Now it is your hand in mine, fingers a clutch of frail feathers.
Not much left but spines. Autumn apples, asters’ powder sweeten
evening’s breeze. The last crickets, those that survive
frost in crevices chant their sleigh bell monotone.
Skies open, a coverlet turned inside-out,
satin, silk, coral, a gray soft as ashes. Then, heavy. Then the rains.
Rains lift you, carry you to the sand, leave you on ocean’s porch.
You, little more than a sodden bird within reach
of wavelets’ chuckle. Private conversations water
holds among all its selves. I hear it in your paintings: waterfalls,
pool, ocean, a glacial lake. Moon slices sky silks,
shivers a path upon the water. I release your fingers.
Your luminous eyes glow in the dark.
” Go on…” I whisper, urging you while water smacks,
its lips, silvers your old, old bones. My palms, clams.
I scrub my eyes, salt-itches, sea-scent confuses me,
your feet, frail fins, your legs to tail. At the moment
when the water and fear have risen high in both
our hearts, you realize, once, so long ago you can’t remember,
you were a mermaid, and I, your water baby.
Water closes over your head. Your gills blossom.
Phosphorescence trails your passage.
Everyone knows you can’t cling to a mermaid,
just for a moment, then you feel her slip into the sea.
-Rachael Ikins
By如何在国内连接国外网站
Sometimes we look for monsters
in the wrong places or
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that we are searching for them at all;
earth rent, we want to peer into scars,
we wonder what new abyss to descend,
and here are ghosts and fangs enough,
so many vents of fury
sulphuring the blackness.
Yet we journey on by fathoms,
compressed, water weighted –
we see dark stars, but what if
we find that there are no real demons
lurking at these depths after all,
no stinging trail of malignancy?
Then we might uncover the brightness
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who light up this permanence of night
with their strange beauty.
-Rachel Deering
-Neal Zetter
The difference between us
She’s looking at me, I’m looking at her. She’s posing for the camera ,see?
You know how the story goes; boy meets girl.
I first saw her, out at the Rocks, tail wrapped round her like a cat, basking in the afternoon sun. She was combing her hair (no doubt to get all the seaweed and sea salt spray out). Not with a normal comb, no; with a cuttlefish bone.
She was singing, a strange sort of sound, as if the Ocean was birthing a new wave or life form. Not a tune I recognised, at any rate.
I knew the risks, had heard all those tales about the siren calls, sailors being lured to their deaths, smashed on the rocks.
She wasn’t much of a conversationalist .But she liked her bling, had it all laid out, treating the shore like it was her boudoir or something! So not so much different to the girls I had been out with before, in that way.
But yet, so very, very different…
I was already thinking of where I should take her on a date whilst we made small talk- the new fish restaurant on the Quay, maybe?
She said she couldn’t commit to man or land, said that the difference between us wouldn’t work.
Still, she let me take the photo anyway, and we left it at that.
Chunks of cheap comet ice
fall from her shroud. Unwinding,
she revives (as in the mythic cycle),
she stands, she melts parts of herself:
dead, living, alien, marine.
Sandy tail, pearl-plastered,
half-human, half-mackerel,
she stirs up red and blue spirals,
ungraphable numbers.
The street mermaid from outer space
travels through perception
in stages,
disembarking from her flying saucer,
hovering on the boardwalk,
becoming the sea.
—Tucker Lieberman
‘the mermaid’
is written, is said, may be sung,
another day. a smudge is all it takes
to start.
once started move on. it may be the wrong
item, it is, just, what it is now, a label.
it rained most of the day ,the roof leaked.
a friend returned that evening.
i will draw the mermaid, with a fish.
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The Sea Monsters Lesson.
Welcome to dry land class.
Today we’re learning about similes.
Smiles no chance like.
Sea monsters pictures
See?
Now describe them using the words ‘as’ or ‘like’.
Like what?
Something you think we’ll know.
Who will drown first?
Governor Blobfish
Karen Kraken.
