


walking the beach
i discover i’ve mistaken
my bone for shell,
my blood for the tides

my naked footprints
are lost with the glyphs
left by leggy little plovers,
our messages wave-washed
into the bay and out to the deep

feet salted and sandy, hair damp,
as glaucous as sea spray, skin
warm caramel, akin to the sun






Poems submitted through email or Facebook will not be published.







Recent in digital publications: 
* Four poemsI Am Not a Silent Poet
* Remembering Mom, HerStry
* Three poems, Levure littéraire
Upcoming in digital publications:





  1. Hello Jamie! Here is mine entitled “Mother With the Green Hair” – I hope it is on point for the prompt (as I must admit, I am a city girl and that “oneness with nature” does not come naturally to me! 😂)

    Rough brown skin scratches my cheek
    I lean into your strength
    My arms wrap around you
    My fingers not touching
    Reminding me of your age
    A comfort in this short sighted world
    Your willowy boughs sway in the hot breeze
    But under your protective shadow
    I am but one who rejoices in your giving nature.

    Liked by 3 people

  2. Jamie this was inspired by the time I spent in Idaho. If it’s too small or not just right, I’ll understand.
    My friend Greg commented that “It sure looks like a corner of Paradise there. You’ll carry this trip in your soul forever.” I still remember and tried to capture that feeling in a Haiku/Senryu.

    Eagles sweep the sky
    Bemused as the clouds drift by
    Bewitched by silence

    Liked by 1 person

  3. Dear Respected Jamie Ji
    Some lines in response

    I rejoice in a state of eutierria

    I sink into sleep
    enshrouded by oblivion
    my sensing mind quiets

    I fall in a state of eutierria

    my grieving soul cries
    tears raindrops flow together
    drenched deaf to thunder

    I soak in a state of eutierria

    no more! stone marble
    senses green, naked in soil
    break bonds to connect.

    I succumb to a state of eutierria

    Liked by 4 people

  4. Hi Jamie,

    Here’s my seventh

    Ma Firesongs

    inhale my sage, mint,
    basil, saint john’s wort,
    sunflower and lavender

    leap through my balefire
    an ‘I do’

    burn my gorse and hay
    fields to stubble

    dress me in dried herbs,
    potpourri, seashells, summer flowers, and fruits.

    colour me blue, green, and yellow

    let me handfast to you
    think on harvest to come


    breathe in mistletoe
    oak, rowan, and fir.

    watch sticky moon rise
    as if honey
    outa hive

    yon fires r small suns
    t’ massive blaze
    nar set this short neet

    she as bairn
    in her belly
    and soon a must pass
    this fertile crahn
    from oak t’ holly

    tek int shape
    and tale
    o’ other folks fires
    on yon hills
    as tha would pattern
    stars make
    int neet sky wi art clards
    an scry what’s t’come

    an sup elder wine
    an et this bread
    of yon fields
    grahnd thru yon stones
    into fire
    into r gobs
    an bellies

    an leet a candle
    a midneet
    aside this bowl
    a rain watta
    t’ catch moon n
    r face n hands
    in it
    (From “The Firewedding And Headpoke”, Alien Buddha Press, 2017)

    Liked by 2 people

  5. Hi Jamie,

    Here’s my sixth response:

    riverbrain, rivermind

    synaptic rivulets
    neuron canals
    sacred water

    riverbrain flows in my head
    fountainbrain channels my ideas
    lakebrain plays the fey

    electric rivulets move earth
    inside my head

    waterskin neural net
    circumnavigates damage
    fruited hemispheres
    replenish, restore, reimagine

    senses water roots
    springwaters in my head
    well in my head.


    her flaps of the water
    bride of the waveskin
    her inner lips of the river,
    spring and waterfalls,
    fermented honey drip
    not dragonfly laced stained glass

    lamina moist make out

    fragile weirs into lust

    tongue kindly these guardians

    a becomes a river

    Liked by 2 people

  6. Hi Jamie,

    Here’s my fifth response:

    A Water Frets

    gives and takes her contours,
    every ripple adds or removes

    years, smooths and plumps,
    wrinkles and scars, blisters

    and bubbles. Each surge
    an encounter begins in laughter.

    Liked by 1 person

  7. oh, Jamie, Bittersweet.

    When the season of change comes once more

    sun of summer come
    it has been too long
    already like my own
    days are short again

    the leaves will turn
    from youthful green
    abundant to gold
    scant as the briefest
    breeze tumbles them

    leaving bare spindles
    vulnerable witness
    to times past
    and futures uncertain

    sun of summer come
    warm this body
    too soon grown cold
    in the shadows
    of light.

    deb y felio

    Liked by 3 people

  8. Blodeuwedd’s Lament

    I knew the warmth
    of a man’s body
    though no blood
    ever surged
    through my veins.

