i haven’t swam here yet. the water is so shitty and sandy so every day i just end up sitting in a beach chair turning into a lobster and listening to harsh noise music. it’s very discordant in a very sexy way but my skin is starting to hurt. i miss trashy beaches like ocean city maryland.
by the seaside i sat while drinking my coffee. I bask in the sun while sipping. the beach is my place to relax. I crunch a shell with the bottom of my foot.
His grandfather had lived near the seaside. He remembered visiting him during summer vacation with his family, before Greta had died, and before the seaside vacations became the grave side vacations. He said this, but he knew he was exaggerating it in his mind. He knew that they eventually became themselves again. His body could recall the the ache of walking up, towards the shore, in all its developmental stages.
And though he knew this, sometimes he forgot it, found the projector in his head stuck on Greta’s name etched in granite and his father weeping as if he were a child, too. Or the look on his mother’s face that told him not to ask for this. This. He could hardly think what This was. But he knew he had been ripped from it, made to play in the ant hills while the other kids smiled at each other and their parents smiled back at them.
On the other side of the country, he found himself aching again, walking up the grassy side of the embankment, the smell of the seaside in his nostrils. He thought it funny, how the seaside always felt location specific, not the side of the sea, but the sea side of the country–and certainty the seaside was the east side, not the west.
But he was coming over the crest now, and surely it was there–the sea. And he was on the side of it, soon to be entangled in it and, thinking this, he felt the phone in his pocket vibrate, breaking him as near as any wave would have done anyways. When he pulled it out of his pocket and saw the name, he laughed lightly. Above him, a seagull coasted on the air, calling to someone, or something, out of sight.
seaside is beautiful and needs our protection, we have to keep our environment clean and safety. i love how i feel when i am there, i feel relaxed and peaceful
I had an impossible habit of ending up at the coast. I’d get to feeling lost, like the expanse was far too wide, and yet claustrophobic too. An ungainly paradox that I never quite managed to figure out. And yet there I would find myself, as if resetting. Turning myself off and on again, like an ageing piece of technology you’re already resetting for the third time on a busy Monday morning.
She look at him. The sea? We are going to Brighton? I’ve always wanted to spend the holidays seaside. I feared I would never be able to do that at my age. She rose from her chair, with great difficulty, and walked over to him and gave him a kiss.
Maybe one day you and I will end up at some seaside together, both of us much older than we are now, you perhaps decrepitly so, and we will finally be able to speak about what our life was way back when we were both in the same house.
I slip into the seaside view, a daydream to take me away from this didactic boredom. This pedagogical pedigree brought down upon me, lecturing me with a unreasonable force – disallowing debate. Do I sit and open my ear, turn it so as to tune in a better sound? Or do I bow and scrape to every instruction. I wish to simply leave – to escape to this actual seaside view and much more, touch, taste, and smell!
We’re going to the beach, I shout to my teenage daughter who hasn’t left her bedroom for several weeks. Come on now, I keep shouting at her, get into your bathing suit, grab your reef shoes, I’ve made lunch, we’re leaving in 20 minutes. Come on, come on, come on, I’m sick to pieces about your hiding out in there. I’ve forgotten what you look like. What walks out of her bedroom is not how I remembered her.
She took a deep breath in, and when the seawater smell hit her lungs, she almost cried. She had missed this place. She craved it in her skin, in between her toes and fingers, in the spaces between her ribs. It was something dear and precious to her.
One day I will find the ship again, it came on a misty twilight when I was just a child. I would stand by the seaside every night and hope to see it once more. I could not find it in 10 years but still, in my heart, I am hopeful and wish it would come to take me to a place far away. All I could hope for was the sense of satisfaction to know I was not delusional and I really did see such a thing. The ocean waves are powerful tonight and in all my years I could not hope to taste such a strong breeze.
Enjoy the seaside; even if only in your thoughts. I love the seaside.
Thank you Lord, whom I love most of all and and more than all, for creating the seaside.
seaside is a sight
allow your eyes to lavish
upon the exceeding beauty
seaside is a sound
allow your ears to linger
upon the ringing chorus
seaside is a smell
allow your nose to tingle
upon breathing all singing perfections
seaside is a taste
allow your tongue to engulf
upon all luscious flavors
seaside is a feeling
allow your body to dwell
upon the releasing touch
seaside is a love
allow your heart to swell
upon the throbbing grasp
seaside is a heaven
allow your spirit to set free
upon dancing in the glory
Oh how I love the seaside
for sure I know
that I will go
down along the seaside
where beauty shows
where strong love grows
and land and sea collide
where dance resides
and romance thrives
down along the seaside
the place I know
that I love so
down along the seaside
Oh sunrise bright
sand and shells
all down by the seaside
Oh sunshine burn
and crashing waves
all down by the seaside
Oh sunset glow
and swirling breeze
all down by the seaside
Oh moonlight shine
footsteps and salt
all down by the seaside
Where love and joy
and all glory
always shall reside
yes it’s true
and we all know
all down by the seaside
A la orilla del mar se acercan cangrejos a jugar entre los dedos de los pies. Brotan por diminutos agujeros en la arena y se escabullen por donde vinieron. Son tan fugaces como el cariño que un día nos juramos y que ahora se disolvió el polvillo que crea el arena.
