vox poetica
prompts
Because we all need a creative push from time to time and amazing things happen when great pictures inspire great words! Art will be posted here for your inspiration, so look, write the poem you're spurred to write, and submit it here: prompts@voxpoetica.com (please include your name and the city where you write). Selected submissions will be posted here and the art will change from time to time (timing will depend on how much prompt writing you talented people can tolerate) so check in often to see what's been written and what the next picture looks like. Here's the first poem inspired by this photograph. Write your own and add another dimension.
Photo: On the Strand, by Gianluca D'Elia, 2010
We Read the Same Books
By Annmarie Lockhart
There was duck, or was it shrimp tails for calcium?
It was Thai, but it might have been Mexican. The
place was empty, it was crowded, it was early, she
was late. These details came before and after, and
though witty, did not advance the plot. This story,
about him and her, was written in the sand, drawn
in the stars. It caught their laughter up on a surfer's
September waves. It pulled them, naked, away from
rocks and wrecks, into white-green phosphorescent froth.
The first chapter ended with wonder, words, a walk;
its last sentence was a perfect constellation kiss.
Scarlett's Lament
By Gianluca D'Elia
Underneath the stars
That dot the indigo sky
Scarlett strolls beneath the harbor lights
She wonders where her husband has gone
As a merchant, he'd travel far away
To lands that were
Mystic
Enchanting
Romantic
When he came back he'd bring exotic treasures
Necklaces and diamond rings
So many rare and unknown things
But no, not this time
He sailed away in his ship, quite a long time ago
Saying farewell to the village
Fulfilling his wanderlust
He slowly pulled out of the harbor
No love this year
Scarlett roams the beach
Her footprints create an endless trail
She builds sandcastles that disappear with the waves
She cries, under the lamps of the harbor
Until the lights turn out
Painting the Edge
By John Lavan
of the sea,
a wet crescent of aqua blue,
fizzes up to a pencil line
dropped from a cobalt sky.
In the marine,
streaks of white bubble
like a lady's hair, floating--but really
air pushed up by moon and water, rock.
Behind, see angled land, grass and stone
and sand and green
corrugated weed and looking down to
boots and hanging ochre hands.
Everything made of water--leveled of course--
a Famous Artist's watercolour.
Shards of Past
By Nick Hawkins
Shards of past.
Here they lie, broken pieces.
For decades dissolve my reputation,
seas wash time and stars watch.
I have no bearing on what I was,
some see me as a stranger of tides,
an ugly remnant of nature's wrath,
but I know the beauty I once adorned.
Pillars of architectural brilliance ...
... entrancing sailors of fortune into a port of enrichment.
I'm collapsed, fungi-ridden and unrecognizable today,
survived by the ocean and her century's tales.
My pride is my silence.
And this is me, shards of past.
A Change in the Tides
By Joanna Lee
I stand unbowed,
shading my eyes from the rays
of a summer's dying, throat
burnt from the tang of too-much
too-fast and without
breath or word or breezy acknowledgment;
the story was written in some other language
than my own and swallowed whole like tequila
with neither pretense nor
lemon, before even there was
regret; before I was found
face-down in a puddle of blue
and of poison; before I touched
my mother's hand, cold on the
morgue slab, for the last time.
When moonlight still tasted sweet and
deceit melted on the tongue like taffy;
before I had yet reckoned
the consequences.
Now from back upon the shore
the ocean sounds wistful,
a slapping against the rocks as if
in remonstrance; she howls.
I stand unbowed before her,
wary of each mouthful of hard-won air;
sea-salt has a bitterness
once you've escaped from
drowning.
Shoreline
By Mildred Speidel
I am blue and beautiful
Azure with my white
flowing hair
I see the rocks
They don't disturb me
I lash against them
They seem to come
alive with my touch
They protect me
from hitting the
shoreline
Today the seals
will come
I see them
They will eat
the bounty
that I have brought
I will be back
again and again
I feel your desire
to be touched
with my energy
Waves Against the Rocks
By Jeanette Cheezum
Life is like waves slapping up against the rocks,
sometimes gentle, sometimes fierce.