    I was oak-flower,
    broom and meadowsweet
    conjured into woman
    without flesh and bone
    and beating heart.

    The moon O-hed
    at the smoothness
    of my face.
    The sun paled
    at the earth-gold
    of my hair.

    I loved Gronw,
    the lord of Penllyn.
    I lay in his arms
    and we plotted
    to kill my husband.

    Now, for my sinfulness
    I am shunned
    and alone
    at the woodland’s edge.
    I am owl.

    I am beak and talons,
    feathers and sharp eyes.
    I wait, still as death,
    in the shadow
    of midnight leaves.

    In Welsh legend, Blodeuwedd (Flower-Faced”) was made by magicians
    Math and Gwydion to be the wife of Lleu Llaw Gyffes.She and her lover
    Gronw Pebr attempted, unsuccessfully, to murder Lleu. Gwydion turned
    her into an owl as punishment.

    Liked by 1 person

  9. Garden Greeting

    It’s still there
    behind the splash
    of sunlit curtains
    freeing me from night’s
    dark dream.

    Even wayward grass
    is rooted, jostles
    for space with irises,
    geraniums, alliums
    and deep-cerise pinks.

    Fruit of every seed
    I’ve sprinkled
    and every bulb
    I’ve pressed
    into the earth.

    I amble along the path,
    learn the colour-speak
    of potted residents:
    pansies, petunias,
    bee-kissed marigolds.

    There’s a breezy,
    rose-scented wave
    and murmurs of mock-orange
    flowering after a decade
    of solitary leaves.

    Liked by 3 people

  10. Now I’m Nearly Sixty Nine

    I want to grow more poppies
    like these that intoxicate
    my garden and out-blaze
    the sun; I’ll keep the seeds
    when green wand are flowerless
    and rake them into the soil
    for next summer.

    I’ll still remember playgrounds
    of childhood and the scent
    of lilac; my mouth will moisten
    at the thought of home-grown
    blackcurrants but I won’t
    hanker to go back, sit on the grass
    and blow dandelion clocks.

    I’ll be busy growing poppies,
    admiring petals of extravagant
    scarlet silk that outlive sultry
    afternoons and noisy outbursts
    of evening rain: that sway
    beneath a clear blue sky and cup
    a day’s worth of light.

    Liked by 3 people

  11. love and gratitude from LA ❤


    desert you look very pretty in your tender green veil
    it’s been a while since i was here visiting you
    inner struggle and rebirth brought me to your boulder bosom
    i see my brothers the Joshua Trees have gotten taller
    therefore waving more lost children toward your safety dear friend
    oh and the hares and wood peckers they still look
    me over with caution and pity they sense my spirit
    is still shackled in some ways but they are right
    i’m just a human mother Joshua but how are you
    i’ve brought you great news there will be rain later
    this evening that rock you say yes that will be
    good shelter the tiny lizard queen is a great hostess
    the breath of your slate tinged skies is beginning to
    smell like wet earth just like my grandmother’s hair when
    as a babe i’d grab fistfuls and put it in
    my mouth yet i don’t know how i can remember
    her we were both too young when she had to
    go up to the silver stars above my head oh
    mother Joshua did you tell Oma to come and visit
    there you see she’s the one next to Venus smiling
    at me hey little ants get off my cake here
    i’ll place it by your hill take it to your
    queen my regards to her and now my eyes focus
    to see the splendor of the ocotillo fire red blossoms
    held up to the peacock sky and i breathe deeply

    Liked by 5 people

  12. take a peak

    once squaw peak
    now is piestewa peak
    because etymology
    because war hero
    it is a hunk of rock
    an asteroidal embedment
    of the rocky mountains
    or it seems so

    despite artifactual distractions
    like memorial benches
    and erosion-checking cement
    and rails

    at night it transports you
    through a piece of the solar system
    and when the climb harshness your breathing
    it sounds like that of an astronaut

    you and your rock
    on the sweat-wringing trajectory
    toward a magical world
    enjoyed at park’s peak

    panorama of an alien civilization
    its photonic array twinkling
    rectilinearly below
    on your back the rock drinks your sweat

    and you/rock bathe
    in ancient light from the everywhere
    yet you enfold

    Liked by 3 people

  13. A Beach Poem
    Follow the thin line
    Between the water and the land,
    Between the sky and the earth.
    Follow it until you see the horizon
    That lured your ancestors
    To explore the thin line in search of a better life
    All the way, from Africa to South America,
    All the way, from Africa to Australia,
    All the way from Africa to …
    Humanity is a thin line
    At the whim of the moody Moon
    That buries it under the high tide
    Or bares it by pulling the waters back.
    Follow the thin line.
    Keep your eyes on the horizon.