Section 18 toothed shark.
Parking Catfish.
Creeper Octopus.
Leviathan Judge.
Mother-in-law Jellyfish.
Officer Hydra.
Mixed metaphor warm-up.
Come up for air.
Some people see monsters.
I see humans
Life lines on rafts.
Salty lipped lies told by others before.
Far from shore
Certain to go under
Without noticing.
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-Paul Brookes (This first appeared in Visual Verse)
Fishman
She loves him.
though he is water.
Her mam says When I gift you a fishes tail it will hurt every time you use it to and fro like a wave.
It will seem to him 怎样快速打开国外网站
I will give you a tongue. Every time you sing to him 国内如何上国外网站
You will have each other, but I will lose you.
-Paul Brookes
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/ The Wombwell Rainbow / Leave a comment
-Over the Rail Out to the Irish Sea by Paul Brookes
We picked our way down
to Peppercombe bay,
where the cliffs are paprika
and the grey stones wait
quietly, to be ground by the surf;
through the green hush of trees
to the place where there’s only
the wide sky and the salt sea.
-Sarah Connor
jagged teeth of rocks
black spikes along the shoreline
the slow hush of waves
-Bronwen Griffiths
Obsession
The sucking hiss of the indrawn breath of the tide
draws the land closer, grain by grain,
stealing, in tiny increments,
the gift it takes for itself and piles back on the shore.
This compulsion I know: drawn to the granite edges of you,
again turned aside.
Close as the heart’s core, or as far away as the moon,
are the sources of the timeless force that binds you to me.
Age by age;
tide by tide;
by the dark magic of gravity I take you now.
I am the ocean and you are my shore.
You will come to me.
Grain by grain, you will come to me.
-Yvonne Marjot
Precariously,
between slimy sea rock pools
I see it scuttles
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Sand clouds billows blown
hide fresh prey from predator
who waits all to clear
-Paul Brookes
In isolation
pools await the next tidal door
into the wider sea
I feel the smell
Of sailors yells
And maiden’s tears ashore
Laid my back on rock
And watched the clock
Of night sky rolling in
As sun sinks down
Below blue line
Dark silhouette
Embraces mine
Sea frost caresses me
Moist cold lustily
Grabs my bones
Grey mist expanse
you are now home
Gull screech
Soul search
I think I will die
If not here
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-Karin B
CollectingSeaGlasswithJanis
forJanis大陆怎么浏览外国网站
We could be people in a painting,
two women arm in arm, laughing.
A sudden slap of sea air and sand
and still we laugh as we continue
our walk along the beach recalling
silly superstitions handed down
from our mothers: Never cross knives
or put shoes on a table. I confess
I once walked under a ladder.
‘Sea glass is the answer,’ Janis reassures,
‘find frosted red, rare pink or
kelly-green and wear it for luck
on a necklace of seaweed like a mermaid.’
-Catherine Graham (The poem was previously published in ReachPoetry magazine)
.instruct’d .
Posted on August 24, 2018
There will be a cotton hankie and a bag of beach combed pieces.
Some are very tiny so I tips them onto something white to see. Set up is lining them into rows onto the hankie. I make up categories for the rows and use even the tiniest bits too.
-sbm
BeachCombers
All the decades we wandered the beach
my hand in yours, driftwood, fossils, shells
cracked-open, trickle to an end with sun’s
Autumnal roseate set. The sea
claims you.
It was always the sea, even after you clawed your way
from tail fin to legs, bare feet stamping a pattern
along soft, wet sand. The sea sighed, let you go,
promised to return to lay claim.
Mind muddled by mermaid song, you rest
on your pile of pillows like a small child with
stunned, round eyes. ” How did I get here?”
You ask me while the waves roll in, tide rises,
licks at your feet. Skin the color of storm skies.
I answer ” You got old.” Because it is truth.
Denial, no more. Sea-salt corrodes everything,
dissolves castles we built from upended buckets of sand.
