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Portuguese Seahorse (long-snouted) Living on the Edge

A sea creature, to cradle, adore -
escorting its life mate across millennial seascapes.
A bobbing coquettishness
Swimming awkwardly in Algarvian currents. 

Horse-tails like baby-hands reach out for Neptune’s parental comforts, 
wrapping around gentle swaying seagrasses.
A delicate dance and exchange of your 400 young; 
Your once-in-a-life-time long-snouted mate, with ultimate fatherly caresses.

The collection of all the Silvery tears
can’t compensate for Anthropocene encroachments:
An ocean of plasticity, rapacious ripping fishing nets.
A screen-based sea of humanity’s unkindness.

Snouts snuffling, a scorched earth tribe,
A noisy distracted indifference:
Your impending homelessness
Your offsprings’ melancholic fears.

New Gods empty out the seas
Ladling in their toxicity and carelessness:
A seagrass meadow depletion
Your cherished young rendered fatherless. 
 
Mark Ereiraguyer

Poetry Theme(s):

Currently Popular Poems:

Alder Carr, Crichton

Cold clear water Lurking trout Dogs mercury afloat. Where Crichton Castle Stands the bank. Old Alder cones still black; The trees are still asleep. Willows weep I wash my feet. Moss encrusted veterans fallen to the hillside Amongst blackbirds singing in old ash trees. Wild raspberries Jasper green canes reaching high waiting for summer feathers. Lime kilns and quarried Lonely caves. Sandstone and limestone planes alayered. I walk a mile Through the haar Amongst the dark alder carr. My sandwiches Becoming colder by the minute. I rise up the edges Tottering the line of ancient beech. With broken banks and pocketed anemones. Two muntjac creeping on the sideways track, Watchful of my progress. Manky boots Impress their foot. Bright yellow lichen on old hawthorn,  Jet black ash buds, Grey scaly patches, Lime flower matches. Frothy blackthorn Sloe to emerge, bonnie gill. Magical yet spiny, waiting for its gin. Park primroses clumping their station, Demanding their presence and lithe nat...
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Always with Us

The morning is cold, The sky is black, An emotion called grief, Is on your back. The storm is ferocious, Emotions peek and trough, The boat is disabled, By our indescribable loss. Gradually the storm, Will begin to ease, Giving breath to talk, Reflect and believe. But just round the corner, With just the breeze, The storm returns, You are on your knees. The sea is unpredictable, The sails carry us along, We begin to feel, Our loved one isn’t gone. With love and care, These storms will pass, The boat’s in order, The sails half mast. It’s a long journey, The boat begins to move with grace, It makes you feel relaxed, And puts a smile on your face, We can recall the memories, With all the love in our heart, They will always be with us, We will never be apart.   by Tonya  
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Insect Playground

Hidey holes and pockets of flowers Silhouetted with a lonely crow, watchful of artists. A jumble sale of geology, thoughts, and passers by; A granulated sugar platform Of sandy grains and apple pie. Abbey Tales Group  Poem
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White Hawthorns

The day speaks of white hawthorn Sundays Long washed out road trips, reluctant relatives waving you off on arrival. Rain from decades passed, a swishing of glimpses. Parents cramped and fretful. Passing through a littered accompaniment of faceless outlines. Stretched out warming children, car sick, scrunch up weathered newspapers. Pungent smells of nostalgia, almost Springs bouncing forward hours. Eager sweet wrappers lunge for half opened windows to adorn the floating blossom clouds of hawthorn bushes, March’s winds step in much like a bone-chilled but amiable hitch hiker. A querulous sibling rolls over, sickening, falls out in a screeching of tires. Tearfully rain-splattered. Another weekend pulled out and pegged up, redolent of adolescences quickly traversed. Mark Ereira-Guyer
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A Way of Life

It’s become a way of life this summer, the canvas bag slung over my shoulder hoping not to need it hoping the sky will stay blue long enough to get a walk by the sea. It’s become a way of life this summer, wearing my green jeans, wearing a matching sweatshirt to keep the wind out, wearing green wherever possible to match my green cagoule in case I need it. It’s becoming a way of life, it’s true, this life of uncertainty which nags at the back of your mind and keeps you constantly looking up the weather on your phone. It’s a way of life, this anxiety which sends me scurrying for help when it mushrooms out of control in the middle of the night. Julia
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Yew Remember

Yew remember The flaky times, The broken branches. Yew grew so strong and fast. Yew is not as tough As yew look. Yew exude Attracting berries Yew absorb our gases like thoughts. How’s life within your dangling conscious and pointed needles? Yew nurtured truth yet live in pain. Winter be longer than yew thought. But yew will not be silenced by others. Yew draw A complex pattern. Aching for light But yew can be cool, contented not to sit in the shade beneath others. Yew are alone in this world No more than the oak nor beech. Yew shed a spirited shadow As Yew are a survivor. Anon.
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Hold On

I can feel how hard it is to keep your feet on the ground, while trapped in the town when the world all around is so crazy. I can see that the sky seems too high ever to reach and the hope that you find some days in your mind slips away when you are lonely. I can hear that your fear takes hold of your heart with claws that are sharp while your ears are filled with the clamour of confusion. Stay strong my dear one and know that in time, though the battle seems near, holding peace in your mind, helps your courage shine clear. Trust the love in your soul to keep you whole so when this time’s over we will walk again together on paths filled with beauty. Jan Armstrong Photo by Renate Vanaga via Unsplash
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Ecocide II. Lost Madagascan Solitude

Sloping crystalline falling away skies nudge a luxuriant forested isle - wide-eyed tree-skipping lemur-strewn  - obediently it slides eastward, ever further distant from anchoring shores. A boat-less earth. Hunched up blood-licking apes locked into fruit-held rift valleys. Sharpening their flints. The sautéing sifaka, jitters, nervy, princely pirouettes. Esoteric treasure trove, trust-bound, assembled exotica anciently unfolds. In solitude, a jolly party contained together in pacific balance: reptilian bug-eyed chameleons sure and slow-footed, shy slinking Fossa, a lone long-fingered aye-aye absentmindedly tapping out dangerous omens in primeval morse code. Waves crash, anguished howls - one rogue boatful with hungry bellies and hatchets. Chameleons adjust multi-coloured jackets - to hide away fast. The island’s grizzled chains slip their moorings grind down Noah’s Ark of charms. Axes sear, slice, ricochet Malagasy’s pristine wonders slump - wounded, bloodied, defiled. The world’s ...
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Ready to Spring

Like the gnarly springtime bulbs, dormant in the ground Your demons crouch under the skin, waiting to be found Waiting for their moment, to break through and be seen The pale face of snowdrops, in a vibrant sea of green Emmalene Taylor
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River Stour, Sudbury

Mirror of ripples, floating tangles and bubbly foam. Swans racing The togetherness Of aqua. Sallow splashes Poplars tremble And minds drift. Jungle of reeds On vertical plane Moorhen hideout. Anon.
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