NaPM April 7 2015

[milo]

Rules: Write a poem for national poetry month on the topic or form described. Each poem should appear as a separate reply to this thread. The goal is to, at the end of the month have written 30 poems for National Poetry Month. 








Topic 7: Ray wants sunburn on the beach, Dale wants bbQ on the beach and you just want to write a poem.  Write a poem inspired by the beach.
Form : any
Line requirements: 8 lines or more

Questions?

[just mercedes]

I pulled a part-written poem from the Too Hard basket and rewrote it - the prompt made it happen.




Memory, belonging, identity
 
 
 
I was born in the wasteland
of forests and gods, on the tail
of our fish, near the spirit trail
that leads to the place of leaving
between tide lines
along Ninety Mile beach.
 
The sea sang my first language
like heartbeats, wind keened
strange lullabies through ghost trees,
the forests of dead kauri
whose blood had become treasure
we all sought: Dallies, Maori,
and pakeha. We were the same
covered in mud.
 
Everyone was family there,
close around fires together
with darkness pressing at our backs,
outcast tribes in an outpost
on the edge of everywhere else.
 
Our songs
all sang of going out
and coming home,
cycles, circles, spirals,
in a language cobbled
from our three cultures.
 
Tides went
and came,
went and came.
Red blossoms dropped
to slow tangihanga
as waves carried them away.
 
Maybe today
the cave mouth will open
and show me the way home.
 
 
tail of our fish - New Zealand’s North Island is Te Ika a Maui, the fish of Maui, for the ancestor who caught and pulled up the country on a fish hook made from his grandmother’s jawbone.
Dallies - Dalmatians, refugees from the Balkans, gum diggers in the Far North
tangihanga - traditional mourning for the dead
The poem alludes to the Maori myth of the travels of the spirit after death.

[Todd]

Lovely imagery, Mercedes, with a strong last strophe.

