O Captain! My Captain! - Walt Whitman

O Captain! my Captain! our fearful trip is done,
The ship has weather’d every rack, the prize we sought is won,
The port is near, the bells I hear, the people all exulting,
While follow eyes the steady keel, the vessel grim and daring;
       But O heart! heart! heart!
         O the bleeding drops of red,
           Where on the deck my Captain lies,
             Fallen cold and dead.

O Captain! my Captain! rise up and hear the bells;
Rise up- for you the flag is flung- for you the bugle trills,
For you bouquets and ribbon’d wreaths- for you the shores a-crowding,
For you they call, the swaying mass, their eager faces turning;
       Here Captain! dear father!
         This arm beneath your head!
           It is some dream that on the deck,
             You’ve fallen cold and dead.

My Captain does not answer, his lips are pale and still,
My father does not feel my arm, he has no pulse nor will,
The ship is anchor’d safe and sound, its voyage closed and done,
From fearful trip the victor ship comes in with object won;
       Exult O shores, and ring O bells!
         But I with mournful tread,
           Walk the deck my Captain lies,
             Fallen cold and dead.

Walt Whitman

Image : Pixabay - AlexSky

Ships Passing - Rosemary Parrott

Today's poem is a "Golden Oldie" and was originally published here in July 2012

No moon,
Hardly any stars;
A row of dark oaks
Stand firm before
The window,
Giant prison bars
Causing me to cry:
"Let me go,"-
But silently,
Inside my head,
So that no-one else will know.

Distant pinpricks of light
Inch their way
Along the edges of the sky:
Green ones
On their way to England,
Red, bound for
The Bay of Biscay
And beyond;
While in systematic round,
The lighthouse
Combs its corner
Of the night
With rhythmic,
Bright
Sweeping finger.

Rosemary Parrott

The Mariner - Marianna Pliakou

Today's poem is a "Golden Oldie" and was originally published here in March 2012

He weighs his past by the sea,
each year a wave,
each wave a part of him.
In his beard salt and seagull cries.
In his eyes the rhythmic dance of the ocean,
sometimes shifting softly,
sometimes restless and angry.

He weighs his future by the sea,
hoping his waves will soon melt into a rock.

Marianna Pliakou

Tide Line - John Buchanan

The granite bears a tide line,
black as black can be,
as if some dirty giant
took a bath in the sea
and left a scummy tide line
on the lichen covered rocks.
But, if you look closely,
take off your shoes and socks
and scramble on the foreshore
you're in for quite a shock.
For here in this narrow band
twixt lichen and the sea
limpets and anemones cling
like jewels for all to see,
and in the little rock pools
amidst the coloured weed
guppies, shrimps and little crabs
take shelter from the sea.
Yes the granite bears a tide line
as black as black can be,
a line which hides great beauty
the treasures of the sea.

John Buchanan

Sea Mist - Diane Scantlebury

You creep up
Silently towards us,
Your cold, clammy dampness
Engulfing us
In a transparent cloud of mist,
You appear noiselessly,
Like smoke
Without a fire,
Wrapping your moist cloak
About us,
You obscure the sky
In an eerie white out,
And the naked trees
Stand as silhouettes
Against you,
Your odourless, tasteless breath
Caresses and wets our faces,
Makes our hair go limp,
You bring all that flies
To a standstill,
Then
Almost as quietly as you came,
You retreat and disappear
And life resumes.

Diane Scantlebury

Competition Winner - February 2013Alone ~ Three Perspectives - Stephen A. Roberts

Image Source: Marcus Buchanan

The image above is called 'Alone'. It was taken by Marcus Buchanan.