Water rises inside you, sponges soaked from lungs
that once held air enough to shout.
I draw your name in the sand with a stick.
Your face coalesces from the shadows, you and me,
that photograph last April, me, a princess, you,
our castle’s queen. Then you laid your body upon the beach,
bones and wrack yourself. Translucent skin, opal eyes,
waiting for the water.
Waiting for the water.
-Rachael Ikins
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/ The Wombwell Rainbow / 1 Comment
Friday: 怎样可伍上国外网站Marine怎样才能浏览国外网址DoesForUs?
At Bayard’s Cove we’d throw
Tennis ball after tennis ball
Out for the family dog to fetch.
The beach was wracked with drift
Wood, salt scored bric-a-brac-
Matter that the waves sent back.
Long gone, but still I see his head
Above the surf’s lip,
The lick of water in his wake
-Peter Boughton
I see a thin line
which might be half sea
the other half, sky
-Elly Nobbs
Chimes
#SlamWords
We are broken,
whatever you do,
place his letter in a bottle
let us sail to where
lemons and oranges grow
blow shapes on the glass
slowly turning around
let it go with the tides
into the perfect dream
floating on the chimes
-Fi
Theseaside
tastes of particles of salt
Swimming
in puddles of vinegar
Atop
Crunchy batter
Surrounding
cod.
The coast
Tastes of sugar
Sprinkled atop
Freshly fried
Donuts,
Babies in trollies scream
For smooth ice cream.
-Anthony J.P.
DoraIncitestheSea–国内如何上国外网站toLament
Sees him at the far end of the strand,
squamous in rubbery weed, his knees bobbing
urchins, his lean trunk leaning, sea-treasure for her.
After it all (they mate, like carapaces, in parentheses)
Dora feels coolness in new places, lifts a reused
razor shell, mother-of-pearly and straight
and signals out to the swell of mouldering green.
Dora is electric, in love, and deep water.
Dora, Dora, Dora, in which dread is.
People people the beach, peering
through splayed hands, appealing:
DAW-RAAaargh. A boat sees her passing.
Sea-scribbler’s chest buckles
in aftershock—his quill is primed:
squid-inked and witful.
——————————–
From:
Monica’s Overcoat of Flesh, Nine Arches Press, 2023
-Geraldine Clarkson
OurHands
Sea stars on the glass.
Sweat toward each other.
Pores open to give kisses
that never touch skin.
Sunlight-fine hairs
on their backs burnished,
late afternoon.
Evenings we send messages
in bottles that float a sparkling cyber-sea, only a wall between us.
Thicker than air, ten feet of granite.
But thin enough I hear you
from the bed where I float toward
a dream: tap-tap-tap,
you tap some song. I sleep
knowing you
are still there.
-Rachael Ikins
AnotherTide
AnotherPlace by Anthony Gormley at Crosby Beach
His metal men, barnacled and lichened
stand firm on the beach. I’ve touched them,
marvelled at their beautiful limbs, the penis,
the proud bones of the feet. Each made the same
but changed by different encounters with the sea.
I’ve stood beside them, posed for photographs.
Today, they were dark dots in the spring tide
as the Irish Sea battered them, beating the Mersey
into coffee-coloured spray, thick with silt.
Salt spurted at walkers, the bitter wind
drove fingers to whiteness. The hundred
iron men appeared and disappeared, unmoved.
Do they look out, across the river
back to an Ireland they left on a harvest ticket,
riding the sea fourth class, saving every penny
to send home? Long before the famines,
they crossed backwards and forwards as if
the sea were nothing more than a road of water.
Blight came and hunger followed:
Fever, famine, emigration, deportation.
Tides recede, salt dries on rusted faces.
History’s hard stories are still told here.
Had they tongues to sing, they would voice
a hundred songs of yearning for home.
