cease to be a breezin
Like the stillness in the wind
For the hurricane begins
The hour when the ship comes in
Oh the seas will split
And the ship will hit
And the shoreline sands will be shaken
Then the tide will sound and the wind will pound
And the morning will be breakin
Oh the fishes will laugh
As they swim out of the path
And the seagulls theyll be smilin
And the rocks on the sand
Will proudly stand
The hour that the ship comes in
And the words they use
For to get the ship confused
Will not be understood as they are spoken
For the chains of the sea
Will have busted in the night
And be buried at the bottom of the ocean
Verse 2
A song will lift as the main sail shifts
And the boat drifts onto the shoreline
And the sun will respect every face on the deck
The hour when the ship comes in
Then the sands will roll out a carpet of gold
For your weary toes to be a touchin
And the ships wise men will remind you once again
That the whole wide world is watchin
song performed by by Hollies
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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In A Time Of Dearth
Before me,
On either side of me,
I see sand.
If I turn the corner of my house,
I see sand,
Long, brown
Lines and levels of flat
Sand.
If I could only see a caravan
Heave over the edge of it:
The camels wobbling and swaying,
Stepping like ostriches,
With rocking palanquins
Whose curtains conceal
Languors and faintnesses,
Muslins tossed aside,
And a disorder of cushions.
The swinging curtains would pique and solace me.
But I only see sand,
Long, brown sand -
Sand.
If I could only see a herd of Arab horses
Galloping,
Their manes and tails pulled straight
By the speed of their going;
Their bodies sleek and round
Like bellying sails.
They would beat the sand with their fore feet,
And scatter it with their hind feet,
So that it whirled in a cloud of orange,
And the sun through it
Was clip-edged, without rays, and dun.
But I only see sand,
Long, brown, hot sand -
Sand.
If I could only see a mirage,
Blue-white at the horizon,
With palm-trees about it;
Tall, windless palm-trees, grouped about a-glitter.
If I could strain toward it,
And think of the water creeping round my ankles,
Tickling under my knees,
Leeching up my sides,
Spreading over my back.
But I only feel the grinding beneath my feet.
And I only see sand,
Long, dry sand,
Scorching sand -
Sand.
If a sand-storm would only come
And spit against my windows,
Snapping upon them, and ringing their vibrations;
Swirling over the roof;
Seeping under the door-jamb;
Suffocating me and making me struggle for air.
But I only see sand -
Sand lying dead in the sun.
Lines and lines of sand -
Sand.
I will paste newspapers over the windows to shut out the sand;
I will fit them into one another, and fasten the corners.
Then I will strike matches
And read of politics and murders and festivals
Three years old.
But I shall not see the sand any more,
And I can read
While my matches last.
poem by Amy Lowell
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Seagulls [1]
Seagulls are flying from edge tot edge,
their screeching voices call the veldt, the sky the sea
of South Africa stretching east and west
to a carnivorous hunt above the ridges, sea ditches
and small crabs, whose lives are spent in shell crevices, yield
splashing blood, ooze from their guts, their veins with
a little nucleus of skeleton. It was when I walked
facing the sea at its east end with a kind of dredge
of sprinkling sand, strolled through the lathering water
naked legged in the winter water, with a member as bait
under cast moon with rocks itching and scratching my feet
after I saw in my rising eyes the stretches, flattening
of this one land, a country stretching east to west,
(as if no other exists anywhere else)
south to north, wherever I were going
with hillocks, mountains, flashing city lights,
even trees looking somewhat blatantly
as if staring at me with cold winter bitterness.
I know that the sun still turns, until the next day
and the morning will visit as owls or rats to us
in hues of brilliant blue, only in the Cape it will be grey
and I know that day and night the seagulls fly over me
or we or us with wings covering South Africa, the whole
the continent of Africa, even the whole wide world
and their screeching will last until eternity.
[Reference: Owls by Leslie Norris.]
poem by Gert Strydom
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Seagulls
Seagulls are flying from edge tot edge,
their screeching voices call the veldt, the sky the sea
of South Africa stretching east and west
to a carnivorous hunt above the ridges, sea ditches
and small crabs, whose lives are spent in shell crevices, yield
splashing blood, ooze from their guts, their veins with
a little nucleus of skeleton. It was when I walked
facing the sea at its east end with a kind of dredge
of sprinkling sand, strolled through the lathering water
naked legged in the winter water, with a member as bait
under cast moon with rocks itching and scratching my feet
after I saw in my rising eyes the stretches, flattening
of this one land, a country stretching east to west,
(as if no other exists anywhere else)
south to north, wherever I were going
with hillocks, mountains, flashing city lights,
even trees looking somewhat blatantly
as if staring at me with cold winter bitterness.
