Turning the Tide
Sand-in-toes Canute
screamed less, than
seagull-special son,
throwing buckets,
spades, car keys
and Edwardian
pennies out to sea,
telling the tide
to, Go Back!
Out to see
whatever we could
sea: salty-wet
beyond despair
or a pair of wellies.
Glister that seat,
Neptune-brash as
yesterday. When
we were parents,
golden-haired Icarus
waxed memory-bright
his blue-eyed throne.
Sticks & Stones, Sorry – Won’t
Sun shining
beach huts blossoming
the sky hazy blue
the gently rippling tide awash with diamonds,
sat at the Beachwalk Café in blistering shine,
500ml bottle of Old Mout Cider
Berries & Cherries
fresh as New Zealand.
No standing nor staring allowed
in the view to die for, in sight of Harwich.
Reading, drinking, dipping in the scene
of paddling summers; children at school.
So why maudlin with cherry-red cheeks?
The town awash with Charity Shops,
hubby pausing, slow-sipping at newsprint.
He’s gone to park the car
I’m recovering
overflowing racks of dresses/
shirts/trousers/
belts/bags
and women gossiping.
About me? An acquaintance?
Who cares?
Not them, gossiping out
as I walked through the door
and the deaf hearing every word
like shafting a bird with arrows.
The seas could empty of diamonds,
so I wandered the seafront
sat, gorgeous in the view
of others; enjoying a holiday
Mediterranean-style.
The rules of humour are so strange, it seems
that nothing is left sacred for a joke.
Barbed worlds wring sensitivities of dreams,
spark-strikes the rumble-strip of comic bloke.
That nothing is left sacred, for a joke
garbed holy lady giggles, filled with glee,
spark-strikes the rumble-strip of comic bloke;
whip feather duster/frozen bird; charge fee.
Garbed holy lady giggles, filled with glee
will, (with a foreign accent) keep straight face,
whip feather duster/frozen bird, charge fee.
Public screams of laughter enfold that place.
Still, with a foreign accent keep straight face,
crazed gestures/burps/surprises with a fall.
Public screams of laughter enfold that place,
don’t get it wrong, clown won’t be walking tall…
Crazed gestures, burps, surprises with a fall:
nightmares onstage, off… will ruin fun.
Don’t get it wrong! Clown won’t be walking tall,
slapped shame-faced pavement stagger; pressed, you’re done.
Nightmares onstage, off… will ruin fun,
barbed worlds wring sensitivities of dreams.
Slapped shame-faced pavement stagger; Press, you’re done.
The rules of humour are so strange, it seems.
My love is like a trip to Blakeney,
stuffing in experience as we may:
nice view, nice food, nice drink, nice sex
if the workmen stop hammering for five;
if the prostate reaches those parts…
Hey, let’s read instead.
So love is like (after 31 years),
pills and thrills and will he/won’t he,
indulgences and little treats.
Practicalities of body parts
which work on a good day, maybe;
which complain loudly, fouling play;
which refuse to sock ball, at will.
Hey, perhaps we’ll sleep instead.
My love enjoys the trip to Blakeney,
it’s wild and loud and full of birds.
There’s walks to die from/trinket stores.
What about take-away coffee at Cley?
What about rescued on time by a Bus Pass?
What about sumptuous luxury and warmth?
Hey, let’s return to Blakeney.
Telestich Places Rocks on View (Acrostic)
Perhaps you’ve holidayed beside the sea, a cliff
underneath broad East Anglian skies where
zany tourist attractions promenade comfortably all
zoned out and restful as a view. You sit and sup, while I
lean comfortably into my pain, sup deeply. Wax
eloquently to nobody in particular and sigh. Perhaps
stretch out bare arms and legs, remember, too much. Yet
in delightful park, or along the pier, contemplate horizons
so
neat and solitaire bright. Watch Evergreen weighed low
possibly grounding on the Suez. Care not a seagull’s glide
outweighed by sumptuous restaurants, retail therapy, or
elegant hotels with chandelier-bright dining for two
totally immersed in little nothings, charity shops en bloc
reviving sense of humours past, or making a comeback
yesterday’s ice cream/or wine pleasures reviving tomorrows
Current poetry collection: LOVE’S FLORELOQUENCE, Wendy Ann Webb,
Amazon.co.uk.
Love's Floreloquence: Amazon.co.uk: Webb, Wendy Ann, Meek, CT, Meek, CT, Webb, Wendy Ann: 9798372967595: Books
lovely poetry
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