Poem 112: The Storm

This poem should really be Poem Number One because it was written on 14 May 1962 – 60 years ago today! I was at primary school and we had to write a contribution for the class’s Literary Journal. There are two things I marvel at! One is that I wrote “Grand-pi-pa” and not simply “Grandpa” in order to get it to scan properly. (Incidentally my grandparents were long dead). The second thing I marvel at is the daringness of having three of the eight lines end with the word “sea”! It’s like it was difficult to find many things to rhyme with “sea”!

The ship was heaved and tossed like a cork
For there was a storm at sea.
And oh what a terrible storm it was
For my grand-pi-pa and me.

The lightning flashed, the thunder roared,
And the ship on the pitilous sea
Seemed so small to the two of us aboard
Against the enormous sea.

To hear the poem read aloud click HERE.

2425. Successful day’s fishing

When Barton took his family out on his boat for a day’s fishing, he reluctantly consented to include Llewellyn in the party. Llewellyn was a friend of his wife and Barton had long suspected his wife and Llewellyn were having an affair.

Barton was not one to be consumed by jealousy or rage. Perhaps, he thought, such suspicions were in his mind. Just ignore such thoughts and get on with life.

They were several miles out to sea and fishing lines were cast. What a perfect day for fishing! Blue sea! Blue sky! Oleander (that was Barton’s wife’s name) caught a fish. Oh the excitement! Oh the fuss! Llewellyn was all over her – so to speak. He couldn’t shut up about how clever she was. How perfect she was. How lovely she was. How intelligent she was. How confoundedly talented. How… Oh for goodness sake.

The day was hot. Barton asked if anyone want to go for a dip in the sea. Oh yes! Llewellyn was the first to dive in. Barton shoved the boat into top gear and headed for home.

1975. Beach pebbles

There weren’t that many wave-worn pebbles on the beach. The beach was mainly sand. But there were enough pebbles for Otis to walk the beach and fill his not-so-big cotton bag.

The not-so-big cotton bag was also, in fact, not-so-small. Once it had been filled with pebbles (each between one and two inches big) the bag was considerably heavy. He should have started at the far end of the beach and worked his way back towards the carpark. But now he had to lumber the heavy bag all the way along the beach to reach his car.

“Never mind,” he thought. “I’ll make my way back slowly, without overdoing it, punctuated by many rests!”

Some of the pebbles were rather beautiful, especially when wet. The variation in colour was amazing. Some were clearly marble, worn down and polished. Others were simply grey rock, but they were important because they provided a contrast to the lovelier stones. Not everything ordinary is out of place. In fact, without the ordinary pebbles the multi-coloured pebbles would possibly look gaudy.

By now, Otis must have carried the bag for about half of the return walk. He stopped to rest.

The tide was coming in, and the bag carrying was made more difficult because he had to walk higher up on the beach in the dry and loose sand. Walking and carrying was definitely more challenging. But he had all the time in the world!

It was when Otis was only a stone’s throw from the carpark that the not-so-big, not-so-small cotton bag tore asunder. All his collected pebbles fell out into the sand. He had no other container to put them in.

“Blow it!” he thought. “I shall have to collect the pebbles next time, and next time I shall start at the far end of the beach.”

Music 125: A visit to the beach

So much to do, see, and smell!

Listen to the music HERE!

(Footnote: At last! At last! The time has come to move house! I shall be in and out of blogging erratically and periodically during the next week or so. Daily postings have been scheduled, but I’m going to be in and out of both time and internet reception!)

Poem 45: Sea waves

(Dear everyone – this poem was posted way back but got accidentally deleted – so I’m just fixing things up, and I don’t know how to tell WP that it’s not new!)

Sea waves! Kinaesthetic
Masterpiece! The earth’s trick to shine
Hefty stones into fine
Marble and, over time, transform
Dull rock. Beauty is born
Not in fierce forceful storms but slow,
Quiet, gentle to and fro,
Wave on wave, stop and go, hard grit.

Children ever question,
Perpetual in their din and quest
To know. They prod and pest.
Their parents never rest at all;
But as the breakers fall
On stony shores to maul and grind,
Mum turns into diamond,
And Dad wave-worn, refined forged iron.

To hear the poem read aloud click HERE.

1091. Fat lady on the beach

Look at her! That fat lady lying on the beach. What an eyesore. She’s polluting the environment. I’ve come here with my kids for a nice day at the seaside and that fat lady lies in the sun like a pile of whale blubber.

It’s lovely lying on the warm sand with the sun on the skin and the sound of the sea waves. Just dozing… and eating and dozing and swimming. That fat lady has hardly moved all afternoon. You’d think she’d wear something a bit more becoming. It’s not a bikini or anything, but swimming attire is hardly meant to cover gross obesity.

The tide has started to come in a bit so we’ve all moved a little higher up, but that lazy fat lady just lies there. She’s probably too fat to get up! LMFAO! In fact the waves are starting to splosh a bit over her feet.

Wow! That’s a big wave! It’s completely covered her and is now receding back. Goodness! The fat lady is rolling like a log being dragged out to sea. Get up you fat female! Get up!

Come on kids! Quick! Pack up your stuff and get in the car. We’re heading home.

Poem 8: The return of summer

© Bruce Goodman 1 April 2015

The waves ran gentle races for a while,
green and slow, home-come in rows.
Small footprints jollicked to the shore and back and
children saw sea-tulips in the heat
‘til tides-grown-tired-of-riding
bedded back to sleep.

A shriek of silence seemed to stun the sky.
The gannet stumbled in the air
pierced by the shock of sudden accident.
A lonely island waded in the sea.

I saw through spray a sudden surge of recklessness:
a toppled boat turned slow.
Three children drowned.
There were shells strewn
madly on the
sand
like
strangling necklaces.

Winter hid the sunken summer.
A bit of moon hung somewhere in the night.
Somewhere in the night
some sunshine sung.

Yes, tonight I dreamed of clouds
screamed to crimson in the mountains.
Stilts stood still at estuaries
and summer came.

To hear the poem read aloud click HERE.