Alone ~ Three Perspectives - Stephen A. Roberts

The Chair

You've brought me down, John,
You've brought me down
to the beach
and left me, your exoskeleton
waiting for the tide
with the clam shells and echinoids
the grit has mucked up my wheels
and their shine has been dulled
by Nature's salt tears
It's alright for you, but
I will be removed
by the beach clearance team
while you and those seashells
float away on the next ebb

The Son

You've brought me down, Dad,
You've brought me down
to the beach
collecting pebbles
you linger over the bigger ones
the sea spray wet on your face
I can see that you're tired Dad
but you can still teach;
let's do photography tricks
some fast motion shots
then I'll fetch the chair
as we've come all this way
empty your pockets Dad
and I will take you home

The Poet

I've brought myself down,
I've brought myself
down to the beach
it's never easy
on your own alone
weighed down
by a coat full of stones
sometimes I'm submerged
in my thoughts;
drifting off until I realise
I've got work to do -
poems don't write themselves
now where did I put
that blasted chair?

Stephen A. Roberts

Circles - Lyndon Queripel

Alone down by the sea
Only my shadow follows me
I reach the beach breathlessly
Blown by the winds of destiny

Empty boats tethered to posts
Drifting, shifting with the tide
like all the weathered ghosts
That still haunt me deep inside

So many waves without a hand
I turn towards the shore
There's footprints in the sand
Someone's passed this way before

But I can hear no sound
And no one answers my call
Maybe i've been walking around
In circles after all .

Lyndon Queripel

The Starfish - Stuart Price

He has no need of X Factor auditions
As he cruises the murky ocean depths
Looking for some tasty seafood to eat.

He has no anxiety about being a one hit wonder
Or being relevant in a constantly changing marketplace,
As he silently crosses coral reefs and
Converts sunlight to energy, while being
Swept along by warm ocean currents.

He doesn't dream of snorting cocaine from the chests of groupies
As he senses shades of light and dark from eyes at the end of his arms.
Just clean water and plankton are all he needs for happiness.

To reproduce he has no need of sordid snatched encounters
With star struck whimsies, in a drug fuelled haze at public conveniences.
He simply breaks an inch or two from a leg, which grows into another him.

Not for him the tortured artist persona, at the mercy of public taste or abandonment,
Because he truly is, and always will be, a Star [fish].

Stuart Price

Save our Seas - Jenny Hamon

The crashing seas upon our shore
Bring flotsam and jetsam for us to endure
Because in these days of plastic packs
The sea just washes these things back.

A wander along the high tide mark
Exposes things jettisoned after dark.
A rubber shoe, some empty cans
Tossed over the wall from someone’s van.

Besides the local rubbish here
The sea returns things from yester year.
How long did the bottle take to float
Across the ocean, or thrown from a boat?

Fishing nets, a broken crab pot,
A bundle of rope tied in a knot
A fish tray and a bright red float
Washed over from a fishing boat.

The rubbish washed up from the deep
Are treasures we are forced to keep
As many years hence, everyone knows
These things will never decompose.

Maybe we must have a think
Before this rubbish is on the brink
Of taking over everything,
And killing the gifts the oceans bring.

Let’s keep the beaches as nature’s way
Or a terrible price we all will pay.
Teach future generations how to live
And to appreciate their heritage.

Jenny Hamon

Ships Passing - Rosemary Parrott

In my teens I used sit at my bedroom window on the hill near the Castel Church at night, watching the pinpricks of light that marked the movement of shipping along the horizon: cargo ships with their collection of lights at one end and a masthead light at the other, and cruise ships, not so many in those days, with a row of lights from stem to stern and between the masts, not dreaming that I would ever have the chance to go on one myself.

Several times now I’ve seen the caption on the cabin screen `You are now entering the Casquets gyratory system’, as if it were a roundabout on some motorway, and gone up on deck to watch as I go past Guernsey. I watch the row of lights in the distance and wonder if there is another restless teenager sitting at that window, watching my light creeping along the horizon and longing to be free.

My poem, 'Ships passing', is included in my most recent book 'Lanterns in Wet Leaves' which has just been published.

Ships Passing - Rosemary Parrott

No moon,
Hardly any stars;
A row of dark oaks
Stand firm before
The window,
Giant prison bars
Causing me to cry:
“Let me go,”-
But silently,
Inside my head,
So that no-one else will know.