-Angela Topping
First published in NotADrop(Beautiful Dragons 2016)
i had not met her before, went in on the off chance. waited a while till she
was free.
she did it different, said nice things about my skin. in a small way she gave
me confidence.
i bought the quiche, sat in the cathedral grounds.
used the salt spray, and did not die.
of it
sbm.
come gently with birth
come gently with life
grow with the place
until we grew beyond how it was
beyond the culture and crowding
thinking
becoming unsettled
moving
retaining memory
1.
cycling the promenade hoping
some one will love us some day
baking down dunes
walking down tracks
barefoot hoping for less paving in town
2. humbling for a home
walking looking in windows
will some one want us
house us?
3. finding the two above
settling for the place where folk
come to holiday beautiful
while we work the bones of it
the grit beneath
bournemouth beautiful
the reason beneath the move away
is beyond any words i have just
now
where folk
come to holiday beautiful
-sbm
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All is the same there.
I left the stone yet the storms may have moved it a little.
I said hello to your hotel.
Yes the Durley Dene is good with a spa and a wonderful cream some tea oh and chandeliers of course. The other Bournemouth hotel whose name I forget was all mirrored furniture and starchy tablecloths.
Saw two films in the little cinema with a fellow traveller while others sheltered from the storm in the hotel lounge with sandwiches and games.
I avoid private views so a day at home after a quick trip into Dolgellau for the post etc. Hope you have a real good time in Dunoon.
Oh there is a good photography exhibition at Burgh Hall and the cafe is open there too. The library is open in the Queens hall and has stunning views.
A friend showed me her photos of whales up the watter. ..teaching their offspring to hunt. The watter turned red. It is said they swam up to Glasgow where they turned and headed back.
The framers up the back road may be open so one can visit his pet lizard. Have
-fun.
-sbm
Ps. There is a shop on a corner in Dunoon. Named Doon the Watter that sells Waverley posters. Rather good.
TheCloud Breakers
plunge and spill in the oceaned sky,
refract in a curve a gust of breath.
Cirrus ripples, cumulonimbus breakers,
your spirit observes as it rises above yourself
spread on a blanket laid on watered memory sand.
Out of body, out of mind, look at the lilted lap
at your feet of cloud tumble, wax and wane
of moon tempered ruffled white.
A tide of clouds inches down,
leaves a faint thought
of where it has been.
-Paul Brookes
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/ The Wombwell Rainbow / 1 Comment
Friend
A friend is a buddy, a partner, a pal
A friend’s anywhere, anytime, anyhow
When troubles are piled up
Like fries on a plate
A real friend is there and will not let you wait
A friend will ply your lungs with laughter
A friend will be your sticking plaster
Make you happy ever after
A safety net
A sure-fire bet
A friend is a neighbour, a backer, an aide
Who smooths your rough edges when you’re worn and frayed
When loneliness beckons
Or hopelessness looms
Their kindness will catapult you to the moon
A friend will not refuse a mission
A friend will fuel your optimism
Tough cement that heals division
Erase the blue
Is what they do
A friend’s a companion, a comrade a chum
There are other numbers but they’re number one
When days are huge mountains
Far too tall to climb
A friend is the leg-up that’s lifting you high
A friend will not have cause to doubt you
A friend won’t want to live without you
Even when disaster clouts you
Secure as locks
Like solid rocks
A friend is a buddy, a partner, a pal
A friend’s anywhere, anytime, anyhow.
-Marcy Erb (Artwork she says was inspired by my project. I am honoured.)
-Neal Zetter
TheTench
The only remarkable thing I can say that’s concerning the tench
It doesn’t waste time writing poems of me while it sits on a bench
-Al Barz
-Rachael Ikins
She says of it:
The cowfish is…an acrylic, mixed media painting. This is a poisonous ocean fish. I like painting faces and eyes in particular and this guy just looks like hebis swimming straight at you to see what’s going on. The cowfish title is “DoesThisColorMakeMeLookFat?” Is quite large bigger than 16” x 20”. The original is available as are prints if something grabs someone’s fancy. People can direct message me on my arts page AsktheGirl Arts on FaceBook.
