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"Beach Poems Come From The Inspiration Gained From Sticking Your Toes In That Warm sand..."Oh, to be lying,On a beach,Somewhere,With sand in my toes,And the wind,In my hair. And only the sound,Of the seagulls,On high,On a beach,Somewhere,Under sunny blue sky.
A soft sandy beach,That goes on,Forever,You, me,And a beach,So happy together. Linda Harnett The Sandpiper Across the lonely beach we flit,One little sandpiper and I,And fast I gather, but by bit,The scattered drift-wood, bleached and dry.The wild waves reach their hands for it,The wild wind raves, the tide runs high,As up and down the beach we flit,One little sandpiper and I. 
Above our heads the sullen cloudsScud, black and swift, across the sky:Like silent ghosts in misty shroudsStand out the white light-houses high.Almost as far as eye can reachI see the close-reefed vessels fly,As fast we flit along the beach,One little sandpiper and I. I watch him as he skims along,Uttering his sweet and mournful cry;He starts not at my fitful song,Nor flash of fluttering drapery.He has no thought of any wrong,He scans me with a fearless eye;Stanch friends are we, well tried and strong,The little sandpiper and I. Comrade, where wilt thou be to-night,When the loosed storm breaks furiously?My drift-wood fire will burn so bright!To what warm shelter canst thou fly?I do not fear for thee, though wrothThe tempest rushes through the sky;For are we not God's children both,Thou, little sandpiper, and I? And fast I gather, but by bit,The scattered drift-wood, bleached and dry.The wild waves reach their hands for it,The wild wind raves, the tide runs high,As up and down the beach we flit,One little sandpiper and I. Above our heads the sullen cloudsScud, black and swift, across the sky:Like silent ghosts in misty shroudsStand out the white light-houses high.Almost as far as eye can reachI see the close-reefed vessels fly,As fast we flit along the beach,One little sandpiper and I. I watch him as he skims along,Uttering his sweet and mournful cry;He starts not at my fitful song,Nor flash of fluttering drapery.He has no thought of any wrong,He scans me with a fearless eye;Stanch friends are we, well tried and strong,The little sandpiper and I. Comrade, where wilt thou be to-night,When the loosed storm breaks furiously?My drift-wood fire will burn so bright!To what warm shelter canst thou fly?I do not fear for thee, though wrothThe tempest rushes through the sky;For are we not God's children both,Thou, little sandpiper, and I? Celia Thaxter Sitting on the beach chairswatching the setting sunholding hands and reminiscinghow it all begun Sitting on the beach chairswatching the ships out on the seaholding hands and smilingtogether we're meant to be Sitting on the beach chairswatching people walking pastholding hands and knowingthat our love will always last Sitting on the beach chairswatching the waves along the shoreholding hands we realizeour love is stronger than before Sitting on the beach chairswatching the changing tideholding hands with happinessto be by each others side Sitting on the beach chairswatching the sunriseholding hands with tears of joythere are no more good-byes joyce ebrecht Beach bags packed with sun screen lotionsHands rubbing people’s backs in slow motionGlistening oily bodies radiating with sensation Down to the beachDown to the beachWhere a chilly sea breeze blows Let’s have some funIn the red-hot sun Down to the beachOnly there the ladies reveal saucy behindsWhenever the raging sun is still kind Down to the beachAs never-ceasing waves play across the shoresPeople happily play dreading any rainy downpour Down to the beachWhere young lovers closely nestleAs sand creatures cause the sand to bristleSeagulls gliding in the air with screams and whistlesKids picking up shells and building stormy sand castles Down to the beachWhere mostly good vibes flowDown to the beachWe go whilst there is still sun without snow Copyright 2006 - Sylvia Chidi Sylvia Chidi Do you lay in placedrink in the rays, melt the stress?Or maybe play – ball, Frisbee, or V-ball? Not me. I walk, the length of the beachToo restless to sitLost in my own thingLooking for shells, people,and beach glass. Taking in the scene;Hoping I remember where I left heron my return. 8/7/04 18:49 Maybe it is the memoriesthe change of pace that brings us therethe sense of vacationmaybe the smell of the placethe sights of the gulls, the dunes, the grassesbut oh it is the feel of it, the crunch and slide of itthe feeling of beach sandso different from dirt, soil, loamno, not earthy, moist, rich, but oh so granular and grittyeven when wet,moveable paper spreading under toessliding beneath the solessmoothing my skinclearing my mindunburdening me of the restdrawing me to the tactile, the feelof beach sand July 15, 2006 19:03 Do you suffer from the social disease of bad breath or hallitosis. Find help here. Who else wants beautiful skin? Get help for acid reflux (GERD) Help with you family tree. Find out where you came from by tracing your family roots.
When the daylight fades and the shadows fall Let the light from the lighthouse shine on me... And the sun sinks low in a troubled sea Let the light from the lighthouse shine on me And the night winds blow and the rain falls free Let the light from the lighthouse shiine on me While you walk the water's edge, turning over concepts I can't envision, the honking buoy serves notice that at any time the wind may change, the reef-bell clatters its treble monotone, deaf as Cassandra to any note but warning. The ocean, cumbered by no business more urgent than keeping open old accounts that never balanced, goes on shuffling its millenniums of quartz, granite, and basalt. It behaves toward the permutations of novelty— driftwood and shipwreck, last night's beer cans, spilt oil, the coughed-up residue of plastic—with random impartiality, playing catch or tag ot touch-last like a terrier, turning the same thing over and over, over and over. For the ocean, nothing is beneath consideration. The houses of so many mussels and periwinkles have been abandoned here, it's hopeless to know which to salvage. Instead I keep a lookout for beach glass— amber of Budweiser, chrysoprase of Almadén and Gallo, lapis by way of (no getting around it, I'm afraid) Phillips' Milk of Magnesia, with now and then a rare translucent turquoise or blurred amethyst of no known origin. The process goes on forever: they came from sand, they go back to gravel, along with treasuries of Murano, the buttressed astonishments of Chartres, which even now are readying for being turned over and over as gravely and gradually as an intellect engaged in the hazardous redefinition of structures no one has yet looked at. maggie and milly and molly and maewent down to the beach (to play one day) and maggie discovered a shell that sangso sweetly she couldn't remember her troubles, and milly befriended a stranded starwhose rays five languid fingers were; and molly was chased by a horrible thingwhich raced sideways while blowing bubbles: and mae came home with a smooth round stoneas small as a world and as large as alone. For whatever we lose (like a you or a me)it's always ourselves we find in the sea. Return from Beach Poems to Home
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