I know that the sun still turns, until the next day
and the morning will visit as owls or rats to us
in hues of brilliant blue, only in the Cape it will be grey
and I know that day and night the seagulls fly over me
or we or us with wings covering South Africa, the whole
the continent of Africa, even the whole wide world
and their screeching will last until eternity.
[Reference: Owls by Leslie Norris.]
poem by Gert Strydom
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Seagulls Screaming Kiss Her, Kiss Her
Its raining on the beach
She inches close but out of reach
The waves look painted on
Seagulls screaming
The sea is warship grey
It whispers ''fool! then slides away
Black coastline slumbers on
Seagulls screaming kiss her, kiss her
And all the flags that flap on the pier
Spell why on earth do you want
The fog hides much but one thing is clear
Shes nearer
Dead deck chairs under shrouds
And life belts gape like minstrel mouths
Her hair still smells of salt
Seagulls screaming kiss her, kiss her
Kiss her, kiss her, kiss her, kiss her
He who hesitates is lost
If you want her, you should tell her
Take her by the hand if you hesitate
If you wait, november wins her november will win her
She returns to sand so get ahold of the girl
I say I like your coat
Her thank-you tugs my heart afloat
I nearly didnt hear for
Seagulls screaming kiss her, kiss her
He who hesitates is lost
song performed by by Xtc
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Seagulls Screaming Kiss Her, Kiss Her
Its raining on the beach
She inches close but out of reach
The waves look painted on
Seagulls screaming
The sea is warship grey
It whispers ''fool! then slides away
Black coastline slumbers on
Seagulls screaming kiss her, kiss her
And all the flags that flap on the pier
Spell why on earth do you want
The fog hides much but one thing is clear
Shes nearer
Dead deck chairs under shrouds
And life belts gape like minstrel mouths
Her hair still smells of salt
Seagulls screaming kiss her, kiss her
Kiss her, kiss her, kiss her, kiss her
He who hesitates is lost
If you want her, you should tell her
Take her by the hand if you hesitate
If you wait, november wins her november will win her
She returns to sand so get ahold of the girl
I say I like your coat
Her thank-you tugs my heart afloat
I nearly didnt hear for
Seagulls screaming kiss her, kiss her
He who hesitates is lost
song performed by by Xtc
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Running On The Beach
Early just after dawn
there is salt in the air,
a light wind pulls at my hair
while I race on the beach
clothed in only bathing trunks,
trying to outrun the incoming surf,
which at times splashes against my body.
I pass some big rocks
while the white sand of Clifton
clings to my feet and legs,
the air starts to burn in my lungs,
while I pick up the pace,
finding new energy under the summer sun,
with the sea only touching at my feet.
In the distance stark naked
two young women tan,
the one is lying on her stomach
the other is sitting up and facing me
and I notice that her stomach is flat,
her breasts are DD sized with nipples hard,
she says something to the other girl and is smiling.
I want to avoid them, keep to the solitude,
the freedom of racing at speed,
with the sun and the wind touching my body,
while all thoughts are stripped from me
but one of them have got other plans,
gets up and steps right into my way
with legs wide and eyes bluer than the sky.
poem by Gert Strydom
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Whispering Waves
By the shore of the sea searching for his memory
Sifting sand through my hand weighing what he means to me
In the early morning haze seagulls seem to cry my pain
And ocean feels it too sighs his name on whispering waves
Wrote his name next to mine big and deep there in the sand
Till the earth tends to flow and our names will be drowned
All the birds sing harmonies to the top line of the breeze
While the ocean breathes his name on whispering waves
Theres a bistro where we would dine each evening
Candle light and california wine
Love is holding hands across the table
I still go past each night
Look for his car outside
At the foot of this cliff we spent days weaving our dreams
Making plans building homes raising kids and coloring scenes
Then one morning he was gone and our story reached an end
But his words still linger on on whispering waves
Aah, ahh, ahh...
By the shore of the sea searching for his memory
Sifting sand through my hand weighing what he means to me
All the birds sing harmonies to the top line of the breeze
While the ocean breathes his name on whispering waves
song performed by by Donna Summer
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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A Metaphor For Myself.....
early afternoon
i undress and walk towards the water
it is a gray moment
i wade into the water
it is clear
and i can see some fish and
sand at the bottom
i am alone
it is too peaceful away
from everyone
the water is lukewarm
derived from noon
and the shore is too private
to myself
the trees are still and the cottage
has an eye
staring at me from afar
i swim farther, into the depths
floating
there are no seagulls
a ship with a smoke shears the
far horizon
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Eastbrook
Though his racing days are over
on the marsh he'll gently graze
where he'll spend his last remaining years
sharing all his days
with herons, skylarks, ducks and geese
from a racing life to utter peace
Small children come and feed him hay
and Suzy grooms him every day
a soft brown horse with gentle eyes
resting underneath the skies
that follow the marsh down to the sea
retirement, peace, tranquility
poem by Gill Moore
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At Houtbay beach
A young girl and an old man
walk down steps
to the stretch
that the beach at Houtbay
throws against the sea.
