This month’s writing prompt was tides. Here we showcase all the responses that were submitted.
Tides prompt: The ebb and flow of water across a shore, manipulated by the sun and moon. We drift with the tide, tugged and thrown by a relentless force. The sluice of water, a tormented current, rip tides swallow whole. Low tide exposes all, starfish sunbathe, rocks bare. Spring tides to steady streams: everything abides by nature’s call.
Sea Sick
I watch your beautiful mouth make vowels at me in erotic slow motion
From across the beach, as if my radar will pick up our secret language from this distance
Your eyes dance like diesels as you point at a lifeguard with your hand in the shape of a gun over
your fly
I smile at the mutual incomprehension
you await my hilarity like a silent letter
You turn your head back to the lifeguard
You clap him on the shoulder
And I stand here like a bag of holding.
I feel the dread and heat
The bad spirits woke me in the blue hours
breathing hot worry down my neck
you sleep peacefully surrounded by better angels
Knowing the ocean will break a fever
I swim at dawn when the water carries a knife
An afternoon dip is more like a fuzzy sandwich offering,
it has no balls, the mayo is far deadlier.
You are all wet comb
Burgers and fries
Stunning unexpected blue
I am hunger, and woodsmoke
Anxiety and low-level anguish
I seek safety in machines not bodies
The hard, warm febrile straddle
Of an angry American engine.
I stake myself where the beach curves into a ponytail at low tide
Reaching to meet the sea with touching earnestness
I gnaw the meat of an old Cosmopolitan magazine
It tastes too coppery, like licking blood from a mosquito bite
Looking forward to the night
When I hide in the scent of your dusky chai skin
Pause the awful hope that has been peeling from my palms
In the constant sunlight, yet pale like Lestat
Like tissue paper moths
kissed by fire.
by Alden Cullinane (@HerLoudMind Instagram, @AldenCullinane, Twitter)
Mooneysville by the sea
Two fold, three fold, red bird, beetle
we move in packs to stop the tax
In desert packs that reek of beeswax
bury me in Salton Sea
when the final tree falls
the bird is free
long live the peephole
short lives are steeples
was there a church
before there were people?
I am the light, yet I am not right
in our heads in the beds
that we lie in at night
to envelop the unsaid
fight lightning with sight
to never ignore the waters of might
by Emily Cronan (@minivangoghs Instagram)
A far cry away,
like a beacon leading you shoreward and out
your body heaving over troubled tides
pulling you back at the nape to drown
you persist to break further into shoal
where you then meet sand, pressed to palm
recalling, recalling
when last you felt land, grounded
you touch your face to feel the ocean pouring
from your eyes
recalling, recalling
the first grief,
a far cry away
between breath with water
& breath without
by Miriam Gayize (@mawizana Instagram, @mawifromthemoon Twitter)
Mudflats
out there where the sea retreats to her lover
the moon, and
out here the worms and the seabirds return
to reclaim the left-behind for cat-and-mouse games
worm-and-birds games in the evening
as the twilight turns the mud to purple
star-reflection in the pools of
salty waters trapped with crabs and seaweed
(kind of like the universe)
when tide returns, the clock resets, the curtain drawing closed
and the play and theatre ends
the moon bids farewell to her lover
and the mudflat once more
becomes the seabed; say goodnight sweet sea, sweet dreams, sweet tides.
by Finn Rose (@finnrosewrites Twitter)
The Ebb and Flow
The tide inhales and exhales – the lungs of the earth. But instead of air, it is breathing water. Meditating day and night, taking deep watery gulps and focusing on the simple presence of its own fluid body splashing against the rocks haphazardly. The light fluff of bubbles on the edge of a wave are simply the act of breathing for the sea.
A woman with ginger hair swims, and the water embraces her. Her body floats slightly in the waves when she’s not even moving. She counts her strokes. 1, 2, 3, 4. And controls her breathing. Listening to the sound that you can often find bottled in seashells as she swims back and forth through the ocean. A swimming lane that has no end and beginning.
If only you had the perseverance you could swim from one continent to another, we are all connected by the water around us.
As a child this swimmer would visit the beach in the summer holidays. And so for her, the ocean for like dunking herself in nostalgia. She swims whenever she can. Weirs. Lakes. Fresh water is like an oasis to her. But the sea is her home. And she remembers watching it go in and out as a child, timing her breaths to it. Inhale. Exhale. Occasionally spluttering when it catches her unawares.
by Jessica Cook (@leftwrite Twitter)
Seaside Hospital Beds
Take me back to a time I wasn’t lost
my brain spit rapid fire thoughts
that were concise as they were clear
as that fall day out in Montauk.
Feelings once moved through me
like the ocean we both love
Now I’m capsized by waves of sad,
my heart still aches for what we had.
I am as paralyzed as you
Befriending fear of the unknown
As fragile as that antique table
collapsed the moment I got home.
And as the tide comes rolling in
with you just lying there in bed
I’m thanking gods inside my head
We mended fences.
But still we hum the same old songs
Only in a different tune
Still dancing like we’re Stevie Nicks
Only in a different room.
New set of loud and lousy neighbors
tragedy, we can’t escape.
