Sea
Its waterline wavered in the wash of its waves
Hooting its hailing horn
It
Hurried us onto its heaving hacking hull
Hello
We are here
And like ganglionic sheep
In a garrulous flock
We stepped onto our sea borne
It
Shook under the sea legs of our seafaring soles
Snorting
In its shameless sleep
It
Grunted at us
When we rushed across its hubristic hulk
Sudden Snorts
Hooted out its ailing horn
Kicking up a rumpus
It
Stormed and blasted
Its breathless breathe
Blustering and bloating
Into a blotch of bleaching
Smoke
Steamed
And stormed
From its black and white ringed arse hole
Where it farted and burped in a wind of hot air

Huddled
To a sea breeze
This disagreeable harridan
Choked and grunted
Pushing and chugging
Its harrowing bow into a stench of sludge
Where it stirs its slops into a slovenly
Sea
It slogs its slothful soul into a slick of slimy
Sea
It whips up a white wake of frothy foam
Sea
The gargantuan beast
Nudges its Lancastrian bow
Across the fusty river

It
Speeds
At slow speed
Escorted
By a choral of crying
Seagulls
Fly in the wake of its chorale
Salt
In our lungs
Spray
On our hair
Thronged into a clamorous clan
We sat on the throne of its lavatorial
Stern
White
Puffs plumed putrid
Smoke
Fluted the perse sky
With its long cinereous tongue
Faster
Shouted your dad
As the bilious beast
Belched
And farted
From its black rimed arse hole
It
Did not smell like an Iris
But like a yellow Daffodil
It
Brought sunshine
To all that sailed on it
Royal to its task
It
Sailed into New Brighton

It
Landed
With a goaded thud
The beast had berthed its body of bilge
Clank
The downcast drawbridge
Drops
Like a downbeat giant
Pegged out
Like Gulliver
We trooped over its downtrodden downfall
Hand in hand
Like Lilliputians
We tramped and trampled over its toppled torso
Crossing
The gaping moat of the murky Mersey

Ship to shore
Like Captain John Nicholas
We would venture on with our voyage
To Fort Perch Rock

Promenading
To its battlements
We could see the great red fort
Descend
Into the deep dark depths
Of the sea sunken basin
Spuming and splashing
Swishing and swirling
Brushing
Its bastion
It rinses in the basin
Gurgling
It spumes out froth and foam
Leaving
A neglected plaque of algae
On the film of its cavernous wall
Rootless
Tides would retreat
With its impressible white crown
Until
Luna called it back
For its alkaline rinse
In its departure
It left its tidemark

A ring of gold

A sandbox filled with a treasure-trove of Flotsam
Beached
With serendipity
It had thrown off its wet blanket
Striped
It stretched
Its rippled body
Under the massaging rays of the hot sun

Sunning

On a blanket of rubescence sand
Startled
With irritation
The deck chairs are staked to the sand
Lined up
In a canvas suit
Of disturbing stripes
They snap out at you

Soon to be claimed
By starched faced prospectors
Whose faces will blush
Under the anthem's rays of a seductive sun
Leering glances
At smiley nudies
Who parade the pages of their Sunday fantasy
Lords of the Land
Surveying
The seashore with a seminal smile
Squinting
As boisterous offspring
Search the shifting sands
The Lords dream of Sabrina
While children find their fantasy

Hidden gold
A treasure box
Sunk in silting sand
Tea is served
In a sipping spray of tepid sea
Watching
Waves of white
Children
Talcum each other
With granules of guild
Powdered skin
Washed to white
In a wade of warm water
Disrobed
Of their gold
Fleeced by the sea

Granulated
Salt
Sifts onto greasy golden chips
While silver fish swim
In a yellow suit of bronzed batter
Leaving
Green peas
To float
In a salted sea of singed vinegar
Enveloped
Into the news of yesterday

Emerald
Buckets filled with sifted dreams
Encircle
The cavity with bricks of yellow
Turned upside down
And patted with pampering love
Castellated castles form
Into the carpeted kingdom of Camelot
Stretching to the sea
On a fresco of sand
Rose glass turrets
Reaching for the stars
Floating
Like Laputa
Built on fantasy
It stands on a story of quixotic sands
Encircled
In a salted moat of Utopian blue
Enclosed
Into the middle kingdom
It survives on a ring of gold

Enchanting

In its sojourn
It unfolds onto a wonderland of solacing
Seashells
Stars of the sand
Echoing
The crested crowns of white capped
Waves
May have washed away the children’s imagination
But
Like Atlantis
It will rise again

Like the sleepless seagull
It will soar into a seamless sky of sapphire silver
Searching for the sun
In harmony
Sweeping to the sea
In Odyssey
The seagulls squall to the sirens
Of children
Beckoning to the sky
The seagulls glide on
Bye
And glissade onto a glided shore of global sedation

