An Online Literary Journal for Poetry and Flash

Tag: ocean

deepsea census

Poetry by Kristin Van Tassel

we give you lamp
light that we might
see you transparent
sea cucumber in sheer
pink open blossom 2
miles deep—& see
you yeti crab, pincer
thin arms frost furred,
or you blind lobster,
needle nosed pliers
in open jaw—& you,
comb jelly, trailing
translucent tulle
veins glowing LED
cool, sliding starless
sky 4.5 miles below
our surface—so
quiet, this cold


Kristin Van Tassel lives and teaches in rural Central Kansas. She writes essays and poetry about place, travel, and teaching. Her work has appeared in World Hum, Wanderlust, Whale Road Review, The Land Report, About Place, Porcupine Review, and Ecotone.

What They Can’t Take Away

Poetry by Raymond Berthelot

The sailboats at anchor
          are pulled in one direction
                    by the tide between the keys

Remember that woman
          crazy or drunk, walking by the sanitarium
                    she too, refused assistance

What is it about moonlight and tropical flowers?
          for a while at least
                    peace seems possible

But back to the sea
          and the sun distantly setting, swollen
                    at a place we’ll never be


Raymond Berthelot is the Historic Sites District Manager for the Louisiana Office of State Parks. His work has appeared in publications such as Progenitor, Mantis, Peregrine Journal, Apricity Magazine, The Elevation Review, the Carolina Quarterly and DASH Literary Journal. A chapbook, The Middle Ages, is available with Finishing Line Press.

Shells

Poetry by Fred Miller

Like a federation of flowers
with slick, shiny faces,
they sparkle in the light from above.

And dance with tiny ripples
that lap up on the shore by my toes.
Are those conspiratorial smirks I see?

Could these new arrivals be laughing at me?
Maybe it’s a gurgling gathering of giggles or
woeful mothers weaving tales of youth lost at sea.

What’s with the frozen faces, I wonder?
And where on this vast planet have they been?
And where could these vagabonds be going?

No doubt, they slipped in on the morning tide.
Will they steal out when the new moon beckons?
Please pause and share tales of daring treks to afar,

And tempests you’ve chanced on the angry seas.
Paint pictures of huge fishes of the deep
you’ve encountered across the vast, blue sea.

And of melodies of whales soothing calves.
Peering up in silence, they gently nod.
Small waves kiss this congress tumbling about.

Another brings another and more as
they roll and toss and sway and nod again.
And in the blink of an eye, they are gone.


Fred Miller is a California writer. His poems and stories have appeared in publications round the world over the past ten years. Many may be seen on his blog: https://pookah1943.wordpress.com

To Thoreau

Poetry by Robert McParland

In your steps this day I look
Over this field, this flower spray
On sand I walk out toward the beach
Taking shells up with my hand
Here you stood that fateful June
Under this lighthouse, rhythmic sea
Like us you walked not knowing where
An ocean wave on light would turn
I see you now, standing here
Desolate, barefoot, on the shore
Your sad eyes scan the lonely sea
Remembering her, how they went down
Like a love sonnet in the waves
A sandbar claims the roughened tide
These summers now, journal in hand
My love too seems to have foundered on
Some waves that wash up toward a beach
Wood-creak crash, how we collapsed
The water broke upon our cries
Like you I walk in thought absorbed
Like water in sand between my toes.


Robert McParland teaches college English, writes songs, and has published several books on American culture and literary history.

© 2024 The Bluebird Word

Theme by Anders NorenUp ↑