Celebrate

The Walrus and The Carpenter

The Walrus and the Carpenter
Were walking close at hand:
They wept like anything to see
Such quantities of sand:
“If this were only cleared away,”
They said “it would be grand.”

“If seven maids with seven mops
Swept it for half a year,
Do you suppose” the Walrus said,
“That they could get it clear?”
“I doubt it” said the Carpenter,
And shed a bitter tear.

“O oysters come and walk with us!”
The Walrus did beseech.
“A pleasant walk, a pleasant talk
Along the briny beach.”

And thick and fast they came at last,
And more and more and more
All hopping through the frothy waves
And scrambling to the shore.

“The time has come” the Walrus said
“To talk of many things
Of shoes and ships and sealing wax
Of cabbage and kings
And why the sea is boiling hot
And whether pigs have wings.”

“But wait a bit” the oysters cried
“Before we have our chat
For some of us are out of breath
And all of us are fat.”

The carpenter said nothing but,
“The butter’s spread too thick”

“I weep for you” the Walrus said
“I deeply sympathize”
With sobs and tears he sorted out
Those of the largest size,
Holding his pocket handkerchief
Before his streaming eyes.

But answer came there none
And this was scarcely odd, because
They’d eaten every one.

—Lewis Carroll

For my second poem I have chosen a composition by poets Andrew Cooper and Orrin Pilkey. This poem has not achieved the level of recognition of Carrols poem but I’m sure it soon will. It is best recited in song to the melody of:

There was an old woman who swallowed a fly
I don’t know why she swallowed a fly
Perhaps she’ll die etc.

—Unknown author

There Was a Dumb Man

There was a dumb man who built a beach house
I don’t know why he built that beach house
Perhaps he’s mad

There was a dumb man who built a seawall
The beach disappeared- there was none left at all
He built the seawall to save the house
But I don’t know why he built that beach house
Perhaps he’s mad

There was a dumb man who built a groyne
To bring back the beach but that didn’t work
He built the groyne to fix the seawall
He built the seawall to save the house
But I don’t know why he built the beach house
Perhaps he’s mad

There was a dumb man who nourished the beach
To bring back the beach, but it didn’t last long
He nourished the beach to fix the groyne
He built the groyne to fix the sea wall
He built the seawall to save the house
But I don’t know why he built that beach house
Perhaps he’s mad.

There was a dumb man who heard on the news
A big storm was coming and headed for you!
The storm came by and took out the beach
He nourished the beach to save the groyne
He built the groyne to save the seawall
He built the seawall to save the house
But I don’t know why he built that beach house
Perhaps he’s mad

There was a dumb man who went through the storm-
His house is gorn!

—Lewis Carroll

Beach Games

We are left to stand here
At the edge of the sea.

The waves break,
Run up the beach,
Playfully try to grab our toes,
Pull us out to sea
Laughing over their shoulders.

The game is old
And so are
We white-capped waders,
Eyeing the distance to the horizon,
Hear the solemn threat
Within the breakers
and shrink back

The children giggle
Innocent of the infinity
of the sea
They are new to the game

—A. Conrad Nuemann

Beach Path

I sensed a poem going by,
And part of it was written on the clouds,
Briefly painted by the parting sun,
Which too was leaving from the beach,
And part of it I felt against my cheek,
As if some wind
From somewhere far at sea
Could speak,
And part of it came faintly as a smell
That rose along the sandy path
And made my hungry homebound body taste
The steaming sea repast that waits.

These late day poem parts swirled in and out
The portals of my sun-worn mind.

I yawned and they were gone.

—A. Conrad Nuemann

Home

The sea speaks.
Whispered hisses between rocky teeth
Soft and distant snoring
of the boulders in their bed,
Low muttering of the flooding tide
lolling the bell buoy into lazy gongs.

Ashore, the brows of the stony hills
Are furrowed in contemplation
of the ice time, the ancient island left behind.

The silence of the deep woods
Is a wordless brooding,
A dream almost recalled
by a falling branch, a foot step, birdsong,
a distant dog hunting.

Walls, walls, always walls.
The stony scores of folksongs
Played across the pastures,
Sung at the roadsides
For the passers by.

These and the huddled trees
Whisper, “Welcome home.”
“We are the same as when you left.
We have waited for you.”

—A. Conrad Nuemann

To a Cliff

Don’t ask that silver wall of sand
To stand rip-rap defiant
To the sea.

A cliff to be a cliff
Must turn a new face
To the sea
Each storm,
Revealing ancient hieroglyph
Of ice-torn land,
Or dark sea bed,
Or once swift gravel,
Glacier fed,
Now frozen stiff in time.

And all this read from one brief glimpse
Of history in a cliff,
A cliff as mobile
As the sand
That lies beneath the sea strokes
At its feet.
Sand, as easy as the sea to move.
Yet all this forms a stop-frame scenery
Of seafloors and tundra
On a summer beach.
Still life images
Tell of the ravages
Of ice and wave
On pages turned by winter’s curiosity.

Let the cliffs recede
And so recite
Their story to the sea

—A. Conrad Nuemann

Beach of Dreams

On the beach of dreams, we sit
watching a never setting sun.

Never wondering how long
our love will last,
or how much time, we have.

Our dreams stretch out forever
like our love my dear.

Our hearts beat as one
whenever you are near.

Each day as the sun rises,
I want to return to the beach.

The beach of dreams,

which both of us share.

—David Harris