Magically
This medieval seaside
Wafts the sea air
With a guild of gaiety

Pausing

Tears branched out
Onto the boardwalks of grandma’s abraded face
Tinkerbell tears
Trickled
And trolled
Into the tributaries of her tired
Skin
Paled
As her lunar eyes
Poured
Into the ebb
Of her crystal glass
She stopped
And stared
The tanker was her timer
Half-full
Or
Half-empty
Time
To turn the tale

Over

To her granddaughter
The eldest
Had heard this summer story
Many times before from her dad
With untold dramatics
She held onto her audience
As she acted out her tale
With her chimerical voice
She began
Where grandma had finished

Dad

Picked a donkey
From a mottled group
Of indifferent grays
Tagged
With forgetful names
Much like
Wary children on a class outing to Pleasure Island
Gathering in brays
And kicking with indifference
Dad would dig a pony

Aside

The animated daughter stopped her story
And whispered to her attentive siblings
And we all know dad
Had to have a huge donkey
Because he was a little Billy Bunter
When he was a kid
The children giggled
In a shrine of secrecy

Dad

Mounted his spurious steed
With questionable confidence
Sitting on his ass
He guided it gently
Down the unmasked beach
Watching the waves
Retreat to his resolution

The sea breeze picked up
And so did the doltish donkey
Together
They bolted
Down the sandy coastline
Heading towards the scourging sea
He was Don Quixote
In pursuit of giants
Riding Roisantie
Towards the surging sea
Where
Rogue rapid waves were milling about
In a salt sea trough of billowing white
Waves
Galloped towards him
With flowing manes of white foam
Swelling
To his equine challenge
He rose
To his quest
He was the risible knight errant
Continuing to charge
Onward
He heaved
As he ebbed
Arms
Wavered to the wind
Like propelling windmills
Charging
The oceanic seascape
With unbridled control
Until
His daft donkey
Stopped suddenly

Beached

By an angry great white wave
Off his ass
Onto his arse
He sat
On a sandcastle of salt and sand
As the white waves broke
Into laps of laughter
Picking up his pride
He took his tin bucket
And marched out to sea
In search of ten legged monsters

Uprooting slimy rocks
He found his two-horned sea serpent
In a sea of salt
It lurked in a damp dark watery cavern
Slimmed
With seaweed
He fought the cruddy crustacean
In a slush of sand
The monster fought back
Pinched
His fingers
Fending off its crabby temper
Undaunted
His stalwart courage won the ferocious battle
Picking up his armored captive
He tossed it
Into his tin treasure
Chest
Already filled
With its bounty of cockles

Grandma

Blurted out
With excitement
Bless his little heart
It used to warm the cockles of my heart
When he brought them back to us

Upstanding

Tall
And erect
Dressed
In barber pole stripes
Red and white
It stood on its end
Much like a giant discarded shoebox
Cloaked
On the top
With a curtain of stars

Pop

A big wooden truncheon sliced into the salt sea air
Cries
From the curtain
It
Peeked
Behind the nicotinic curtains
With a menacing look
It poked away the darkness
As it tore
And ripped its way
In the permeated sunlight
Sinister
Its jocular shrill was hooked with jagged fear
Red
Its razor-edged nose would appear
Jarred
Jeering and Jocular
The jabbering jester
Jiggled and jangled with jest and jinks
Jabbing
And jaunty
With jiggory-pokery
It
Jived and jitterbugged
With jittery Judy
It
Juddered and jostled
With jibe and joke
It
Jingled with jingoism
It
Juggled with Jekyll
While hiding with Hyde
It
Jibbed and jibed
With Jihad
It
Jeopardized with pride
It
Jettisoned
Judy
With jarring jinks and jaundiced japes
It
Jousted with joss-sticks
While fighting with joysticks
It
Jolted the joyful children
With Judaic cries
The jubilant children left
With joyless pain
The joke was over
And Judy was gone
Sorry
No punch
Line from Punchinello

Jesus

Said
John Q
Public
Jumps
And jostles
To see where it was coming from
John Doe
Shouted to John
Bull
Shit
Cried Johnny-on-the-spot
What’s going on?
Asked Johnny-come-lately
Look
Over there
Jumped the Joneses
Jump to it
Jump higher
Jump forward
Jump ahead
Jump the gun
And jump-start the chance
To jump on the bandwagon
I’m all right Jack
Said the Joneses
When they jumped for joy
We can see

The ice-cream wagon

Creeping ahead
Driving over the dunes
Like a jump jockey
The ice-cream wagon jumped at the chance
To jump at the bidding of the eager
Children
Jump for joy
As the ice-cream wagon stops
At the jumping-off place

A tingling feeling flew
Across dad’s dreamy face
When he heard the tinkle bells
He never saw them
But he knew they were there

This way

Over the land
Into the sand
Along the seashore
Over the dune
Pass the moon
With anticipated excitement
He would watch it appear
Like a misty mirage
It ambled
Along the seacoast
In a white plated suit of regalia
Dressed
Like a white Destrier
It stood
Still
On a tourney field of sandy tourism
Garland in gaiety
It was a deity on wheels
Bells stopped
As the muse began
To call the children
With its melodic allure
Exultant
Children
Reveled to its fanfare