Distant pinpricks of light
Inch their way
Along the edges of the sky:
Green ones
On their way to England,
Red, bound for
The Bay of Biscay
And beyond;
While in systematic round,
The lighthouse
Combs its corner
Of the night
With rhythmic,
Bright
Sweeping finger.

Rosemary Parrott

Two Limericks on the Sea - Jenny Woods

The Sea # 1

Oh! The Ocean, the Sea, et la Mer,
wide ranging tsunamis so rare.
vast expanses with white horse waves,
calm waters that wash into caves,
men in boats of all sizes; 'Take care'.


The Sea # 2

The waters that crash on the rocks
lap silently o're shoes and socks.
they pull back the pebbles and sand
leaving seaweeds the length of the strand,
and detritus in harbours and docks.

Jenny Woods

Shanty - Alec Jackson

Have all the masted angels
braced their wings for flight?

Rainbow sprays of salty sea
cascade the purging bow
and damps our leading sail.

The eastern wind that swifts us
home to steadfast port
and the soft capstan dance,
drumming of the bodhran beat.
The main sail unfurls and family bound
by the warming breeze
while the song of a crooning sailor
seems low.

Alec Jackson

The Mariner - Marianna Pliakou

He weighs his past by the sea,
each year a wave,
each wave a part of him.
In his beard salt and seagull cries.
In his eyes the rhythmic dance of the ocean,
sometimes shifting softly,
sometimes restless and angry.

He weighs his future by the sea,
hoping his waves will soon melt into a rock.

Marianna Pliakou

The Rescue - Jenny Hamon

The pager pierces the slumbering room,
He leaps out of bed and peers through the gloom.
There must be a problem out in the rough sea
Problem enough that they need to call me.

The wind is howling, the sea is boiling
But out at sea a sailor’s calling.
No second thoughts, there’s a job in hand.
The crew are ready, the boat is manned.

The night is black and the sea is high
But the call is urgent, someone could die.
They slip the mooring and head out to sea
Leaving the shelter of the harbour’s lee.

Full speed ahead and set the course,
The waves are huge, the weather worse.
They battle on, no thoughts of slowing
Through mountainous waves and gale force blowing.

The radar’s like a heartbeat glowing,
On the screen the yacht is showing
We’re nearly there, get ready boys
(It’s hard to shout above the noise.)

The crew are trained, they are a team,
The Coxswain slows alongside the beam
One by one the sailors are pulled on board,
No wasting time they cannot afford.

They take the casualties down below
While other crew establish a tow
The yachtsmen now are safe and sound
Aboard the lifeboat, homeward bound.

The homeward journey’s a slow rough ride
The lifeboat battles against wind and tide
The speed is slow, but with casualties aboard
A successful rescue is assured.

The dawn is breaking, it’s morning now
The mooring chain’s secured on the bow
He heads for home, into bed he slides,
Don’t put your cold feet on me, she cries!

Jenny Hamon

The Lighthouse - Hugo Russell

I can see the rocky outline of the high craggy tall cliffs
I can hear the crash of the stormy green watery waves
I can taste the salty deep sea below
I can smell the briny tangled seaweed
And touch the tips of seagull’s wings.
I can see the bobbing fishing boats
I can hear the wild raging wind howling.
I can almost taste raw rotten fish
I can smell old rusty brown iron
And touch the twinkling stars above
I can see my safe light brightly flashing
I can hear a distant loud foghorn
I can taste the bitter green seaweed
I can smell hot sweet milky coffee
And I can touch the rocks below me.

Hugo Russell aged 11

The Sea - Denise Bishop

I live on a lovely little Island,
Surrounded by the Sea.
... gorgeous views to die for,
When you can see the sea.

Cliff walks you can amble,
with stunning scenery.
I find it so uplifting,
you can always see the sea.

Downhill is Petit Bot,
engulfed by aging trees.
Captured by the sunset
yet still can see the sea.

In land I reach the hilltop,
a beautiful place to be.
Wherever I am standing,
I can always see the sea.

In fact I could write forever
Our beautiful Sarnia Cherie
A benefit of Island life,
You can always see the sea.

Denise Bishop