Exoskeleton
I attempt to molt
My hard exoskeleton,
Exposing the soft
And raw meat of my insides—
Vulnerable flesh of mine.
I crawl for a time
In the unforgiving air
As it bakes my skin.
The light of the sun presses
Me further into the dirt.
The cool and smooth rocks
Rub against me like a rust,
A corroding floor.
I scrape my body along
As a snail would—so slowly.
The gentle salt spray
Curdles me, a foaming lump
Traveling through sand.
Sodium streams stain my prints,
A fossil made of the past.
My back is spineless,
Formless without its firm shell,
Unfit to support.
I flop like a dry fish would
As if deprived of water.
To protect myself,
I callous stone around me:
A coral shelter.
Safe within the walls I've built,
I remain fully contained.
poem by Tim Stensloff
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Related quotes
Beach Liaison
Foamy, frothy blue-green silk sea drapes over freckled, speckled skin
A face bare, wet and rough, a complexion bleached by sun, sea, salt
Barren on the surface yet life breathes free in cracks and crannies
Underneath the craggy covering he hides in slender shell
His caramel body is smooth, supple as he slips into the
Spiral sheath to the sharp pointed end of the day when, at tides
Edge, the sea caresses pink coral reef sky as day submits
To darkness, concealing intimate silhouettes of lovers
Embracing among the shadows of sea grapes and dune grasses
At dusky brink between day and night sea birds flit
Kingfishers’ white feathers flutter away from lapping sea tongue
A salty kiss on parched lips and on sandy cheeks communicates
A silent poem song in language like Sanskrit scratched out with
Bird claw quills on sand skin a dry and rough parchment while the small
Kingfisher flock pecks away without wit into gritty flesh
To slurp up his mollusk body like salt-water taffy pulled
Out of its wax paper wrapped up tight but never feeling safe
Sharp pecking beak finds his soft snail soul plucked from firm, corkscrew case
In bird beak swallowed whole he prays: I’ve already been in heaven
Though tragedy sweeps away all that is real and some things imagined
Always in my heart I will carry sunshine and silken sea.
poem by Laura Pariseau
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Walls
Walls of stone and walls of brick,
Some walls thin and some walls thick,
Walls so high and walls so low,
Walls to hide and walls to show.
Walls quite short and walls quite tall,
Some walls, last well, some walls fall,
Walls for comfort, walls of hate,
Walls for security, walls ornate.
Some as a barricade, some to support,
Walls of wood and walls of iron wrought,
Walls as a barrier, walls to enclose,
Some are to sit on, some to lean and doze.
Walls we build ourselves, these aren't good,
Walls for privacy, walls that have stood,
So many years through weather foul or fine,
Walls, that are yours, walls that are mine.
Brick by brick they are built to last,
Whether built now or in the past,
They shelter us from so many things,
And shield us from whatever this life brings.
poem by Ernestine Northover
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Someday
(eric carmen)
Someday
When Im cool
Shes gonna think about how
She used to treat me so cruel
On that someday
Man, shell crawl back to me
Someday
When Im gone
Shes gonna see how it feels to be
All alone
On that someday
Man, shell crawl back to me
So she said goodbye again
Im just waitin for the time to come
When shell get down on her knees
Beggin, now darlin, please
Ive been tryin every trick I know
But she still walks in
Makes me feel so grim
Seein her is gettin harder every day
Someday
When Im cool
Shes gonna think about how
She used to treat me so cruel
On that someday
Man, shell crawl back to me
Man, shell crawl back to me
Man, shell crawl back to me
Someday
Man, shell crawl back to me
song performed by by Eric Carmen
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Snail Shell
Sir hand
Or is it maam
I fell out of my right place again
And you
Considered me
And now Im where a snail has to be
I want to thank you for putting me back in my snail shell
I want to thank you for putting me back in my snail shell
Was it something you would do for anybody?
Was it what youd only do for me?
I need to know because you see
I want to thank you for putting me back in my snail shell
Friend
Look what you gave
And how can you ever be repaid?
How may I give you a hand
From the position at your feet where I stand?
So let me thank you for putting me back in my snail shell
Id like to thank you for putting me back in my snail shell
Was it something you would do for anybody?
Was it what youd only do for me?
