Surf Poems.....I'm such a chic.

Discussion in 'All Discussions' started by yourdirtymomma, May 2, 2012.

  1. yourdirtymomma

    yourdirtymomma Well-Known Member

    May 2, 2012
    Trying To Explain

    Where to start?
    Where to begin?
    It’s like being born again.
    Opened completely without shame,
    Discovering new realms without pain,
    Diving deep and struggling for self,
    To grace the goal…you're your only help.
    Mysteries surface,
    They come and they go,
    The more you witness the smaller you grow.
    But in this tininess…in this now,
    You’re more than you’ve ever been…stronger somehow.
    Maybe you don’t get me…
    Where to start?
    Where to begin?
    It’s like being born again.

  2. Sniffer

    Sniffer Well-Known Member

    Sep 20, 2010
    There I sat broken hearted
    Wanted to shiit
    But only farted....

  3. yourdirtymomma

    yourdirtymomma Well-Known Member

    May 2, 2012
    LOL....sorry to hear that :)
  4. Gfootr

    Gfootr Well-Known Member

    Dec 26, 2009
    there once was a surfer from Nantucket...
  5. yourdirtymomma

    yourdirtymomma Well-Known Member

    May 2, 2012
    Oh tell me more :) lol
  6. 252surfer

    252surfer Well-Known Member

    Dec 1, 2010
    Drove up to his favorite spot, took a look at it and said f.u.k it.....
  7. yourdirtymomma

    yourdirtymomma Well-Known Member

    May 2, 2012
    Carpe Surf'em

    Floating in the tranquility,
    Ignoring my fragility,
    The ocean breathes beneath me.
    The rise and fall,
    The peace of it all,
    Time has released me.
    Waiting for a wave to come,
    Nothing exists but the One,
    An inspiration to me.
    Grateful for the pull of the moon,
    Stress somewhere far past the dunes
    The elements seize me.
    It has all comes down to this minute,
    No one to compete with, I’m the only one in it.
    No one can take it from me, I’m the only one that can win it.
    Thank you Africa, Thank you hurricane,
    Thank you struggle, Thank you pain
    Thank you God for a life reborn, renewed, and reframed.
  8. yourdirtymomma

    yourdirtymomma Well-Known Member

    May 2, 2012
    O’ To Be A Kook Again
    O’ how I miss those first days of my kookiness…
    When being pushed into a wave was a reason to live,
    When riding the white water on your stomach was cause to smile,
    When staying up for more than three seconds justified a victory stance.

    O’ how I miss those first weeks of my kookiness…
    When dropping in on my knees still counted as “dropping in”,
    When accidently going down the line meant total triumph,
    When catching the reform three times on one ride stoked me so much I couldn’t sleep.

    O’ how I miss those first months of my kookiness…
    When standing on top of a three foot wave scared me,
    When six hours of trying plus six rides equaled ultimate success,
    When I called myself “Queen Nose Dive of the Clan Flounder About” because that’s who I was.

    O’ how I miss that first year of kookiness…
    When wiping out on a big wave counted as surfing,
    When just making it out in a hurricane swell meant the world was a better place,
    When nothing felt more beautiful than my kook-poop-stance going left…again…for some unknown reason.

    O’ how I miss the kookiness…
    When “Wooooowhoooo”s flowed freely from me,
    When nothing about me was embarrassed.
    When I didn’t even know what kook meant.

    O’ to be a kook again.

    Big White Water
  9. PhiloSurfer

    PhiloSurfer Well-Known Member

    Dec 19, 2010
    I think that you'd really like the poetry of J. Robinson Jeffers. He lived near the turn of the 20th century and built by hand his own stone house on a hillside overlooking the Pacific in Carmel, CA. Here's one of my favorites:

    Some lucky day each November great waves awake
    and are drawn
    Like smoking mountains bright from the west
    And come and cover the cliff with white violent cleanness:
    then suddenly
    The old granite forgets half a year’s filth:
    The orange-peel, egg-shells, papers, pieces of clothing,
    the clots
    Of dung in corners of the rock, and used
    Sheaths that make light love safe in the evenings: all
    the droppings of the summer
    Idlers washed off in a winter ecstasy:
    I think this cumbered continent envies its cliff then….
    But all seasons
    The earth, in her childlike prophetic sleep,
    Keeps dreaming of the bath of a storm that prepares up
    the long coast
    Of the future to scour more than her sea-lines:
    The cities gone down, the people fewer and the hawks
    more numerous,
    The rivers mouth to source pure; when the two-footed
    Mammal, being someways one of the nobler animals, regains
    The dignity of room, the value of rareness.
  10. chicharronne

    chicharronne Well-Known Member

    Jun 22, 2006
    It's no feat
    to beat
    the heat.
    So, jeat
    you seat.
    Be fleet!
    Be fleet!
    Cool and discrete,
  11. ChavezyChavez

    ChavezyChavez Well-Known Member

    Jun 20, 2011
    The flat spell is causing a creative explosion! I learned to play the drums last week.....
    It's like George Costanza when he stopped having sex. He became a genius.
  12. yourdirtymomma

    yourdirtymomma Well-Known Member

    May 2, 2012
    PhiloSurfer......thanks for the share.....very nice. was yesterday while I was trying to get my first waves of this new year that I composed that poem in my minds eye.....paddle, paddle, paddle, miss it....try again, miss it again.....struggle for an hour and finally except the simple joy of taking the white water. I'm still a kook, it's just that I know it now.