Undersea life creates and goes forth to produce.
Above sea there is something stronger than
mere humans to keep nature afloat.
Soak up the sun's rays, but hover when the storm
threatens our being. Swim and quiver together
when the perfect mate stops by your side.
Life, earth and the sea are ours for the taking.
Sea and Life
By Karen Fuchs
The water of the sea represents life and wonder. Approaching rocks, hardships to overcome and in the end ... Eternity ... life and love and eternity in ever lasting peace.
That Day
By Jack Daily
We walked on sun sparkled sand
Smiling, thinking,
holding each other's gaze.
The hours pushed the tide away.
We laughed, as you cried wet tears
Of joy into my stories.
Our footprints tracing new memories
along the way,
it was a witty day that day.
Morning Sun
By Bobbie Troy
the morning sun
cleaved the air
revealing rocks and sea
i stand alone
in the sun
with just your memory
Impressions by the Sea
By Grace Burns
Grandpa stood in wet sand
amongst dead horseshoe crabs and jellyfish
casting out then reeling in
his fishing line to hook new bait.
The fish were hungry but too wily to be caught.
I searched for seashells and driftwood
and presented these gifts to Grandpa.
He gladly accepted these offerings
and gently placed them into the dirty white bucket
where the fish were supposed to go.
Grandpa still visits this beach
fishing pole in hand
and fills the bucket meant for his catch
with treasures from the sea
found by the ghosts of my childhood.
The Birth of Venus
By Ray Sharp
Love was born one starry night at the shore,
not a babe in arms but a woman in full
with skin fair as moonlight, red hair
and artful hands her modest coquetry
as she stood naked in the briny breeze.
He longed to answer the demands of her
small round breasts, to touch the face
of a goddess and hips of an earthly woman,
their gentle bump and sway from the realm
of waves, her eyes sea-foam green.
Love rose on that balmy night, a miraculous
figure dancing on the fluid world
beyond the docks, beyond the rocks,
beyond the pale designs of mere men.
Midweek at the Beach
By Cassie Premo Steele
At first it feels endless
the loneliness of the distance
from morning until the end.
No one has died. Nothing is lost.
You still have all your friends.
But the sea sees something deeper.
The waves that rise to greet
you from below. They mirror your
white shadow of longing. How tired you are
of desire. Reaching. Belonging.
Once, when your daughter was a baby,
you were walking over rocks like these,
and you thought, I could drop her.
The mood midweek at the beach is like this.
The temptation of not there.
And then something turns.
The sun, the dock, the tide.
And the ocean floor within you learns
once again how to rise.
Coral, anemone, eel, and more
transform the dark. You feel
the spark. What you could do.
Oh the possibility of you.
It throws itself upon the shore.
Wave after wave. Knocks on the door.
SeaScape
By Joan McNerney
My mind is an ocean
where swimmers, surfers,
sun worshippers cavort.
Long salty hair
held between
their teeth.
Flourishing
wild flowered gowns
streams of silk
waves of taffeta
splashy lace.
They sail through
my watery face
combing my eyes
whispering in my ears.
Alone, under a pointillist sky.
Gulls flying around me.
Black waters touched by
moon of vague prophecy.
Losing Myself in the Rhythm
By Phyllis Johnson
Dipping my feet into the water
I feel the ocean's flow,
shades of warm and cool
I lose myself in the rhythm,
it passes by me
like my life.
I sit atop a ledge
jutting out
taunting the waves
that tickle and lick
its craggy ledge.
Foam dances by,
swirls past me,
teasing and tossing
its frothy foam about
as fish dart and dive.
Laughing, I watch them,
losing myself in the
chase below.
The sun, setting now
kisses goodbye.
For its work is done.
I raise my legs,
stand up and walk away,
a backwards glance at
rocks, waves and mist.