I need to know because you see
I want to thank you for putting me back in my snail shell
Snail shell
Thank you
Snail shell
Thank you
Ah
Ah
Ah
Was it something you would do for anybody?
Was it what youd only do for me?
Or was it something where you acted when you saw the need
And knew that there would be a way the act could be repaid
And so it may, but for today
I want to thank you for putting me back in my snail shell
song performed by by They Might Be Giants
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Crab
When I eat crab, slide the rosy
rubbery claw across my tongue
I think of my mother. She'd drive down
to the edge of the Bay, tiny woman in a
huge car, she'd ask the crab-man to
crack it for her. She'd stand and wait as the
pliers broke those chalky homes, wild-
red and knobby, those cartilage wrists, the
thin orange roof of the back.
I'd come home, and find her at the table
crisply unhousing the parts, laying the
fierce shell on one side, the
soft body on the other. She gave us
lots, because we loved it so much,
so there was always enough, a mound of crab like a
cross between breast-milk and meat. The back
even had the shape of a perfect
ruined breast, upright flakes
white as the flesh of a chrysanthemum, but the
best part was the claw, she'd slide it
out so slowly the tip was unbroken,
scarlet bulb of the feeler—it was such a
kick to easily eat that weapon,
wreck its delicate hooked pulp between
palate and tongue. She loved to feed us
and all she gave us was fresh, she was willing to
grasp shell, membrane, stem, to go
close to dirt and salt to feed us,
the way she had gone near our father himself
to give us life. I look back and
see us dripping at the table, feeding, her
row of pink eaters, the platter of flawless
limp claws, I look back further and
see her in the kitchen, shelling flesh, her
small hands curled—she is like a
fish-hawk, wild, tearing the meat
deftly, living out her life of fear and desire.
Anonymous submission.
poem by Sharon Olds
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Water
water for water is water, thirst made me dried
eyes tears flow water, leaves skin broken
need water, cure my pain smooth my rough
surface makes it clean
pure and perfect water made so bright, all the
day expose heat dried my sweat, in my face
and lips tears seen in the eyes
all day long I seat in my brow, waiting the sun
down to lead me low, hunger and thirst open
my throat, water spelled drops like a dew
wash my warm body as you can see, the limps
legs and the hands would be easy, where ever
in my body, the water comes refreshing to me
slowly, slowly, fell the cool water beneath
my delicate skin, in my buttock where you have
to stay, hold on, I sit you in my dream, my living
water makes me the same
oh! water, please always watered me in each
new day and fell the real me
poem by Antonio Liao
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Shell
Look at me Im smooth like a shell,
Put your head down
You can hear the ocean.
Hold my body - feel it roll,
So much inside and its all been broken.
You know its just one step out it could all be over,
You know this could rip us out at the seams.
Im falling; its all in your hands,
Dont let it wash away.
Im aching; dont take it all away,
Breaking the shell again.
Look at me Im out on the edge,
Put your hand here
See Im bleeding.
I cant get it, get the light out
I cant seem to tear out the feeling.
You know its just one step out it could all be over,
You know this could rip us out at the seams.
Im falling; its all in your hands,
Dont let it wash away.
Im aching; dont take it all away,
Breaking the shell again.
I am a box, I am a fish, I am a trail, I keep you warm,
And I remember stripping down to meet the water,
Wading out to where the sky turns under,
My insides smooth like a shell,
Like a shell...
You know this could rip us out at the seams.
Im falling; its all in your hands,
Dont let it wash away.
Im aching; dont take it all away,
Breaking the shell again.
Im falling; its all in your hands,
Dont let it wash away.
Im aching; dont take it all away,
Breaking the shell again.
Look at me Im smooth like a shell,
Put your head in
Hear the ocean, roll
song performed by by Heather Nova
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Today I accidentally stepped on a snail on the sidewalk in front of our house. And I thought, I too am like that snail. I build a defensive wall around myself, a 'shell' if you will. But my shell isn't made out of a hard, protective substance. Mine is made out of tinfoil and paper bags.