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Welcome, silver swimmer,
leaper of rocks and sills,
darer of foam and roar,
glittering life-giver.
Offer to our hooks and reels
your own bright self.
We mark your coming,
first of the shoals,
sign of our thriving,
fattener of gaunt bodies,
saviour of fading children.
We will dress you with eagle feathers,
lay to rest on red cedar bark,
sever your head with the best mussel shell,
boil a new kettle,
place you in fresh water.
Your gracious gift is honoured,
not a morsel wasted.
Fly higher, flashing river bird,
fins whirr like wings,
tail lash in joy.
We will win freedom together,
you from the bonds of flesh,
we from our mortal hunger.
Go home, swimmer friend,
now you have met our elders.
Tell your brethren they are always welcome
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She Says “. It opens my Indigo Dreams collection ‘Someonewashere’. ”
.whales.
the title got me thinking
we had comics on tuesdays and thursdays
from the middle shop up the hill
sometimes there was a whale
in the story with a picture
round grey with a fountain in it’s head
it’s tail akimbo later
i learned that they don’t look like that
really .
he said
real stars do not have points .
i guess i shall never see a whale
though some bones are over the door
in mallwyd church porch
up the road
-sbm
Journey Home
Mother-moon pulls me east.
Fat silver face, 13 days into
trembling month on the lip
of summer.
I feel my roots,
in my gut, do not try to resist. I am
a small crab who scuttles 25 miles,
white-wash,
beach sand, leave
poetry threads,
necklace strands,
claw marks
with my sisters.
Almost six decades
ago I floated, plankton
until sea tossed me
onto land.
When wind and waves rise
I cling to a rock. There are bugs,
rotting minnows and
seaweeds to sort.
In the moonlight
we savor. We grip,
burrow, lose a claw
to a predator. Yet,
my sisters are my home,
25 miles in one night
following the beckoning silver fingers of Mother-moon.
-Rachael Ikins
open sea
a clam shuts tighter
in the pebbles
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running tide
in the rock pool
foraging sea bass
~ Christina Chin
TwoTied
fishtails. Mam and me,
Swim away from his slaughter
offriends and neighbours,
fall of Ash and mortar,
Taste of burning skin.
Not sure who me father is,
As me mam goes with owt
in trousers. Her first names
Promiscuous but folk, ‘specially men
call her Promise. She calls me Lust.
Me Dad could be Chaos or War.
Me mam’s been with both.
We’ve scarpered from Destruction
who clamours atta end on us all.
Mam and me lept into watta,
as fish tied together wi ship rope
So as we can’t drift apart,
tho ad be glad if we could
as ad like a life a me own
not chained to her,
and how can I tell her
am getting younger by the day.
Soon al be a bairn with a bow and arra
and tiny wings shooting me
Arras off not bothered who they hit,
an consequences of giving folk
bits of mesen, so their bodies hanker
like me mam after owt with a pulse.
-Paul Brookes
(From my as yet unpublished collaboration with Iranian artist Hiva Moazed: Kosshali)
_Rachael Ikins
She Says: This is pen and ink with colored pencil. Title is “Weee!!” A baby sea turtle.
It is an art trading card available as well.
Sea Cucumber
Both by Rachael Ikins
Feeling, Ironic
Manatee,
Solemnly seeking
A place for life,
The peace of warm waters –
Do you feel?
Or, is that a curse
Singularly
Reserved
For what we call
Humanity?
Humanity,
Violently seeking
To restore – What? Order?
With tear gas, and oppression.
Do you feel?
Or is that a gift
Singularly
Reserved
For the greater
Animal kingdom?
-st
LinksAndBios
-Al Barz
A performance poet and event organiser who’s been around the block many years, Al Barz now resides in a semi-rural West Midland alcove. Responsible for Spoke in the Lamp event, and SpokeScreen during lockdown, Al keeps popping up at pubs, theatres, cafes, festivals when a slot
appears, adding to his many semi-rural alcoves within high-heeled media platforms.
