The warm Blue waters, hot Yellow sandy beaches, and Red sunburnt skin. Licence to Slay 
Poem and image by brulebilly
| A Summer remembrance of a South Atlantic beach.
And there was this beach ample to the four winds,
Its sandhills almost covering the struggling bushes
Whose branchtips merely emerging from the sands
Flowered fiery yellow hopes of future seedlings,
Wild species, wild loves,
Tamarisk dark greens and acacia leathered leaves.
And now there were also my dreams
Drifting back to ages faraway in the past,
When I used to run up and down and roll over my stomach
To the pits where swirlings gathered all the human dirt
And from there climb up to start all over again
Under her summer-inspired eye...
She was also very young,
perhaps a year or two younger than me
And looked patiently down,
Her clear green eyes sadly fixed on my silly games,
Juvenile breasts barely insinuating under a flimsy linen dress.
Whilst I thought she was absolutely unaware
That all that I was doing was for her,
Along that long, warm month.
Until one day she stood up and came, her hand took mine,
Firm was her grip and, without saying a word,
We went together to the bushes and unclothed behind
The translucent sea foliage and kissed
And hugged and rolled, and all...
Seawaves, gulls' screams, gritting sands,
The scents and noises and murmurs of the beach, And a blanket of wet hot breeze covering us. I don't know what she had in her mind
Because the following day,
And the next and the next and the next,
She wasn't there. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Three-score is a lot of years, you know?
But to me it seems just yesterday:
Whenever I come to a beach, any beach, anywhere in the world,
I see her and her clear green patient staring eyes,
Looking sadly at me.
© 2004 Salvador Oría
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A summer day at Mudeford We gathered, tight together, as many times before , in the tiny beach hut, across the water , from Mudeford Quay. Picnic, wine, laughter, but this time to say goodbye. Her eyes still bright, hand feebly lifted , and a kiss from everyone, Sheila smiled. Mike took her tiny hand anticipating her wants, as the morning mists heralded a hot summer day. Mudeford Quay across the water sent us sounds of children, young life playing, as older life played out.. It was a day of last days. Memories were stored and held fast. Evening called and we drifted away Sheilas eyes were dimmer, Her smile was smaller. The next time we all met up We buried her.
The Orange Witch A Summer afternoon After carefully pruning the dead-head spent
flowers from our beloved roses,
I sit placidly to enjoy a scenty cup of Earl Grey,
to search for a bit of inspiration
on what will I do with the aphid population
if the organic soap solution doesn't work. It's 6 p.m. I grab a sandwich from the trolley,
Patsy has prepared a few for this ocassion:
roastbeef, mayonnaise and nasturtium leaves
picked from the garden minutes ago,
with cucumber sprinkled with Worcester spicy
sauce, between two generous brown bread slices. In a couple of hours we shall see the sun set
behind a scaled curtain of variations of reds.
The evening birds have started their wild chatting
forecasting a magnificent following day.
Oh, how I love these quiet afternoons of summer,
I wish they'll never come to an end!
© 2004 Salvador Oría
Seashore Serendipity
White crested waves race
Building breathlessly
'Til releasing relief
Upon the shattered shore
Shingle scrunches under eager feet
Squelchy seaweed squeaks
Revealed by retreating tide
Splish splosh splash
Paddle at water's edge
Discover seawater pools
See shells, starfish and tiny crabs
Marvel at marine miracles
Overhead gulls raucous call
Circling and swooping seawards
Lick lips crusted with salt
Smell onions and vinegar
Burgers or fish 'n' chips
Vendors beckon beneath cheery lights
Illuminated thrills at distant funfair
Excited screams travel far
Competing with Nature's
Ceaseless rippling roar © Christine L. Coles
One day in Skegness
The sun was shining on a high
when I first saw you by the pier
In the crowd I lost you
My heart was filled with fear
I searched the beach
all the way down to the sea
I tried the promenade
Though I knew not, where you could be
The clock tower struck midday
as I passed by its side
So I climbed aboard the big wheel
to see if I could see where you did hide
But nothing seemed to help
even the jolly fisherman could not assist
My day was coming to an end
and my eyes became clouded by a mist
As I walked slowly to the station
My heart was in a mess
When I saw you and you came to me
and I found my love one day in Skegness ... Stoned1Griff 
Summer Evening
Slowly day ebbs to the edge,
traffic's heavy drone retreats
sunshine pulls out with the tide,
evening stretches in the heat.
