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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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0031 Autumn's wild, rough days

These wild, rough autumn days
as cooling Northern hemisphere
shudders towards its equinox
with gales and rain and blown-off leaves,
all the elements stirred up, and
bringing strange emotions;
everything is between;

but for children living by the sea,
days of joy and awe –
the sea, no longer blue
but savage brown-red, even emerald green,
which all the year
has bashed and nibbled at the cliffs
like kitchen-boy at pantried half-cut cake,
throws all its might as if it hated the whole idea of earth;
knowing that in one night,
it may do mighty things once in a while
that change the maps themselves – blocking estuaries
that have served ports for a thousand years,
with shingle banks; throwing new beaches
across bays, with stones so exquisitely graded
from rock to pebble, that it’s said,
night fishermen thrown onto such a beach without the moon
know exactly where they are by size of stone…

but for the child, a magic time:
the air’s a gift for lungs, like breathed champagne;
the sea after the gale is calming down;
but the beach is new: new toys thrown up,
seaweed of many shapes, still wild when wet,
along a new high tide line; stuff off ships, carved wood,
deck-mats, green globes that buoyed up nets,
boxes with some foreign words
to remind us that this same neighbour sea
has other foreign shores across the world..

and every stone and pebble, which yesterday
had muted, dusty-coloured, matt-textured anonymity,
now, wet with salty water, are translucent, shining jewels each one,
glass, white marble (and how far has that pebble come,
hassled and scoured across the ocean’s floor..) ,
rough granite of so many shades, hard serpentine,
purple, green, some striped; slate-blues, brick-reds, all
fit for a palace; gathered in an eager hand
which sees nothing in the world but gifts and miracles;
this lovely, wild, wild-hearted shore.

poem by Michael Shepherd
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Jewels of the beach

Plash…keesh… plash…keesh

the waves throw themselves
onto the pebbly beach,
but as if they regret their own angry generosity,
pull back a sieved undertow of finer pebbles
mixed with rogh toe-grating sand;
their generosity the swathe of larger pebbles
which gleam like jewels, before the salt-water
dries them into centuries of scratched, scoured surface,
dull as familiarity.

That swathe of jewels – magic to a child;
but now I’m older, yields a mental miracle
of nature ceaselessly at work:

green bottle-glass pebble – rounded to a smooth, safe shape
for the child to spot and pick up –
that’s easy to trace: from fishermen’s magic globes, the net-floats,
or bottles thrown carelessly overboard
on some romantic cruise..

white chalk – that’s easy too: final shape
whose roundness may resist at last the restless sea
chewing away at Dover’s so emotive cliffs;
just the right size for a tiny fist
to write on concrete; it could write but scratch
that slate or blackboard with its ABC.

a gorgeous mottled red: as if from pillar
of some exotic Eastern temple; a closer look
suggests some mighty compression of the earth
that’s left a substance just about halfway
between soft Devon clay and harder granite;

and here a softer red; shaped from some brick
the sea has stolen from some poor defence;
but that will write too, stir a first artistic effort
setting off the white; but leave a trace of itself
on that small, tight fist;

now the shades of green – the hardest stone,
serpentine, which glows when wet or waxed:
how long did this stone take
to shape – and then to roll on ocean floor
from distant shore and ancient mountain range?

a whole range of semi-transparent yellow-browns,
agate and suchlike, best when wet; their structure
easily breaks down, too small for fun;

but here’s a slatey grey, veined with white, as if
some modern sculptor had seen its possible potential,
smoothed it with a loving hand; nature,
says the aesthete, meeting art..

the occasional alabaster sparkler just survives;
so dull now, that you’ll need to smash it first;
but here’s the pride of all this sea-tossed mile of treasure trove:
a ravishing, smooth, moon-white marble, maiden aristocrat;
how long, how far, to roll and sieve this
like some ageless prospector sieving for gold or diamond?
what Greek palace tipped by an earthquake
into a blue Aegean sea? Into the crummy pocket of the shorts
that one goes, to line up with its kinsfolk
on the window-sill..

a sea-shore (you can hear it in the word itself..) ,
a beach, a child with blowing hair and eager eyes;
these two spell happiness; live nature’s most compatible.

poem by Michael Shepherd
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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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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 Adi Cox
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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,4 P.m. Somewhere...

as i walk along the beach
this afternoon
i give in to the child in me
picking up stones,

amazed by its colors
and shapes
i begin to make stories out
of them...stones, smaller ones,
like a creature possessed by an
enigma,

there must be an underlying
truth to its
shape, it is, as it must
be telling me about
what happens to me
after this?

is this a hurting enigma?
am i mad at my attempt to give meaning
to one without meaning?

i am interpreting a pebble
the smallness of humility the silence
of the insignificant
the wars of the sands
the struggle of the waves of the sea
chasing each other
as to who reaches the thighs of
the shore first

a mad man is reading the shores
of the sea on
a very insignificant moment of the day

the stones are writing novels
on the hot skins of the shores

people who pass me by are sparing me
of saying anything
and they refuse to look at me and give
that look
of that feeling that i must have been
one kind of
a wasted man

a child looks at me with pity
and asks, what are you doing with the pebbles?

are they speaking to you?

i am awakened by this vastness
sometimes to be found, i must experience being lost myself
in the secret labyrinths of
thought

the child is looking for play,
i do not have it.

poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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The Power Of The Beach

As we walked along the beach, crashing waves
thundered in our ears and a light, salted mist,
dampened our lips.

The sun began to set and the voice of the beach,
traveled across the ocean waves.

'I am the beach, and here you shall find peace.
I am the beach, here you shall find love.

In this domain, my beach, the answers you
search for, could very well be found here.
For at this beach, there is much,
that has been revealed.

The sparkled, white grains of sand, that blanket
this beach, has been a bed of comfort, to many.

Pause, as you come upon this beach, and listen
to the symphony of waves and the chorus of
birds, singing their song, as they glide in the wind.

Feel the power of this beach, as it seems to
renew your inner being. You need not question
the beach and its mystical powers. For as
millions before you have found, the beach...
and its magical transference to one...have
existed, since the beginning of time.

Be not troubled, for the beach is close at
hand. You need only to deliver your strife,
to the tranquility of the beach and it shall
be exercised from you.

When you go from this beach...leave with
the peace that you have found here.'

poem by Joe Fazio
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Under A Blanket Of Stars...