This beach is not for sunbathing,
not at this time of year.
Inland, birds may sing
and hawthorn’s pink tips
froth in the woods, but here
wind makes new partings
in my hair, blows shell-grit
ground by sea-roiling
into my mouth and eyes.
The dunes have swallowed you.
I wade through shifting sand
which sucks and ripples
as I try to follow.
Words are ripped from my mouth.
Where are you? I flounder
think I’ll never find you again
scale sand hills close to crying,
not that anyone would hear me
in this banshee place
of screaming gusts and gulls.
When we find each other
between dips and rises, your calling
and mine, things we dare not say
rise like distant waves,
glitter in cold spring light.
-Angela Topping
a blue heron wades
through its own reflection –
salt marsh at high tide
windy morning –
a flock of sandpipers
huddle by the dunes
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SaltmarshinOctober
Small groups of skylarks rise and spiral-soar
and distant curlews keen their plaintive cry.
Runnels and peaty pools reflect the sky.
The wind disturbs the rushes and my hair,
like a new lover’s rough caress – and flings
the gulls about the sky on paper wings.
My feet are silent on the sandy path
save when they step, unheeding, on the black
pods of the pistol-popping bladder-wrack,
strange to my ears – while stretched, before my eyes,
in orange, russet, lichen-yellow hues,
the marshland lies in many-textured bands,
a sampler by a needlewoman’s hand,
its hem a distant estuary-blue.
-Jenni Wyn Hyatt
First published online in ‘The Road not Taken, a Journal of Formal Verse’, Fall 2015
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/ The Wombwell Rainbow / 2 Comments
A powerful poem by Samuel Beckett that features sand dunes. Inspiration for tomorrow’s #Nationalmarineweek poetry and artwork challenge.
Anthony Wilson
my way is in the sand flowing
between the shingle and the dune
the summer rain rains on my life
on me my life harrying fleeing
to its beginning to its end
my peace is there in the receding mist
when I may cease from treading these long shifting thresholds
and live the space of a door
that opens and shuts
These beautiful photos are by Pete Skevington, with thanks.
We haven’t been far from home, since Lockdown started. It’s been astonishing how that restraint has made us more inventive, seeking out places we haven’t been to, or haven’t been to for years.
We hadn’t attempted to walk this particular route for a very long time ideed. My memory of it, my first experience of this kind of landscape, was nearly losing my boot in sinking, sucking mud, and being unable to pull myself free. Now, being more accustomed to the great…
View original post 怎样可伍上国外网站
The Strandline, what do you see? Share what you love about the sea using #NationalMarineWeek 25th July- 9th August, more like two weeks poetry and artwork challenge I’d love to hear all about your favourite marine wildlife, the actions you take to help our sea life, and what the sea means to you. Furst Seven Days: Saturday: Seawatch, Sunday: Rock-pools, Monday: Seabirds And Seals, Tuesday: The Strandline, Wednesday: Sand Dunes And Salt-Marshes, Thursday: Fish-Life, Friday: What Marine Life Does For Us. Please submit your poems and artwork by DM to me, or send a message via my WordPress “The Wombwell Rainbow” contact screen or my FB “Paul Brookes-Writer and Photographer”. Today: Tuesday: The Strandline
/ The Wombwell Rainbow / Leave a comment
Tuesday: The Strandline
-John Hawkhead
AlongtheStrandline
Bare feet squelch furtively,
lungs gag at weeds
fermenting, lamenting.
Foraging for sea soft glass
in amongst deserted
debris, snickered at, avoided.
A milky thread laces
slippery orange,
hesitant fingers pincer,
easing away gunk,
held up to the solitary sun
a string of forgotten pearls.
-Anna Chorlton
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Its purpose, woven
across the landscape.
East Strand, a beach of shells:
mussels and clams. Cast overboard,
washed up; stranded.
Above the high tide line
lobster pot pyramids.
Stone walls, pincushion
bleached-wood net needles,
colourful markers, buoys
and floats, decorate gardens.