There are some small fishing boats
in colours of blue,
orange and white
that sails into the sea,
but big white cabin cruisers
bobs up and down
next to the quay
some distance away
as if they are ownerless
while their bosses
play somewhere else.
The smell of sea-pike
roasting on coals
lies on the light wind
and their stomachs growl
of sudden hunger
and here and there
the girl stoops
to pick up shells.
His sturdy boots leaves flat tracts
on the firm sand
and there’s a brown wood walking stick
with a lion head in his hand
and the girl’s
bare foot tracts
run in advance.
The sea swishes in and out
and the wet sand
reflects a bright open day
and the blue water
stretches out
as far as you can see
and it’s as if he gets new power
next to the foaming water.
poem by Gert Strydom
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Impressions I. Les Silhouettes
THE sea is flecked with bars of grey
The dull dead wind is out of tune,
And like a withered leaf the moon
Is blown across the stormy bay.
Etched clear upon the pallid sand
The black boat lies: a sailor boy
Clambers aboard in careless joy
With laughing face and gleaming hand.
And overhead the curlews cry,
Where through the dusky upland grass
The young brown-throated reapers pass,
Like silhouettes against the sky.
poem by Oscar Wilde
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Les Silhouettes
The sea is flecked with bars of grey,
The dull dead wind is out of tune,
And like a withered leaf the moon
Is blown across the stormy bay.
Etched clear upon the pallid sand
Lies the black boat: a sailor boy
Clambers aboard in careless joy
With laughing face and gleaming hand.
And overhead the curlews cry,
Where through the dusky upland grass
The young brown-throated reapers pass,
Like silhouettes against the sky.
poem by Oscar Wilde
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Written In Sand
Your eyes are the color of the sea
You look my way and the waves
Wash over me
Your body shivers with the
Fading light
You say, baby, lets just make
It last tonight.
And when the morning comes
You take me by the hand
And say our love is written in sand
Written in sand
We hear the ocean roar
Were swept away on to some
Distant shore
You whisper secrets of the heart
They keep us close when the
World keeps us apart
Until tomorrow comes
Time is on our hands
Because this love is written in
Sand
Written in sand
Solo
Nothing lies between
A woman and a man
When their love is written in sand
When their love is written in sand
When their love is written in sand
song performed by by Santana
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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A stroll at Sea Point
I walk right into
the wind that blows softly,
for a meeting
with the dark blue ocean
that stretches out far
under the bright blue sky
and suddenly I know
that Sea Point had been
a prosperous neighbourhood
but now there are numbers of old folk,
children hanging around like hippies
with liquor, cigarettes and drugs
and car guards catching my eye
while seagulls screeching
with impudence grab
flabby chips from a man’s hand
and like screaming helicopters
hang above him
and he angrily
also throws his piece of fish into the air
and saying: “take that too.”
The sea stays pretty dark blue
and when I walk along
I smell the salt,
I hear the thundering crunch
of waves without end
breaking and spraying
and it feels if here I am really living.
poem by Gert Strydom
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The Mermaid (Quatern Poetry)
In the Red Sea, you were my lonely king of salt,
You were my beautiful statue made of basalt.
On the sea shore, dominating the yellow land,
You were my statue representing the king of sand.
Your body was looking as it was tattooed with smalt.
In the Red Sea, you were my lonely king of salt.
At the water high waves' mobile horizon
I was a mermaid, caught in your love's prison.
I swam to the surface, sometimes, to see you.
You were on your ship, at the dawn's purplish blue.
In the Red Sea, you were my lonely king of salt.
I had your beautiful statue, made of basalt.
I paid to get rid off my tail and to become a woman,
Because I wanted you to be my lover and my man.
You disappeared and your wreck was anchored in Galt,
In the Red Sea, you’re my lonely king of salt.
poem by Marieta Maglas
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The Sound Of My Silence
we arrive at the end of the road
and there is a single pebble
there staring at us
smooth and round
and too light for our burden
i decide the fate of two souls
yours and mine
i lift my eyes to see your sorrow
and mine
i lift my foot to walk away
leaving an awkward cloud
beneath the sand
i run away and you vanish from my mind
you take your gaze towards the horizon
i pack mine towards the sunless sea.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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