Jack Handey in Deep Thoughts
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Drunk With The Bliss Of Your Kisses
Drunk with the bliss of your kisses
on a romantic summer evening,
rolling waves touch at our feet
while there is some tranquillity
as we walk along the long white beach,
I can taste the smell of salt on the air
while the sea continually breaks
in white spray over jutting rocks
one of your soft hands is in mine
with electricity in the touching
that is still lingering between us
before you step right into my arms
there is brightness to the moonlight,
far away the city sparkles like a crown
while your body, your humanity
slowly becomes part of mine.
poem by Gert Strydom
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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A Reminder For All Of Us
according to the laws of evolution something that is not used
may finally be lost. It fades. It is gone. So like the fins of a fish
who migrated to the island, they slowly fall out and from there shall
grow a set of wings and claws. They become birds.And they soon
learn to fly. They dream of clouds.
Like the moss of the rocks by the shore
by the lake. They envy the worms. They dream to wriggle
and move and push their tiny bodies.Soon the acquire the gift
of motion. Soon they become worms and crawl their way up
on the leaf. They even become caterpillars. Soon they become
the new butterflies.
So it will be with us. If we do not walk, our feet will soon be forgotten.
They will become mere skin. Our feet shrink and become part of
our bottom. If we do not think and use our minds, soon the brain
becomes a stone. Hard. Brittle. Soon they become part of the river
where a passerby simply steps upon it. Upon us.
Soon we will just be the sand. And the river flows upon.
If we do not love, soon we will just become a wall, a floor,
a house whose doors will close. A place for nothing
but merely departure.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Lost In The Laughter
the shell of a snail
long since departed....
ghosts whisper, cannot touch!
layers of anger
devouring from within,
till nothing is left but dust.
flesh cries out for flesh,
old or young, doesnt matter.
water seeks itself, stone is stone.
a lover, a small fire
too far away to name....
and God's face is lost
in the laughter!
poem by Eric Cockrell
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Three For Cemetery Statues By The Atlantic, Falmouth, Massachusetts 1977
These three
being of stone
or steel...
Figure 1
An old woman, never married,
speaks among the dunes:
I am the older sister, and ugly.
I watch the sea by the wall,
yearn for each tide's return.
I walk the surf in all weather
and spend myself amidst
the sea wrack screaming
with the tern and the dove.
I count my white hairs by the
sea weighing each for love.
...wear your love, my sister.
Carry your breasts white and full
to his hands, the mouth of the sea.
Breathe deeply the salt sea air,
fill them each for his warm mouth to take...
I will taste brine
and fill each old breast
with sand.
I will taste brine
and fill them each,
each, with sand.
They fall deeply
into my ribs in
the windy dunes
soon, soon to be
swallowed by
the fish and the crab.
Figure 2
Looming over a family plot,
A figure of Biblical Cain:
Ground my face in the world's crotch
I'll never do though I wish it.
Closest I'll ever come be the day
I lay my thumbs beneath the dirt
and fish for an earthworm's eye.
Soft skin I'll never touch
'cept mine own hard flesh
with thumb-less caress.
What thigh shall ever be mine?
And no man lip touch, ever,
him I've slain,
nor womankind want,
I hate my mother's name.
To fold the soil or sever
muscle with the teeth, spit
seed to the wind or dribble
praises manfully down the cheek,
ah, heady sin! Tears!
The silt of September's enough!
Hard clay of October be bust!
A fist to the day's end,
black blade pierce the heart
if I cannot kiss you, oh Mud,
cannot push my face into
your belly moaning thick-
love of the world,
eating fossil and coal,
drinking ancient tar
and artesian melt-
if I cannot have it then
I have not known the Jehovah Man.
I have breathed salt for nothing,
taken all words for fool's
bedding, crushed them
like my brother, flung them
over fences, slain them
all to the last letter,
each a shattered stilt.
Even upon the word of my name
I bring down the stone.
But in vain. Each blow
cannot crush it. No end.
No prayer.
Black night descends.
The dark well screams
Figure 3
A scholar with a book sits
just within the cemetery gate:
And so, green statue with
your large hand on your book,
don't look so foolish
with snow on your head.
When did you last come
to sit beside the dogwood
growing a shadow over the dead?
Death is a deed.
Death is a clean sorrow.