    Liked by 5 people

  14. “THINK, WAIT, FAST…”

    I come to the pocket-sized beach
    In winter only
    No longer liking to be close to strangers
    Alone, dreaming in Green Key Park
    In the Gulf of Mexico dawn
    I sit on the sand, drinking
    Drive-through black coffee
    Comforts more than stimulates
    Birds, palms, sunrise on the Gulf
    I pretend it is the sea
    Here, it is warm like a bathtub
    But not quite placid
    Some tidal action
    A bit of wave hiking up to the shoreline
    Sand and negative ions
    Water and fiery sun
    Elemental balance
    Aligning my body and soul
    Entwined with Nature’s rhythm
    I go inward more and more each year
    Feel like Hesse’s Siddhartha on the river
    He, like me, can think, can wait, can fast
    Well, fasting, ok, not quite there yet
    But able to do the rest
    Because the inner life is best…

    Liked by 4 people

  15. sea-bound stroll
    Debasis Mukhopadhyay

    now retsina


    old stitches


    summer jaunts

    fomenting the sepia waves

    of lassitude

    the fresh catch grilled at sundown

    dabbled memories

    nea paralia nea paralia

    and an opalescent sea

    rustling across a bloated brochure

    called gateway

    or maybe

    sea-bound stroll

    with azure galore

    beguiling the eyes

    like those hydrangeas flaunting

    a clear blue

    within easy reach

    from the deck flowing to

    a time


    salty pebbles

    keep rolling in

    on the wounds

    and the spume

    swathes a heart in the sand


    like a touch of warm cotton swabs




    said once

    love you


    walked by the sea

    Liked by 4 people

  16. boy, oh boy, a wave appears….
    you stand back
    and observe
    beach scene, a poem make a splash
    bikni girls *enjoying this*
    boy, oh boy, you aren’t a loud person
    or, someone who gets attention.
    she certainly does…. yeah
    you stand back
    and observe
    I am sure she will come around.
    boy, oh boy, a wave appears
    and disappears soon.

    Liked by 2 people

  17. .323.

    .323. the walk.
    do you like the feeling, walking ahead quickly, moving forward, loosening limbs. pushing

    through wind, through water, rain slanting. shouting, counting the rams, shadowing

    shepherd. wee mouse on the path, beady eyed. these are the hopeful days, weak sun



    down the back lane there are puddles, huge amounts of water fell, flooded the abbey ruins. branches blown , creaking twigs while rain stays off a while. she is a new walking partner, quite fast, no bother.

    lean on the fence to look over a steep drop to the river

    tears well as we speak of it openly


    to break the cut a pheasant comes comely all collars & spectacles walks sedately to the edge, leans forward, ambles down.

    the walk.

    Liked by 3 people

  18. ..the photograph tree with blue..

    envy the rural living.

    make some.

    walk the dunes
    each day,
    know the places,
    to stop,
    where berries grow.

    where the photograph tree
    what lays beneath.

    look at each gentle place,
    to keep in a pocket
    of love,for that rainy
    day, you do not go.

    then in mine, in honour
    walk the place in mind.


    Liked by 4 people

  19. Hi Jamie,

    Here’s my second response:

    Find Yourself

    All in the air
    All in the earth
    All at sea
    All in the stars

    All in her skin
    All in her blood
    All in her bones
    All in her

    All at once
    All at sixes and sevens
    All in a state
    All for her

    Liked by 4 people

  20. Hi Jamie,

    Here’s my first response:

    Your Bones Remember

    what my skin forgets.

    What your sky forgets
    my earth remembers.

    Your rivers forget the distance travelled
    My earth remembers where direction changed.

    Blood memory stains your riverbed.
    Skin never restores its shape.
    Absence is character unrecognised.

    Absence is a never return, a forgotten way
    marked by signs unrecognised as signs.

    Liked by 4 people

  21. Thanks, Jamie.


    For a boy, aged 5, newly diagnosed as autistic.

    Stones and shells.
    Each grey disc
    or pink ellipse
    is a crashed planet.
    Driftwood and splinters.
    Dreams tangled up
    in the mystery script
    on blown cartons
    and vagabond bags.

    He scuttles, unshelled,
    under a carillon
    of seagulls, drunk
    on salt and ozone.
    This child who fears
    clouds and mirrors
    for the shapes
    they throw at him
    is healed for a day
    by the moonstruck
    logic of the tides.

    Liked by 6 people

Thank you!


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