Poetry competition CLOSED 7th May 2013 7:24pm
WINNER
mjs211 (MikeTheEngineer)
mjs211 (MikeTheEngineer)
RUNNER-UP:
kriticool
Shore therapy
Poetry Contest Description
Let's hit the beach. Winter is DONE.
http://sphotos-b.xx.fbcdn.net/hphotos-ash3/557196_480704428607161_96283228_n.jpg
I'm ready for summer, and that means hitting the beach. Take me with you on your favorite beach getaway.
Convince me I'm there - I want all my senses provoked. Note the details, please. What kind of beach? Who's there? What's going on? What time of day or night is it? Are we still on land or surfing? Boating? These questions are only suggestions... Any activity is acceptable as long as we're still in sight of shore.
Here's an example:
Shore Rapture
Wind strokes the neck, caressing
Swells surround, softly shushing
Water sighs, cools the feet.
Sand grains slither underneath,
Pulling me to the ocean deep.
Two weeks. No other rules, so no excuses.
I'm ready for summer, and that means hitting the beach. Take me with you on your favorite beach getaway.
Convince me I'm there - I want all my senses provoked. Note the details, please. What kind of beach? Who's there? What's going on? What time of day or night is it? Are we still on land or surfing? Boating? These questions are only suggestions... Any activity is acceptable as long as we're still in sight of shore.
Here's an example:
Shore Rapture
Wind strokes the neck, caressing
Swells surround, softly shushing
Water sighs, cools the feet.
Sand grains slither underneath,
Pulling me to the ocean deep.
Two weeks. No other rules, so no excuses.
http://25.media.tumblr.com/8ba270c90d953b98705acdf2710fb802/tumblr_mlmsciih1s1qd8tqqo1_500.jpg
Mooring at Morning
Just as the sun's dustlight hits the beach
her arm fills my arch and my back makes its reach
her eyes are the color of rain in the stream
her lips are the pleasure of pressure and steam.
Just as the mystical wind fills the sail
a spout that lets out the sound of a whale
the lapse of our bodies as cannons collide
the wave hits the shore and sweeps us aside.
runningturtle87
Mooring at Morning
Just as the sun's dustlight hits the beach
her arm fills my arch and my back makes its reach
her eyes are the color of rain in the stream
her lips are the pleasure of pressure and steam.
Just as the mystical wind fills the sail
a spout that lets out the sound of a whale
the lapse of our bodies as cannons collide
the wave hits the shore and sweeps us aside.
runningturtle87
Waiting For The Wave
White sands caress your tender feet
As you come running to the shore
"Please my darling do not fret,
if you don't see me anymore."
Soft summer breeze whispers gently,
"He is waiting, can't you see?"
The white clouds floating aimlessly
invites you to take a dip in the sea.
Every sailboat that docks on the shore
gives you hope, I'm coming home
For I made a vow I'm leaving no more,
since I found in you, a loving home.
Unfortunately I can't keep my vow,
as my mortal vessel dissipated with the waves
Walk towards the sea when the tide is low,
so I can kiss your bare feet with each rushing wave.
_______________________________________
EngrVV - 04/23/2013
White sands caress your tender feet
As you come running to the shore
"Please my darling do not fret,
if you don't see me anymore."
Soft summer breeze whispers gently,
"He is waiting, can't you see?"
The white clouds floating aimlessly
invites you to take a dip in the sea.
Every sailboat that docks on the shore
gives you hope, I'm coming home
For I made a vow I'm leaving no more,
since I found in you, a loving home.
Unfortunately I can't keep my vow,
as my mortal vessel dissipated with the waves
Walk towards the sea when the tide is low,
so I can kiss your bare feet with each rushing wave.
_______________________________________
EngrVV - 04/23/2013
Hot and Sultry
She is hot
and on heat
All the time
she wants it..
everywhere
o yes, all over
On her cheeks
On her breasts
on her arms
she wants to rub it in
all over her back
she lies down and arches
her back and rubs it
on her white stomach
she rubs it between her legs
she closes her eyes
feeling the heat
but loving it
worshiping it
because she has
Coconut oil Suntan Lotion
She is hot
and on heat
All the time
she wants it..
everywhere
o yes, all over
On her cheeks
On her breasts
on her arms
she wants to rub it in
all over her back
she lies down and arches
her back and rubs it
on her white stomach
she rubs it between her legs
she closes her eyes
feeling the heat
but loving it
worshiping it
because she has
Coconut oil Suntan Lotion
Anonymous
<< post removed >>
Anonymous
<< post removed >>
Paradise, Interrupted
Alone
On the beach
I’m the last person
In the world.