It is natural to weep -
Even a waste basket in a cemetery.
poem by Warren Falcon
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My Fate Decided
D day
The icy spray of the sea
The soft murmur of men
The retailing of packs
The wait of mine secured on my back
My fate decided
The blow of a whistle
The thump of the 88`s letting lose
The rattle of bullets hitting the boat
The caused cry
The scream of men
The roar of metal ripping apart
My fate decided
The boat stoping
The men confused
The red water linking in
The ramp is opening
My fate decided
The whistles blown
The line a broken
Pushing men not wanting to leave
The water red and cold
The pounding of bullets
The scream of men all around
My fate decided
Blood bleached sand thick and red
My rifle a swung on my back
The clocking of wet rifles
The explosion of a boat
The cry of men, metal and guns
My fate decided
The sicken sight
The feeling worse
The pounding of feet
The rocks
Can we make it?
My fate decided
The rifle unsung
The rocks and shelter still far away
Can we make it?
Falling men hitting hard to the dirt
Is this where we should all now lay?
My fate decided
The shade of the towering stones
Now directly over me
Have I made it?
Yes voice from nowhere bellowed
On your feet a war to fight
Find the strength I think I might
My fate decided
Men still falling, still crying, still screaming in pain
I am here fine feeling only a dull numbness
Rifle clocked and ready to go
Firing on impulse as it would seem
Another round shot another man falls
The bullets flying all around
Hit men and picking them off at a steady past
Claiming their targets resting place
My fate decided
Stumbling into the trench
On top of the men which had fired at us not long ago
Their resting place now sealed in a bloody hole of mud and grit
Would this be me?
My fate decided
The loading of a rifle
Pulling me back to reality
To the blood soaked uniform
To the job at hand
To the war we must fight
My fate decided
poem by Mike Cochrane
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Lumpy Lumps-Mary and John
He presses his hand
on my breast
and increases the pressure
exploring
moving slowing
rotating his finger tips
to that adjacency
where index finger
takes a turn
on my gentle breast rise
and probes
the gentle probe
which mixes
exigency,
and anxiety.
'Do you feel a lump I said'
'No nothing yet' he says.
He strokes with his finger tip
across the mounting rise
centering on the nipple tip
pressing down
breast deep
centering with
smooth
rollings
and I say
'Do you feel anything'
'Nothing yet'
Beneath both
he presses
slowly up
till
there he says he feels I small bumps
which I say are glands
not growths.
Every week he feels my breasts
to see if lumpy lumps
have appeared.
We both share
this tense time
mixed
with intimacy.
poem by Lonnie Hicks
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Snails
She is a snail born with a shell
Like a congenital mogul
Born and brought up in a castle
With two eyes hanging on her head
She is slimy and sly; slides slowly and wary
Peeping along the sea bed for a prey
If preys on it, some mighty sea gull
Quickly she slips into her safe shell
She is secure, on the face of any turmoil
She cares not crab fights; nor fish out of waters
She is all for herself with no feel
For the toiling lives in the roiled waters
There I see snails, millions and millions!
Walking cool through our social ruins! !
poem by Sathya Narayana
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Strayed Crab
This is not my home. How did I get so far from water? It must
be over that way somewhere.
I am the color of wine, of tinta. The inside of my powerful
right claw is saffron-yellow. See, I see it now; I wave it like a
flag. I am dapper and elegant; I move with great precision,
cleverly managing all my smaller yellow claws. I believe in the
oblique, the indirect approach, and I keep my feelings to myself.
But on this strange, smooth surface I am making too much
noise. I wasn't meant for this. If I maneuver a bit and keep a
sharp lookout, I shall find my pool again. Watch out for my right
claw, all passersby! This place is too hard. The rain has stopped,
and it is damp, but still not wet enough to please me.
My eyes are good, though small; my shell is tough and tight.
In my own pool are many small gray fish. I see right through
them. Only their large eyes are opaque, and twitch at me. They
are hard to catch but I, I catch them quickly in my arms and
eat them up.
What is that big soft monster, like a yellow cloud, stifling
and warm? What is it doing? It pats my back. Out, claw. There,
I have frightened it away. It's sitting down, pretending nothing's
happened. I'll skirt it. It's still pretending not to see me. Out of
my way, O monster. I own a pool, all the little fish that swim in it,
and all the skittering waterbugs that smell like rotten apples.
Cheer up, O grievous snail. I tap your shell, encouragingly,
not that you will ever know about it.
And I want nothing to do with you, either, sulking toad.