Old clans meet and gather round,
share a feast in honoured way,
smoke curls up to amber clouds,
embers pattern memories. Fingers brush to lay the feast,
linger over easy toil,
sweet aromas waft around,
tempt a palate dry with talk. Salads, salty, dressed with oil,
plump tomatoes, fresh baked bread,
mellow cheese on smokey lips
red wine spreads a warm caress As the cool of darkness falls
conversation fades away,
sated, sleepy, friends depart,
rich with moments of the day. Phoebe Seaside Ditty
I went down to the seaside
Played Bingo on the Pier
Looked at saucy Postcards
Drank lots of lukewarm beer
Staggered along the Promenade
Fighting gale-force wind and rain
Ate soggy chips and battered fish
Supped lots more beer again
I went into the fun-fair
On all the thrilling rides
Till I went green and queasy
And threw up my insides
So now the day is over
And all my money spent
I’ll try to think of a good excuse
To explain my missing rent
© Christine L. Coles
Inisheer Above the half door, a beach,
above that again, the sea.
The morning ferry from Galway
anchors in the doorway
and waits offshore in the sun.
Aran sweaters are navy blue
and such, but never white.
The men, tough as the sea,
are readying their currachs,
which are also fishing boats.
This island has no police,
no cars, no roads, no harbour.
The people speak Irish
and the tiny stonewalled fields
have rabbits and a donkey or two.
This eastern side faces the mainland.
There's a pub. That's it.
They close when you finish drinking.
We never knew and kept them awake,
then staggered out under the stars.
One of them was zig-zagging.
Who knew we couldn't fix it,
on the rocky path we walked,
stopping, sitting, starting again,
mystified and drunk with life.
I was remembering Howth head
when three of us lay in the dark
in an all-enveloping blackness,
with constellations above
and a boat light crossing the bay.
That sober night you said
"Who can look on this
and fail to find wisdom?"
I recall it was your wisdom
that always saw us through.
On another sandy beach,
minute, sheltered by rocks,
we sunbathed but never swam.
The cove was full of jelly-fish
blown in by last night's gale.
I ate something like wild garlic
stupidly, luckily not poisoned.
Walking where kites swooped
to threaten our heads, we found
a ruin half-buried in the sand.
It was a church from the age
of saints and scholars, hungry,
not tall or else they stooped
to pass under the low lintel
into their pious stone hall.
Our blase plaster living rooms
might be bigger now than this
place where monks huddled
and chanted in Latin, fearful,
euphoric and awestruck.
Another mile to the final cliffs
where sheered walls of brown rock
face the edge of the world.
Did they venture in twos, singly,
or all together to this western shore?
They prayed to God of the Atlantic
for their feeble, perilous lives.
They prayed for the flat world, finite
under a dome of sky, waiting
for the terrible Judgement Day.
Next stop America, we know now.
But for them the ineluctible fury
of the Atlantic was proof
that they were small, very small,
and so are we, the same.
The wavelets become rollercoasters
only halfway to the ferry, leaving.
It's too late then to set the price
when they ask. Whatever it is,
we have to pay the currach men.
Ossian summer sunset a sunset
like none other... a cauldron of red light
roiling in the West
behind dark clouds
and below a black flat skyshade
.
the darkness
an emphasis
of light
.
we are between a flat black ceiling
and soft puffy dark grey cloudbanks
just below
.
white, red and gold
deny the dark
and a flat hatted
triple-thundered head
boils up in sight.
.
heat!
.
repeat
.
heat!
(from Walkabouts:1997...)
brulebilly
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