You and me, feet planted in the sand, seaside. You think we’re facing the Atlantic. I think we’re facing the Pacific. I had this dream, you see, of all these ocean cliff towns with near-horizontal cypress trees. In the town square of one, my med school friends and I talked about tools in our white coats, and Marlon Brando came down from an upper window to ask after our gossip (boys, dresses?) “We’re comparing stethoscopes,” I said, matter-of-fact.
She sells seashells by the seaside. what a tongue twister is that? Another good one is; if Peter piper picked a peck of pickled peppers how many peppers did peter piper pick.
i love the sea side it makes me so happy i enjoy it very much the waves are so pretty and the smell of the air is amazing i wish i lived at the beach so i could see this every daly!!
Where all stories, even the first story, began. And where many stories, including maybe the first story, end. In small, foolish, terms, the long strip of pulverized mountains where boats are rocked to sleep on the surety of the tide. Where leather-faced men dislodge insults from the lost parts of their lives, that they heard in foreign tongues when they were spry and disembarked in search smokey-eyed conquests — or to be conquered. Where children without eyes fully opened see everything for the first time, and remember the spray of the saltwater but only for the next year.
The border between the light and the known world and the dark and the depths. From which any horror, half-seen, could slither out and terrorize. And at one time we were that horror. And the dark will wait until our corpses are engulfed by the tide and slide back into the deep.
As I stared into the void located just above the tall, black bookshelf in my living room, I had to wonder if beyond that little mental wormhole, there was a little seaside town I could visit. I wasn’t a fan of beaches, but I didn’t mind strolling along its shore, avoiding the water and the puddles of jellyfish who had unfortunately been sacrificed during their great voyage. I thought of sitting in a room in a tiny bed and breakfast, drinking tea – with you and only you to talk to.
i haven’t swam here yet. the water is so shitty and sandy so every day i just end up sitting in a beach chair turning into a lobster and listening to harsh noise music. it’s very discordant in a very sexy way but my skin is starting to hurt. i miss trashy beaches like ocean city maryland.
The seaside is where i go to bask in my happieness. i love the beach and the sand. it makes me think about all the good times ive had in the past.
by the seaside i sat while drinking my coffee. I bask in the sun while sipping. the beach is my place to relax. I crunch a shell with the bottom of my foot.
His grandfather had lived near the seaside. He remembered visiting him during summer vacation with his family, before Greta had died, and before the seaside vacations became the grave side vacations. He said this, but he knew he was exaggerating it in his mind. He knew that they eventually became themselves again. His body could recall the the ache of walking up, towards the shore, in all its developmental stages.
And though he knew this, sometimes he forgot it, found the projector in his head stuck on Greta’s name etched in granite and his father weeping as if he were a child, too. Or the look on his mother’s face that told him not to ask for this. This. He could hardly think what This was. But he knew he had been ripped from it, made to play in the ant hills while the other kids smiled at each other and their parents smiled back at them.
On the other side of the country, he found himself aching again, walking up the grassy side of the embankment, the smell of the seaside in his nostrils. He thought it funny, how the seaside always felt location specific, not the side of the sea, but the sea side of the country–and certainty the seaside was the east side, not the west.
But he was coming over the crest now, and surely it was there–the sea. And he was on the side of it, soon to be entangled in it and, thinking this, he felt the phone in his pocket vibrate, breaking him as near as any wave would have done anyways. When he pulled it out of his pocket and saw the name, he laughed lightly. Above him, a seagull coasted on the air, calling to someone, or something, out of sight.
seaside is beautiful and needs our protection, we have to keep our environment clean and safety. i love how i feel when i am there, i feel relaxed and peaceful
I had an impossible habit of ending up at the coast. I’d get to feeling lost, like the expanse was far too wide, and yet claustrophobic too. An ungainly paradox that I never quite managed to figure out. And yet there I would find myself, as if resetting. Turning myself off and on again, like an ageing piece of technology you’re already resetting for the third time on a busy Monday morning.
She look at him. The sea? We are going to Brighton? I’ve always wanted to spend the holidays seaside. I feared I would never be able to do that at my age. She rose from her chair, with great difficulty, and walked over to him and gave him a kiss.
Maybe one day you and I will end up at some seaside together, both of us much older than we are now, you perhaps decrepitly so, and we will finally be able to speak about what our life was way back when we were both in the same house.