Imagine, at least four times my size and yet so vulnerable... I
could open your belly with my claw. You glare and bulge, a
watchdog near my pool; you make a loud and hollow noise. I
do not care for such stupidity. I admire compression, lightness,
and agility, all rare in this loose world.
poem by Elizabeth Bishop
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A walk along the beach...
The sight of sunlight glinting on the water dazzling,
The sound of waves advancing softly on the sand,
The feeling of the suns warming kiss on my skin,
The cool dampness of the sand between my toes,
The gentle breeze moving through my hair,
Slipping across the water a yacht gliding silently,
The breeze filled sails carrying her to deeper waters,
Above me seagulls swirl singing their daily song,
Before diving down into the sea to snatch a fish,
The gentle breeze and warming sun feeding my soul,
The captivating pleasures of sight and sound so delightful,
I breathe in the wonderful scent of salt water that fills the air,
The intoxicating aroma of wildflowers thick along the cliffs,
A feeling of contentment fills every corner of my being,
As I walk along the beach I realise... Life is beauty...
Spread the love... The peace will follow...
poem by Cosmic Dreamer
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A Dry Land
this used to be a river
filled with fish
we used to catch some here
days and years
lump together and humans
pack up
rivers convert themselves
to cities for need of space
this one shall follow
it is not the sun that has
taken what it has
a tractor builds a dike
and takes all the water here
this is dry land
no fish, no water,
no moss, sand is filled
and rocks
delivered to make
out of this river
a new housing subdivision
at a higher cost
than money
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Celebration Of The Lizard
Lions in the street and roaming
Dogs in heat, rabid, foaming
A beast caged in the heart of a city
The body of his mother
Rotting in the summer ground
He fled the town
He went down South and crossed the border
Left the chaos and disorder
Back there over his shoulder
One morning he awoke in a green hotel
With a strange creature groaning beside him
Sweat oozed from its shiny skin
Is everybody in?
The ceremony is about to begin
Wake up!
You can't remember where it was
Had this dream stopped?
The snake was pale gold
Glazed and shrunken
We were afraid to touch it
The sheets were hot dead prisons
Now, run to the mirror in the bathroom
Look!
I can't live thru each slow century of her moving
I let my cheek slide down
The cool smooth tile
Feel the good cold stinging blood
The smooth hissing snakes of rain . . .
Once I had, a little game
I liked to crawl back into my brain
I think you know the game I mean
I mean the game called 'go insane'
Now you should try this little game
Just close your eyes forget your name
Forget the world forget the people
And we'll erect a different steeple
This little game is fun to do
Just close your eyes no way to lose
And I'm right there I'm going too
Release control we're breaking thru
Way back deep into the brain
Back where there's never any pain
And the rain falls gently on the town
And in the labyrinth of streams
Beneath, the quiet unearthly presence of
Nervous hill dwellers in the gentle hills around
Reptiles abounding
Fossils, caves, cool air heights
Each house repeats a mold
Windows rolled
Beast car locked
song performed by by Doors
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The Hard Stuff
Bringing past friends into the present.
A separation in the place and time.
A collage so scattered, I really need to bring them back together.
Pieces of me are getting tinier.
It's as if they never existed.
All in my head,
In crazy town unknown and unheard of.
It never really happen.
Tricks of the mind.
An illusion built to justify.
A raising of skies as if they weren't high enough.
A pillow with not enough fluff.
Not either soft or gentle, but instead quite rough.
A kind of firmness.
A solidness that can hurt if fallen down onto to hard.
And I hit it exponentially.
As if I was traveling at the speed of light.
It brought pain upon every inch of my body.
As if I was falling into a pit with trillion of spikes.
All because of event surrounding all this hate.
A faulty fault.
And every time I think about it I want to both cry and laugh.
It's not true, It's joke without any farther a do.
If I can believe that than maybe I can mend a broken trend.
We were thick thieves back then.
A now we barely talk.
A silence has torn us apart.
But I still hear the whispers of you defending me from the taunts.
Yes they do still haunt.
Even after so long.
Even with you being gone.
I remember it all as if it was yesterday.
A play being acted out over and over again.
And as hard as I try to be at peace.
I know I never will.
I can't even separate what is fantasy from what is real.
poem by Ace Of Black Hearts
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