A seagull flies overhead
shrieking out
a loud goodbye.
Sweet Release
By Mark Gooch
Perched on a platform
at the end of the world
surrounded by ridges
denuding the stones
Their sounds are so soothing
Melodious yet sweet
song of the ages
No voice can compete
He is awed by the sight
of the creator's design
free from hate or delusion
lacking promises, despair
Entering slowly at first
the realm of gray, green, and blue
the warmth envelopes his body
his beating heart is no more
No pain to endure
his soul is at rest
A new home he found
sweet release arrives at least.
The Little Mermaid (Uncensored)
By Telly McGaha, with thanks to Morten Pedersen for confirming the spellings and attesting to the veracity of the tale.
She saw the gentle waves crashing
upon Danish shores, and for once
everything seemed attainable:
life under the sea was overrated,
and everyone knew the seaweed
was greener on the other side
of the coral. So she sprouted
legs and leaped from the crests,
almost drowning for not knowing
how to swim, and partly from being
ecstatic, which is the ruin of most people
in the end, both above and under.
It was not what it seemed, and she realized
life can be cruel and men were fickle. Sure,
she tried the rebound game
after the first prince didn't work out,
but they all came to nothing,
and none were as handsome as him.
Suddenly, life seemed simpler under the sea,
despite its murky, dark depths she might marry
a handsome young merman and make
quite the enviable life for herself. After all,
she was the most desired maid in Kattegat
(though she secretly still hated Kattegat).
So she summoned her evolutionary gift
of phosphorescence and tried to make haste
to Laeso Rende, but hopes, like most things,
were not meant to be, even though her sisters
met her not too far into
Öresund, bringing
with them drabskniven, but
already the sea witch was upon them.
She didn't really care:
at this point, she preferred to die for herself
rather than for country, for him, or for love.
The sea witch, of course, asked why
(being sea-provincial it was her nature),
but it was no holds barred and the maid refused
to speak. Instead she said "fuck dat"
and took up the drabskniven and cast it
into her chest, knowing the tide
was high enough to return her:
"Better to wash up and rot in Kobenhavn
than the hell hole of Kattegat," were her
last words, and it outraged her sisters
and especially the sea-witch.
What she didn't say
was such a pretty pearl-encrusted knife
was undeserving of his flesh,
and, to be honest, more suitable for hers,
so Vanity still won out in the end.
The Morning I Stare at the Water for Hours
By Bryan Borland
I feel kinship with the waves that carried you
to the bank, letting you rest on a thousand
lilied fingertips, wet as the day you were born.
I am in their debt, this matter that blanketed you
like a newborn, that held and rocked you to sleep
in time with the pull of the moon. These bodies
are your cemetery, these streams and gulfs between us,
these tides that returned you to the womb
and brought to an end money, grudge, gravity.
I want to know these things, the great unknowable,
the great inevitable, so I take off my shoes
and socks and wade into the water. The river
has a summer's warmth, far from the wintery lake
of your cold and quiet finale. Life is liquid, the current
through my toes, the minnows around my ankles,
you are dust and mud and memories here, the science
that surrounds me, that circles each moment
and ripples toward the center of everything.
If
By Patti Forehand
If she could hear me
I would tell her
I stood dry-eyed against the rail
that hazy day.
From a plain black box
I gathered, bare-handed, her dusty remains.
My fingernails were too long
and pieces of her lodged underneath them.
I stretched far and leaned well
so some of her ashes would reach the rocks.
I needed just a tiny piece of her close by
safe from the outgoing tides.
If I could hear her
she would tell me
the tide returns everyday
and to remember to use a nail brush.
Searching
By Christine Tapson
There's the calm (superficially calm)
And the friendly wave (small but present)
At least it's there. The wave.
The apparent stillness not so still
Look below, look closely
See the storm beneath the surface.
The quiet sea not so quiet.
Who put those rocks there?
Carefully placed. Haphazard. Unmoving.