Alone
The silence
Broken only by waves
Rushing onshore.
Alone
I watch
The perfection of it all
Never changing.
Alone
I’ve changed
Somehow surviving the challenge
Of the battle.
Alone
My footsteps
Interrupt Paradise, fleetingly
For a moment.
Alone
I am no match
For the sovereign waves
Keeping everything in order.
Alone
On the beach
I’m the last person
In the world.
Alone
The silence
Broken only by waves
Rushing onshore.
Alone
I watch
The perfection of it all
Never changing.
Alone
I’ve changed
Somehow surviving the challenge
Of the battle.
Alone
My footsteps
Interrupt Paradise, fleetingly
For a moment.
Alone
I am no match
For the sovereign waves
Keeping everything in order.
.:Jelly Roll - The Bounce:.
http://8020.photos.jpgmag.com/1082551_124189_048a58ee78_l.jpg
holy mackerel; holy are the mackerel
salt in the game and that’s only natural
this is new school where you’ll learn to eel
seaside ride, it’s the tide’s appeal
holy mackerel; holy are the mackerel
salt in the game and that’s only natural
this is new school where you’ll learn to eel
seaside swimming, here to do the deal
Jelly wanna roll like he’s onna tour
first in the ocean.. along that shore
beachcombers chillin…
wonder who for?
Jelly seen a belly
wanna sea-some more
impress to play
c’mon…swim this way
come on little fishy and without delay
cast best lines …send ‘em this here way
you don’t wanna look like a castaway
holy mackerel; holy are the mackerel
salt in the game and that’s only natural
this is new school where you’ll learn to eel
seaside rides, it’s the tide’s appeal
holy mackerel; holy are the mackerel
salt in the game and that’s only natural
this is new school where you’ll learn to eel
seaside women’s got that sex appeal
liquidity of lusciousness without the bling
tide’s now high… time to do our thing
c’mon part your lips gotta put ‘em in place
betta that way to absolve the taste
come without haste and don’t dare waste
can’t take the chance we’ll miss your face
can’t be hidden; there’s no disguise
jelly on the tongue is the way we rise!
this is the surge.. of the mushroom top
watch get weight-less as the bass line drop
c’mon here fishy this can’t be stopped
you’ve bottomed out now straight to the top
straight to the top, straight to the top.... to the top, to the top, to the top, to the
[font=Comic Sans MS][right]holy mackerel; holy are the mackerel
salt in the game and that’s only natural
this is old school where we've learnt to fear ..where seaside sharks learned to lurk the pier
...
photo: suzanne lee[/right]
[/font]
Love and sand, the mantra and the ocean
The first thing I remember
is sand in the cracks of the streets.
Short bright shore grass growing out of it,
we learned in school that it and its roots were so short
because it was lodged in sand and somehow knew it,
as transient as our summer fling and the handful of others
we’d had but never talked about because this one meant something.
We’d walk along Main, praising ourselves like hipster monks
for denying ourselves the universal rush to the beach,
the beach the shoobies called it! The beach was the only thing
they knew.
We knew the shore was a place, a thing, an area,
a personal spot away from the tourists, licking soft serve
off our hands as it melted in the heat, creamy cold and sweet a
counterpoint to the heat and gritty salt, laughing to ourselves
over something only we knew, over nothing,
over us and the summer and the shore.
It was a way of life. We’d wander down Cookman
with the dusty sand in our flip flops
that comes from a million tires grinding it into powder on the blacktop.
It gets everywhere, and it’d drive you insane if you let it.
The shoobies let it.
We let the walk down the cracked street
cover us in fine powder sand, getting between our toes,
covering our legs, in the cracks of our elbows. It was the enemy
if you let it. We loved it, our dusty badge of honor. Shore kids.
A way of life, a personal mantra. Arms around each other’s backs
watching the sun go down from the lifeguard stand. Soft kisses,
gentle writhing on the white sun-bleached and sea-weathered wood,
soothingly warm from the day. It all meant something, the gravitas,
and we knew it, and held our own, and held each other up
to the low, primal lullaby of the ocean.
And so on, and so forth.
The beach is a field trip, a peek into the lives of a foreign land
without a glimpse of the culture for context.