    The flat spell always result in depression poems :/ favorite poems come form from struggle.
  13. GreenFlash35

    GreenFlash35 Well-Known Member

    Jan 5, 2011
    O Jellyfish kicker.
    Sitting in the murky waters.
    O Jellfish kicker.
    Everyone knows it's you !
  14. Swellinfo

    Swellinfo Administrator

    May 19, 2006
    haha... There are perhaps 2 outcomes of terrible flat spells that are evident through the Swellinfo forums. 1) An array of negative forum threads, and 2) an outlet of creative... Flat spells definitely seem to cause change in behavior.
  15. suzyq

    suzyq Active Member

    Jan 7, 2013
    " wanted to **** but only farted"
  16. headrow

    headrow Well-Known Member

    Sep 2, 2007
    How about a haiku?

    O' Ocean City
    Dirty boil on my ass
    God, How I love you
  17. wave1rider65

    wave1rider65 Well-Known Member

    Aug 31, 2009

    I like this one...........
  18. waverider

    waverider Member

    Apr 13, 2012
    sittin on the beach
    starin at the sand
    lookin for a babe
    with a beer in my hand
    watchin the local surfers
    rip up the waves
    when im really only lookin for a couple of babes
  19. yourdirtymomma

    yourdirtymomma Well-Known Member

    May 2, 2012
    Thank you.... appreciate you saying so.
  20. Riley Martin's Disgruntled Neighbor

    Riley Martin's Disgruntled Neighbor Well-Known Member

    Aug 22, 2012
    Ode to the Sea Pablo Neruda

    Here on the island
    the sea
    and so much sea
    it says yes, then no,
    then no, no, no,
    then yes, in blue,
    in foam, with gallops,
    it says no, again no.
    It cannot stay still,
    my name is sea, it repeats
    while slamming against rocks
    but unable to convince rocks,
    with seven green tongues
    of seven green dogs,
    of seven green tigers,
    of seven green seas,
    it smothers rocks, kisses rocks,
    drenches rocks
    and slamming its chest,
    repeats its name.
    O sea, you declare yourself,
    O comrade ocean,
    don’t waste time and water,
    don’t beat yourself up,
    help us,
    we are lowly
    men of the shore,
    we’re cold and hungry
    and you’re the enemy,
    don’t slam so hard,
    don’t scream like that,
    open your green trunk
    and give all of us
    on our hands
    your silver gifts:
    fish every day.

    Here in each house,
    we all crave it
    whether it’s of silver,
    crystal or moonlight,
    spawn for the poor
    kitchens on earth.
    Don’t hoard it,
    you miser,
    coldly rushing like
    wet lightning
    beneath your waves.
    Come, now,
    open yourself
    and leave it
    near our hands,
    help us, ocean,
    deep green father,
    end one day
    our earthly poverty.
    Let us
    harvest your lives’
    endless plantation,
    your wheat and eggs,
    your oxes, your metals,
    the wet splendor
    and submerged fruits.

    Father sea, we know already
    what you are called, all
    the seagulls circulate
    your name on the beaches:
    now, behave yourself,
    don’t shake you mane,
    don’t threaten anyone,
    don’t smash against the sky
    your beautiful teeth,
    ignore for a moment
    your glorious history,
    give to every man,
    to every
    woman and to every child,
    a fish large or small
    every day.
    Go out to every street
    in the world
    and distribute fish
    and then
    so all the working poor
    could hear you,
    so they could say,
    sticking their heads
    into the mine:
    “Here comes the old man sea
    to distribute fish.”
    And they’ll go back down
    into the darkness,
    smiling, and on the streets
    and in the forests,
    men and the earth
    will smile
    an oceanic smile.
    if you don’t want it,
    if you don’t care for it,
    then wait,
    wait for us,
    we must worry, first
    we must try to solve
    and straighten out
    human affairs,
    the biggest problems first,
    then all the others,
    and then
    we’ll enter you,
    we’ll chop the waves
    with a knife made of fire,
    on an electric horse
    leaping over foam,
    we’ll sink
    until we touch the bottom
    of your guts,
    an atomic thread
    will guard your shank,
    we’ll plant
    in your deep garden
    of cement and steel,
    we’ll tie
    your hands and feet,
    on your skin man will walk,
    yanking in bunches,
    building armatures,
    mounting and taming you
    to dominate your spirit.
    All this will occur
    when us men
    have straighten out
    our problem,
    the big,
    the big problem.
    We’ll slowly
    solve everything:
    we’ll force you, sea,
    we’ll force you, earth
    perform miracles,
    because in our very selves,
    in the struggle,
    is fish, is bread,
    is the miracle.

    Neruda was the man. The sea has been saying an awful lot of 'no' these days. Ready for a three day head high 'yes'.