Eternal rocks in the road.
We have to navigate
Stand on the barricade
Leap toward freedom
Put the hurdles and obstacles behind us
And find what we need.
Or perhaps what we're looking for.
This Beloved Deep
By Clarissa McFairy
Ah, the Deep,
my deep, deep sleep ...
Hold back awhile
so I can rest
my late blooming cheek
against this other Deep,
this beloved Deep
that shimmers at my feet
Your stars above,
Mine below!
Quicksilvery
Mermaids of the Deep,
show me how to dance
and dip and glide
on silver spangled wings
in this beloved Deep,
before you sing me
to my deeper sleep
clawing my way back to the calm
By Lisa Nielsen
jutting up against me
I was caught between a hard place and
the jagged edges of you
in your manic quest to
dislodge me from my safety net
midnight dreams became a gleaming cape
of a million shards of glass
your hand lamely outstretched
me soaring forward
now
jutting up against me and my jagged edges
is the soft gesture of a wave
pushing me back home
Ocean
By Marla Deschenes
This is your forgotten childhood
Devoid of magical moments spent
Screaming with laughter in the salty spray.
Missing the sunburned cheeks and dirty fingernails
Of a smaller dreamer's pasts.
This is your forgotten imagination
Smashed smoothly against aging rocks
Swirling helplessly in the drowning foam
Of once pristine beaches now tar-tainted and black,
We call for home.
This is your remembered failure
Past-playing, mind-numbing scenes of horrors realized
Moments of unwanted glaring spotlight
Now hidden under scars
Nakedly visible.
This is who you will become
The intentions were only to save you from
This graphic gray reality,
From this concrete mecca of electronic waves.
This is you without emotion
Without content
This is you
Without the sea.
Deckchairs of Life
By David Calthorpe
Is life not like the endless walks of all those gleaming decks by night,
Past endless folding chairs that beckon as fallen stripes in gusts?
Who can tell if gloved hands part the teas of Old Ceylon,
Or is it only perhaps a dream far and long gone?
We rearrange the chairs on deck to the music of our minds,
But who can tell when icy hands herald the coming of our Times?
The stars can tell through age by age what foaming waves create,
But for the rolling of Her sides only warm cups still the minds.
And while the heat from Cathay blooms our lips and seduces all senses,
the stars and winds in vain our Fates will still proclaim.
Is life not like the endless course of China's best in tempest or in calm?
For you and I both must fold our chairs in Father's time.
Lithos
By Rae Spencer
In a test of tide and stone
Earth's odds favor tide
Even the moon pulls for it
Adamant siege of surge
And retreat, slosh and roll
Relentless as time
Lapping past this present
Verge, confused headland
Mapped in brine and drift
The savored memory
Of what stood, what stands
Until sifted to sand
Briefly printed mold
Unreliable anchor
Shifting underfoot
Lost between trough
and breaking crest, erased
In eternity's rush and loll
Shores of Despair
By Kathryn Tate Jacoby
It was so very long ago,
but seems as if just yesterday ...
and the sound of the waves upon the rocks
is painful, too painful to contemplate
Too many times he took chances
thinking he was infallible, invincible
racing toward the shore late at night
after the traps were in
hurrying home to her
But this time he played it too close
probably laughing all the way to the bottom ...
It was his way, his life, his identity
Instead of the rush of adrenaline
that gave him reason to do what he did each day,
this time it was his demise
Oh but he went as he would have wanted
And so, though she mourns
she also understands
He couldn't resist
Perspective
By Helen Losse
Standing on the wooden walkway
and leaning against the rail. Salty air
sticks to my skin.
Ocean waves
break against
a pile of dark rocks
near the shore.
Somewhere near the horizon,
a mermaid calls from the water.
At times like this, I feel like a child.
My needs are simple:
Someone to feed me fish.
Someone to bring me wine.
Someone to walk on water.
Help
By Jean McLeod
I needed you
but all that was left
were sails
beyond the waves.