The shore is that land and that culture. We’d wake the next day,
meet on Main, meander down Cookman. Wander down Ocean Ave,
instinctively knowing every inch of the warped boards with their
jagged nails, the dunes pushed up high in planned chaos,
insurmountable mountains, just as transient as all else here.
We laughed at the tourists shaking sand out of their shirts,
not knowing what to do. Shook our heads at the callousness
of paper cups in the sand, damn shoobies. Strolled from one end
of the boardwalk to the other, the old casino pier marking our start
and the convention hall the turning point, never a rush,
that was the fundament of the shore. Our own little paradise,
always acutely aware we had it the best of all,
we’d wander at our leisure until we grew tired,
then clamber into a lifeguard chair and watch the sun set.
We’d split up at summer’s wane, promise to keep in touch
and promptly forget, then hibernate with the rest of the shore
until the summer rolled around again. Transient paradise,
we’d meet someone else and live each night again.
It meant something, and we knew it, and we
defended it with all our hearts, as we gave our hearts to each other
with the fervor that comes with knowing it’d end in September.
The shore was a place, an area, a way of life, a code, a set of morals,
a transient paradise and a place where life made permanent sense.
**
In memory of the shore towns devastated,
the generations of memories forever unrevisitable,
the rebuilding effort which will create memories for the younger generations,
and the gap between those which will exist for the next hundred years,
until the last soul full of memories of the old places is laid to rest,
to guard over the places which are ghosts themselves.
**
The first thing I remember
is sand in the cracks of the streets.
Short bright shore grass growing out of it,
we learned in school that it and its roots were so short
because it was lodged in sand and somehow knew it,
as transient as our summer fling and the handful of others
we’d had but never talked about because this one meant something.
We’d walk along Main, praising ourselves like hipster monks
for denying ourselves the universal rush to the beach,
the beach the shoobies called it! The beach was the only thing
they knew.
We knew the shore was a place, a thing, an area,
a personal spot away from the tourists, licking soft serve
off our hands as it melted in the heat, creamy cold and sweet a
counterpoint to the heat and gritty salt, laughing to ourselves
over something only we knew, over nothing,
over us and the summer and the shore.
It was a way of life. We’d wander down Cookman
with the dusty sand in our flip flops
that comes from a million tires grinding it into powder on the blacktop.
It gets everywhere, and it’d drive you insane if you let it.
The shoobies let it.
We let the walk down the cracked street
cover us in fine powder sand, getting between our toes,
covering our legs, in the cracks of our elbows. It was the enemy
if you let it. We loved it, our dusty badge of honor. Shore kids.
A way of life, a personal mantra. Arms around each other’s backs
watching the sun go down from the lifeguard stand. Soft kisses,
gentle writhing on the white sun-bleached and sea-weathered wood,
soothingly warm from the day. It all meant something, the gravitas,
and we knew it, and held our own, and held each other up
to the low, primal lullaby of the ocean.
And so on, and so forth.
The beach is a field trip, a peek into the lives of a foreign land
without a glimpse of the culture for context.
The shore is that land and that culture. We’d wake the next day,
meet on Main, meander down Cookman. Wander down Ocean Ave,
instinctively knowing every inch of the warped boards with their
jagged nails, the dunes pushed up high in planned chaos,
insurmountable mountains, just as transient as all else here.
We laughed at the tourists shaking sand out of their shirts,
not knowing what to do. Shook our heads at the callousness
of paper cups in the sand, damn shoobies. Strolled from one end
of the boardwalk to the other, the old casino pier marking our start
and the convention hall the turning point, never a rush,
that was the fundament of the shore. Our own little paradise,
always acutely aware we had it the best of all,
we’d wander at our leisure until we grew tired,
then clamber into a lifeguard chair and watch the sun set.
We’d split up at summer’s wane, promise to keep in touch
and promptly forget, then hibernate with the rest of the shore
until the summer rolled around again. Transient paradise,
we’d meet someone else and live each night again.
It meant something, and we knew it, and we
defended it with all our hearts, as we gave our hearts to each other
with the fervor that comes with knowing it’d end in September.
The shore was a place, an area, a way of life, a code, a set of morals,
a transient paradise and a place where life made permanent sense.
**
In memory of the shore towns devastated,
the generations of memories forever unrevisitable,
the rebuilding effort which will create memories for the younger generations,
and the gap between those which will exist for the next hundred years,
until the last soul full of memories of the old places is laid to rest,
to guard over the places which are ghosts themselves.
**