Lawns quilted by drying nets.
The harbour seal, circles,
disturbs oily rainbows.
Ebb and flow history, the rise
and fall of quotas, trawlers
trailed to bog-land. Burnt.
Those who remember
and those who don’t.
-Gaynor Kane
-Rachael Ikins
NotQuiteLowEnough
High tide’s
strand line mostly
dried eelgrass where you stand
near the lighthouse; the blue herons
aren’t here.
-Elly Nobbs
gentle breeze
in her wet tangled hair
the ocean smell
~ Christina Chin
The Haiku Foundation
Photo Teresa Cobb
Stranded
The bandstand by the strandline
rocks. I dive to salvage
the wreckage of what you have been
saying between the sips of pale ale.
In the part we don’t see sand often,
yet my ears seem to be filled with
the golden grains. The local pickpocket
returns my perpetual empty wallet.
The bandstand now play Good Vibrations.
I love the colourful clothes. Sunlight fiddles
with things premonition proclaims
as soon to be lost. We are white noise.
In buzzing flickers the image of the strandline
stares at the dead whale drifting this way.
……………………
…………………… ThreeDeadLines
.
days stroll by strandlines
the misplaced swab test result
and town-lanes emptied
-Kushal Poddar
怎样才能浏览国外网址
Monday: Mermaids And Seamonsters. Share what you love about seas and shores #NationalMarineWeek 25th July- 9th August, more like two weeks poetry and artworks challenge. What do the seas and shores mean to you? Final Seven Days: Saturday: Beachcombing, Sunday: Rocky Shorelines, Monday: Mermaids And SeaMonsters, Tuesday: Sea Shanties, Wednesday: Ocean Vegetation, Thursday: Deep Sea, Friday: What Should We Do For Sealife. Please submit your poems and artwork by DM to me, or send a message via my WordPress “The Wombwell Rainbow” contact screen or my FB “Paul Brookes-Writer and Photographer” Today Monday: Mermaids And Seamonsters
Sunday: Rocky Shores. Share what you love about the sea using #NationalMarineWeek 25th July- 9th August, more like two weeks poetry and artwork challenge. What do the seas and shores mean to you? Final Seven Days: Saturday: Beachcombing, Sunday: Rocky Shorelines, Monday: Mermaids And SeaMonsters, Tuesday: Sea Shanties, Wednesday: Ocean Vegetation, Thursday: Deep Sea, Friday: What Should We Do For Sealife. Please submit your poems and artwork by DM to me, or send a message via my WordPress “The Wombwell Rainbow” contact screen or my FB “Paul Brookes-Writer and Photographer” Today Sunday: Rocky Shores
Saturday: Beachcombing. Share what you love about the sea using #NationalMarineWeek 25th July- 9th August, more like two weeks poetry and artwork challenge I’d love to hear all about your favourite marine wildlife, the actions you take to help our sea life, and what the sea means to you. Final Seven Days: Saturday: Beachcombing, Sunday: Rocky Shorelines, Monday: Mermaids And SeaMonsters, Tuesday: Sea Shanties, Wednesday: Ocean Vegetation, Thursday: Deep Sea, Friday: What Should We Do For Sealife. Please submit your poems and artwork by DM to me, or send a message via my WordPress “The Wombwell Rainbow” contact screen or my FB “Paul Brookes-Writer and Photographer” Today Saturday: Beachcombing.
#InternationalFriendshipDay poetry challenge. A quick one today, amid the main challenges. I have just reunited with a best friend of mine who I had not spoken to for fifteen years. We lost touch. What stories do you have?
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怎样可伍上国外网站 on 在中国用什么浏览器访问外国网站最快-ZOL问答:搜狗的右下角“加速器”里有全网加速功能,不过适用于国内的不同网络环境互访。自己添加伋理的话需要安某些软件,或在搜狗的菜单-工具-搜狗高速浏览器选项-网络连接-自定义伋理。
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