Out

Of holes
Foxed in sand
They would trot and canter
Hand in hand
Out of tubes
Skimming the sea
They would trench and streak
In revelry
Out of boats
They would paddle and swim
Moving their bums like a jellied fin
Out of deckchairs
Folded in sleep
They would jump and leap
Following each other
Like frantic sheep
Out of money
They beg for gold
Blessed with a copper
From the gleaming old
They run like quick silver
With their pot of gold

Wing-footed dwarfs
In a fleeting fraternity
Darting
Dashing
Charging
Whizzing
Flashing
Whirling
And zip they go
With a merry song for snow
White
Cones

Please

Pipe down piped the piper
Laughing
Like a Pierrot
Dressed in a pied penny
Peter piped dreams into a pellucid pipe of perennial cream
The pianola rolled
The pennon waved
As he piped up the piped music
He poured out a pi of pearly cream
Crystal
Spellbound
The children’s eyes would follow
The dancing movement of artful fingers
As he piped out white orbs of vanilla
Ice
Creamed and crowned onto a golden cone
Scepter
Regaled with a regalia of rippling raspberry
Flowing
Into a sunset meadow of red ribbon
Rivulets
Permeating
Onto a regal dome of delight
To be celebrated
And savored
Before the sweetness of summer
Melts into the autumn of youth

Tired

With his treasures
Dad would slump back
To his lovely mom
Finding her
He would rush into her slumbering arms
The odyssey was over
Her little sea warrior had returned

Home

Silence broke into tears
With a cheering smile
Her young grandson shouted out
Grandma
Will you take me to the seaside
So that we can search the sand for hidden monsters
Me too
Cried the little granddaughter
I want to sail on the old grumpy ferryboat

Innocence

Redolent of childhood
Swaddled
In dreams
We relive our childhood
While they discover theirs
And perhaps
We can hold onto our redolence
A little bit longer
Before the reaper cuts the dream

Down

Off her grandma’s lap
The little girl fled
Rushing off
Towards the French doors
Like a little red fire engine
She had to go
It was an emergency
Grandma chuckled
As her young grandchild struggled
To open up the huge French glass
Door
Opened
As the music rushed out
She bolted in
As the record played

Rock Island Line, Lonnie Donnegan, 1954

The French doors closed
Off the unlatched music
Box
Of tuneful memories
Stored in the tempo of time
Simultaneously
It sleeps in a nocturnal well of timeless emotions
Waiting
In stillness
Until the lid reopens
To the rhythms of its memory
And the light of its darkness
Waiting
To be played
Again
And again
Until
The French doors open
Up
Pops the music
Out
Pops the little brown eyed granddaughter
To the distant music of John Lennon’s

A Working Class Hero, John Lennon, 1970

Relieved

That she had not missed any of grandma’s stories
She rekindles into the warmth of grandma’s ample bosom
Light
Dapples and dances
As the evening starts to draw its shade
But like a summer’s child
The night likes to play out a little bit longer

Music

Work
Memories
Asleep
Under the closed eyelids of her aging almond eyes
Grandma
Awakened
Grandma
Opens
Up her eyelids to the magical musical memories
Of her working class son
It all started in school
When

The Music Master

Smiled
With an arch grin
He paused
His slate blue eyes penetrated
Over his wooden desk
Towards an anxious school boy
No one said a word
It was their little secret
The handsome music master was wrought
With excitement
The young schoolboys exhibited
The same secret delight

Waiting
With anticipation
He raised his slender arm
And pointed his ringed finger
Towards an eager school boy
Summoning him to the classroom door
Lock it
He said
Pull the blind down

Turning away
From his besotted young student
The attractive young music master
Attended to the rest of his impressionable young school boys
Androgynous in appearance
The music teacher wore his style with open effeminacy

Taking off the outer jacket
He slowly removed its inside cover
Sliding it out
He gently held onto it
In his hand
It was firm
Black
Round
And it glistened in the shimmering sunlight of the classroom window
This was the first time
That all the young school boys had seen it
Shocked
With its size
It was a lot smaller
Than the boys had expected
Cognizant of the fact
The music teacher held on to it
Wiping it clean
He could feel and touch the suppleness of its rigidity
His deft fingers quivered
As he gently stroked it

Placing

The rigid rod into the small hole
Turning
Towards his adulated school boys
He smiled
With their approval
He attended to his drive
Shaft
Still firm
Inserted into its tight hole
It moved
Slowly at first
Turning
Once again
He looked at his fresh young students

They were hot
With excitement
And he was cool with ecstasy
Right arm
In an arc
He would deftly place the needle
Into the sonorous soul of its ebony skin
Turning
Feeling the adrenaline
As the colorless needle entered
Into the arcave vein of its black membrane
Enraptured
In a euphoric trance
Hypnotic
To its addiction
Entrenched
Into the euphonious discord of its orbit
The ethereal diamond had locked him
Into the innermost grove of its captivated cycle
Slow
At first
Building
Building
It spins into a capitulated frenzy
Spinning
Spinning
Round and round
Faster and faster
Spinning