When the pebble beach morphs into a million cookies, when my stomach storm-rumbles, when my eyes reimagine the salty air to be sugar sweet - I turn for the coffee shop. Chocolate browns, cream whites, blueberry greys abound. Onshore wind whips waves to a frothy tide, waves that bring rhythm from the blues. Cookies. Cookies. I’m on my way, walking faster, your golden-baked soft heart my doughy master.

November 19, 2025.

 

The world of the lighthouse is but a lonely rock, the sun and the gentility-tempest pulse of the centurion centuries. Its life is the bright rays, the absolute black and the whipping graphite maze. This tower built to cradle guarding-light stands ever-bold in a capricious landscape, unflinching no matter if tsunamis whisper-taunt. For the weather is daily spun, a novel fabric, ever-morphing, ever eye-catching, yet as constant as the times of yore. From the ocean’s panoramic vista, from the landscape of its gale whipped seas, the old lighthouse vanishes in every fog as brave as a butterfly. Yet to the observant captains it remains a guiding star, anchored, reliable, strong.

December 25, 2025.

 

An aching mist of aeon’s beauty hugged the lighthouse of white and red. Chill in ethereal repose ‘twas a constellation of water-motes, motes that floated in the breeze, floated with angelic ease. To the keeper they did entreaty, in the coolest whispers they promised comfort, promised days ahead of wintry hearths. To him they bid to shelter within, safe from torment’s tempest. A-caroling they did sing, ‘Harken well, still your heart, rest your frets. Mind not Jack Frost’s freezing breath, for ‘tis but heaven’s encrypted runes of idiosyncratic-morse. Instead observe the cloud smudged moonlight, let your eyes linger on starlight freckles leagues above the stratosphere. So, treasure it, take it to your heart, guard it from the devious dark - divine magic cometh as invincible guard, weather proof and battle scarred. Inevitably dawn’s drapes will be flung full-wide and, little darling, as sure as the sun doth rise, calm clarity will prevail on sea and shore.’ And so it lingered, so it clung, that most magical of mists until the night was done.

December 25, 2025.

 

Coastal Hymn
 

Briny sunshine carols of better days,

Breeze susurrations soothe as rays snuggle,

Soul struggles healing in halcyon rays,

Heart holidays in Sea’s huddle-cuddle,

Ocean waves step in to resuscitate,

Pace maker, peace baker, precious release,

Soul’s beach does core teach to self reinflate,

Gulls cry, Sorrow’s witness sky, demons cease,

Sand and stones anchor home angelic own,

Dune grasses whisper empathy real,

Sleepers as musical bars magick sown,

Silence-deny Erosion’s appeal,

Salvation dwells in Divine’s coastal hymn,

Christ’s authority assigns Seraphim. 

***** (Edited Aug, 2026 wrt rhyming pattern)

May 14, 2026.

Found in Sweet 'n' Salty Poems, Collection One.

 

Ode to Billie Holiday
 

A bon-bon Thunder-Bird cruised Cali’s coast,
On tyres of titanium marshmallow,
Body and soul flint-feather coated, no boast,
Day’s lady-auto galvanised, “Hallo!”
Summer time breeze and sherbet-ray powered,
Bubble gum suspension eating Mile’s bumps,
Platinum roll cage sugar-wow powdered,
Radio love-releasing soul-fire slumps,
Steering wheel a coffee-cake spartan-shield,
Summertime holiday ‘n’ easy livin,’
Nougat-nostalgia seats fruit-leather steeled,
Headlights bright with mega-watt tungsten-grin,
Forget-me-not Moon lovin’ stoic-whole,
Heavenly heart with royal icing soul.
*****

May 14, 2026.

Found in Sweet 'n' Salty Poems, Collection One.

 

In a light that dapple danced, bounced a beach ball. Down the pathway it wandered with the gait of a happy child, a bounce and a skip here and there. At one time it paused as if to listen to the song of the early birds, to turn a pirouette, yet beyond that it seemed to have a determination to be a ball immune to gravity. I sat there, my pajamas billowing in the spring air, my brain all of a tickle with new ideas.

September 26, 2024.

 

Arcing in the blue, as if it were the tip of a conductor's wand, the beach ball swirled high above the yawning sands. It was a sky ballerina, plumped up so proudly with oceanic air. Then, as if by magic command, down it came to my outstretched arms. In the peach light of that early day, I took it as a good omen from the world beyond. Be patient. Wait. All will come right.

September 26, 2024.

 

Amid a wind of such deep chill that bones could snap and blood freeze still, the beach ball blew in its panicked dance. Whipped by a howling gale, deaf even to itself, all catching hands had been vanquished to firesides and Christmas hearths. And so it tumbled, on and on, its merry never-fade colours singing out. Then it wedged beneath a hut of peeling paint and shattered windows and, as if a ghostly Jeeves stood there, its door swung smoothly wide.

October 5, 2024.

 

A lone beach ball trickled down the sand, salt smothered and wrinkled. On a brighter day perhaps the wan plastic would have shone, but beneath the low grey sky it was so very shadow-eaten. And all the way to the edge of the cold tide, its roll was a grainy sigh. Then it was there, upon the white fringe, negotiating its transition to the deep.

September 26, 2024.