I found this one especially difficult, but here's my offering.
~~~
Footprints
In the end, you may awaken
to the rainstorm crash
of surf against shore,
to the frozen sun
of an indistinct gray morning.
You might think your path ended
at the water’s edge. 
And if life can be broken down
to a card bought in a store,
you will be tempted
to search the sand for footprints—
yours or maybe another’s.
You will wonder
about the deep depressions
in the sand, and whether you
truly walked the steps.
If life can be written 
on a plaque with comforting platitudes,
then you will be truly alone
with the cancer, or at your child’s grave.
You will miss everything 
remembering the moments and failing
to notice your own indelible marks
in the sand.

[rayheinrich]

Topic 7: Ray wants sunburn on the beach, Dale wants bbQ on the beach and you just want to write a poem.  Write a poem inspired by the beach.
Form : any
Line requirements: 8 lines or more

Questions?

Just for the record (not trying to be uppity), the request ray sent in more closely resembled
"sex, sand, and sunburn". But, since proprieties must be observed, I shall bow to superior wisdom.

[billy]

just get your poem in
i'm late so am doing it now [it's the 8th here]

[billy]

done. april 7th poem of the month

Sandy Pork Chops

The sun had come, the sunblock empty;
the outside gauge read over twenty
deg' centigrade, and rising steady.
With Feet like prawns on charcoal ready;

my pink and swollen face was messy.
The hankerchief on head not dressy.
I trod on sand and looked ungainly.
the better half threw oil but mainly

I was fuckin' barbecued.

---

sorry for being late.

[rayheinrich]

done. april 7th poem of the month

Sandy Pork Chops

The sun had come, the sunblock empty;
the outside gauge read over twenty
deg' centigrade, and rising steady.
With Feet like prawns on charcoal ready;

my pink and swollen face was messy.
The hankerchief on head not dressy.
I trod on sand and looked ungainly.
the better half threw oil but mainly

I was fuckin' barbecued.

---

sorry for being late.

"He who waits, has longer to think the fucker over." - Bill Bando
(Which, BTW, worked.)

---

just get your poem in
i'm late so am doing it now [it's the 8th here]

Yeah, I messed up this time too, damn BBQ, us Texians revere it so much...
It's like writing a poem about God; better get the fucker straight or
you'll be exiled to Big Bend (desert but beautiful).

[milo]

The Visit

Cathy walks along the shore
as if she's seen a ghost
and if she calls you'll answer or
Cathy walks along. The shore
is here and then it's gone
then back again, then lost.
Cathy walks along the shore
as if she's seen. A ghost.

[Erthona]

A Little Orange Roughy?

Maybe drinking all those Tequila shots
last night and passing out in a lawn chair
left on the beach was not such a good idea.
Especially since she failed to come out
of her alcohol induced coma until
2 o'clock in the afternoon.
Even now she's still slightly drunk,
but the headache's starting to come on.
She's going to need to chuck down some
Tylenol and tomato juice,
or unzip a pull-it pretty damn soon.  
At least she is not alone in her misery.
The love of her life is in the next chair,
doing a good imitation of an Orange Roughy,
a favorite around this locale.
She had Orange Roughy two night's ago,
she might have it tonight…
no her knees would never allow it.
She lets go of his hand and notices
that the shadow of his fingers
are marked on the top of her hand. 
Somehow she finds that cute and smiles.  
Love makes us insane,
alcohol just makes us stupid.


Erthona

©2015

[ellajam]

Sands Sans BBQ

Shoes perched on the seawall,
we drop just short of the tide's tongue.
I back into you, fit between your thighs,
feel your arms close. Four eyes focus
on the fuzzy line where grey meets green.
We breath: salt, baked seaweed, gulls.
I turn with my heart in my mouth,
thought drained through the sand.
You kiss me with your heart on your tongue;
I swallow it whole, the conch whispers  
of joy and now.

[bena]

hot stuff going on here.


Burnt BBQ Beach



I was looking for
a perfect blend
of sun, sand & spice
food, friends & fun.

I wound up instead
with blistered breasts,
really roasted ribs,
and over-toasted buns.

[Tiger the Lion]

Elephant Seal Proboscis

I was born with a modest nose.
They say size doesn’t matter.
It’s more about the way you smell
or your gift for idle chatter.

These bullies honk their horns all day
and make their sandy beds
by snorting threats at smaller boys
too wise to lose their heads.

But the fact is that I might have too
( a hard one to remember)
to screw with a harem of thirty-two
on a Baja beach in December.

[rayheinrich]

                    < at the beach >
                   
                    red
                     
                    pink
               
                    our position in the sun
               
                    is everything
               
               
                    and sex with sand and sunburn
               
                    stops hurting
                 
                    only
               
                    when we cum
                   
                        - - -

---

Elephant Seal Proboscis

I was born with a modest nose.
They say size doesn’t matter.
It’s more about the way you smell
or your gift for idle chatter.

These bullies honk their horns all day
and make their sandy beds
by snorting threats at smaller boys
too wise to lose their heads.

But the fact is that I might have too
( a hard one to remember)
to screw with a harem of thirty-two
on a Baja beach in December.

You got a real ménage going on there!

[billy]

only when we cum.

i have no idea why but i love the style of your writing .

[rayheinrich]

only when we cum.

i have no idea why but i love the style of your writing .

Aw, I'm flattered... though, maybe, you like anything with
cum in it and if this is the case I'm either flattened or want to
extend you a cordial invitation.

[cidermaid]

After the storm.

He came to her a stranger, roaring in the night,
a wind whipped frenzy of jealous, pounding love.
Rain rods fell, etched warning messages of Braille,
burrowed deep into her shores -- his finger trails.

A wind whipped frenzy of jealous, pounding love;
mounted on foam fuelled waves, his urging on display.
Burrowing his finger trail deep into her shores,
a dark, boiling surge, striped the rubble of her sin.

Mounted on foam fuelled waves, his urging on display.
Her lust for other loves was crushed beneath his weight.
A dark, boiling surge striped the rubble of her sin;
the folly of her illicit rendezvous.

Her lust for other loves was crushed beneath his weight,
now the son has kissed her, she basks in his delight.
The folly of her illicit rendezvous:
a distant memory, buried beneath her sands.

Now the son has kissed her, she basks in his delight.
Rain rods fell, etching finger messages in Braille,
but these pock marks were erased by the break of day.
He came to her a stranger, roaring in the night.

[rayheinrich]

After the storm.

He came to her a stranger, roaring in the night,
a wind whipped frenzy of jealous, pounding love.
Rain rods fell, etched warning messages of Braille,
burrowed deep into her shores -- his finger trails.

A wind whipped frenzy of jealous, pounding love;
mounted on foam fuelled waves, his urging on display.
Burrowing his finger trail deep into her shores,
a dark, boiling surge, striped the rubble of her sin.

Mounted on foam fuelled waves, his urging on display.
Her lust for other loves was crushed beneath his weight.
A dark, boiling surge striped the rubble of her sin;
the folly of her illicit rendezvous.
 
Her lust for other loves was crushed beneath his weight,
now the son has kissed her, she basks in his delight.
The folly of her illicit rendezvous:
a distant memory, buried beneath her sands.

Now the son has kissed her, she basks in his delight.
Rain rods fell, etching finger messages in Braille,
but these pock marks were erased by the break of day.
He came to her a stranger, roaring in the night.

The 44 Magnum of my love has just strode IN !!!

How many ways can you spell "best" ?

                ONE

[cidermaid]

The 44 Magnum of my love has just strode IN !!!

How many ways can you spell "best" ?

                ONE

You just made my day Ray

[Keith]

Trapped in the tent

You can keep your fine dining
and the poshest of grub,
some French foie gras
or an old English pub.

I don't need a sunset
to sip the best wine,
or the scent of a Riesling
over-looking the Rhein.

Just give me a shelter
that flaps in the rain,
let the beach run empty
and the gulls call our name.

Then waft me a pasty,
a Cornish delight,
to steam up my glasses
and laugh at our plight.

[jasmine.m.wardiya]

yellow sand,
lapping waves

thirsty dog i am
rolling,
licking salt and
drinking
crystal clear

underneath the water

more sand: dark, smooth
and shells, and other treasures
and wriggling guests
and hosts

water sneaks back;
i wait

am thirsty,
hungry not.