I slip into the seaside view, a daydream to take me away from this didactic boredom. This pedagogical pedigree brought down upon me, lecturing me with a unreasonable force – disallowing debate. Do I sit and open my ear, turn it so as to tune in a better sound? Or do I bow and scrape to every instruction. I wish to simply leave – to escape to this actual seaside view and much more, touch, taste, and smell!
We’re going to the beach, I shout to my teenage daughter who hasn’t left her bedroom for several weeks. Come on now, I keep shouting at her, get into your bathing suit, grab your reef shoes, I’ve made lunch, we’re leaving in 20 minutes. Come on, come on, come on, I’m sick to pieces about your hiding out in there. I’ve forgotten what you look like. What walks out of her bedroom is not how I remembered her.
She took a deep breath in, and when the seawater smell hit her lungs, she almost cried. She had missed this place. She craved it in her skin, in between her toes and fingers, in the spaces between her ribs. It was something dear and precious to her.
One day I will find the ship again, it came on a misty twilight when I was just a child. I would stand by the seaside every night and hope to see it once more. I could not find it in 10 years but still, in my heart, I am hopeful and wish it would come to take me to a place far away. All I could hope for was the sense of satisfaction to know I was not delusional and I really did see such a thing. The ocean waves are powerful tonight and in all my years I could not hope to taste such a strong breeze.
Poetry is so beautiful; I am beginning to believe that I might like to start writing it!
Oh, and by the way, Kitti Luana and Kathi Luana Bailey and Luana Bailey and pretty much anything like that are the same person :)
Enjoy the seaside; even if only in your thoughts. I love the seaside.
Thank you Lord, whom I love most of all and and more than all, for creating the seaside.
seaside is a sight
allow your eyes to lavish
upon the exceeding beauty
seaside is a sound
allow your ears to linger
upon the ringing chorus
seaside is a smell
allow your nose to tingle
upon breathing all singing perfections
seaside is a taste
allow your tongue to engulf
upon all luscious flavors
seaside is a feeling
allow your body to dwell
upon the releasing touch
seaside is a love
allow your heart to swell
upon the throbbing grasp
seaside is a heaven
allow your spirit to set free
upon dancing in the glory
Oh how I love the seaside
for sure I know
that I will go
down along the seaside
where beauty shows
where strong love grows
and land and sea collide
where dance resides
and romance thrives
down along the seaside
the place I know
that I love so
down along the seaside
Oh sunrise bright
sand and shells
all down by the seaside
Oh sunshine burn
and crashing waves
all down by the seaside
Oh sunset glow
and swirling breeze
all down by the seaside
Oh moonlight shine
footsteps and salt
all down by the seaside
Where love and joy
and all glory
always shall reside
yes it’s true
and we all know
all down by the seaside
A la orilla del mar se acercan cangrejos a jugar entre los dedos de los pies. Brotan por diminutos agujeros en la arena y se escabullen por donde vinieron. Son tan fugaces como el cariño que un día nos juramos y que ahora se disolvió el polvillo que crea el arena.
hey everyone im fatema from Morocco, i started reading your story and i really love it.
Thank you
You and me, feet planted in the sand, seaside. You think we’re facing the Atlantic. I think we’re facing the Pacific. I had this dream, you see, of all these ocean cliff towns with near-horizontal cypress trees. In the town square of one, my med school friends and I talked about tools in our white coats, and Marlon Brando came down from an upper window to ask after our gossip (boys, dresses?) “We’re comparing stethoscopes,” I said, matter-of-fact.
She sells seashells by the seaside. what a tongue twister is that? Another good one is; if Peter piper picked a peck of pickled peppers how many peppers did peter piper pick.
i love the sea side it makes me so happy i enjoy it very much the waves are so pretty and the smell of the air is amazing i wish i lived at the beach so i could see this every daly!!
Where all stories, even the first story, began. And where many stories, including maybe the first story, end. In small, foolish, terms, the long strip of pulverized mountains where boats are rocked to sleep on the surety of the tide. Where leather-faced men dislodge insults from the lost parts of their lives, that they heard in foreign tongues when they were spry and disembarked in search smokey-eyed conquests — or to be conquered. Where children without eyes fully opened see everything for the first time, and remember the spray of the saltwater but only for the next year.
The border between the light and the known world and the dark and the depths. From which any horror, half-seen, could slither out and terrorize. And at one time we were that horror. And the dark will wait until our corpses are engulfed by the tide and slide back into the deep.
I’m here upon a sand, watching a wide seaside. Blue sky is spread out widely over my head. and I can relieve in here nature.
As I stared into the void located just above the tall, black bookshelf in my living room, I had to wonder if beyond that little mental wormhole, there was a little seaside town I could visit. I wasn’t a fan of beaches, but I didn’t mind strolling along its shore, avoiding the water and the puddles of jellyfish who had unfortunately been sacrificed during their great voyage. I thought of sitting in a room in a tiny bed and breakfast, drinking tea – with you and only you to talk to.
Where magic lingers. The shores of wonder. Swimming to the ends of the earth is my idea of romance.