That’s when you look to me and grin
‘Oh, what a mess. You still look great’.
by Caitlin Scally (@caitlinscally Instagram)
Easy Apply
Sorry I did not answer your text
I’ve been drowning
The industry I’m in is imploding
And the freelance gig I had is now over
And there’s no work
And they’re raising my rent
And they say we’re nearing a recession
And they’re all doing layoffs
And the waves keep crashing
I can’t spend money because
I don’t know when my next check is coming
But I keep swimming upstream
Keep hitting one tap apply, one tap apply
Until my thumbs go red and numb
Knowing that one of these days it’ll work
I’ll land that interview, I’ll get the job
The company will love me
Perfect bullets on a pretty resume
And as I’m laying on my raft shaped like a swan in the middle of the sea
As sweet warm water laps my sides
I’ll reply to your text
“Sure let’s grab din!” I’ll say
And I won’t tell you about my months of worry
I’ll just say I got a new job
Because right now I’m floating
by Haley Paskalides (@haleypaska Twitter)
Whale
The tide has come into the shop where I buy milk
we act like none of it happens
you kept a bauble in your throat
it held the crushed
glass song
where love should be,
locks bunched like pepper seeds
heavy gold hearts on the blue
bridge where you waded
knee-high for my notebook
because I’d read that
throwing things into the sea
would set me
free and a white-haired bird-like man craned over to say
I’d hold on to that one
but the river is slow and cold
and I envied your creativity
envied it so much it destroyed my tools
I wonder if it would have reached
you eventually
in those profound waters
haunted by your love, a whale
and when I pass that bridge
later, just later
not sure when
I acknowledge the swans
give due to their surface beauty
tell them this is a place of sadness
as they glide blankly
but the flow never rested
the anaesthesia morphs
I did take a shine
I did hold on,
whale,
you are coming in
it pools around my feet
by Rowena Newman (@reconditematter Twitter)
Submersion
no matter how many times I’m told to ride the wave
It’s too tempting to submerge myself
in familiar water
suffocated and floating
all at once
convinced that today will be the “same”
no need to tread to survive
each new day is a gift, spirits whisper
I say yes, a gift of rough water, of seaweed wrapped around ankles.
I just want to drift a while
by Mahalia Cummings (@escapistfemme Instagram)
BURDEN
For the moon
whose burden
is being in perpetual shadow
A theoretical threat
a musical deadend
The volume of blood
pumping through each of our hearts
a minuscule
collective counterweight
to the pull of the stars
The last of the waves
breaks without an audience
and Earth’s final day fades
by Tristan Partridge
The tides are changing.
You’re no longer swayed by the allure of my
Moon or attracted to the shine of my sun.
You’re going with your own flow,
Which isn’t in the same direction that I am
Swimming.
And I am tired of trying to swim against you.
You won’t change your tides.
I won’t change my direction.
So, let’s go our own ways.
by Jhazzmyn Joiner (@quotedbyjhane Instagram & Twitter)
The Old Sea
The ocean god needs more room,
and the ice god keeps letting his subjects free
Over it all,
The lightning god looks down
As the smell of the ozone fades
But as Atlas finally gives up on the sky
And the world crashes down
I’m still contemplating this dagger.
Of the two of us
I still don’t know who plunged it
Into whose chest
Once the ocean walks up to me
I’ll take myself home,
with you on my arm
A portal beneath the surface,
glitter and grit on the sea floor.
I’ll pierce my hand on a sea urchin
To mark our passage
by Jasmina Kuenzli (@jasminawritespoetry Instagram, @jasmina62442 Twitter)
Seasonal Ceasing
Seasonally I will fold, my heart too raw to hold another.
Spring is the season of crying and seeing nothing
Of choking on someone else’s trash
Seasickness becomes a house wrecker, like barbed seeds that lodge wherever the air should go.
Seasonally I will bow to the desert, my spirit too parched to retain the water.
All spring, my lenses wrenched themselves from my eyes, jumped ship, turbulent and enraged.
Everything melts, flows down my face
Becoming one with the sea,
Seething, ceasing, seeking.
Seasonally I will confess, tore the little letters apart and locked myself in the refrigerator.
This spring, I sent fuzzy messengers to whisper in your ears: had I left a flower between your palms, I would have witnessed a garden that flourished with your love as its water.
But here I was, turning numb, my body shaken with a strange grief
Submerged and lonely.
Seasonally I will push myself to the limits, where I dissolve in water and disappear.
Next spring, I will reek of all the longing I have ever done
Until my body is divided from all things by a hollow space,
Crashing into tidal destruction.
by Devika Bahadur (@devikabahadur Instagram, @BahadurDevika Twitter)
Why is the ocean nostalgic?
It’s the swift awakening from the biting chill at your ankles as the foamy web of bubbles retreats backwards. It’s your bleary-eyed tiredness melting into the blurry lined horizon, and the ocean melding into the endless cloudless sky. It’s the squawking seagull windsurfing lazily, keeping an eye out for a stray chip, or perhaps keeping an eye on you. It’s your toes sinking momentarily into the sand and reminding you of the solid ground beneath you. It’s the familiar return of the wave building its confidence up to a crescendo to meet you again. It’s the way you speak in a whisper, almost to yourself, wondering if the rhythmic crashes are answers to your questions. It’s the ebb of the water moving the shells and bits of seaweed back and forth, rolling on and moving on. It’s the magical sunsets reflecting the shades of the sky onto the shimmering waves and into your watering eyes. It’s your hair whipping across your face and the salty tang on your lips like birthday candle wishes coming true. It’s the simple serenity of the sounds of the ocean welcoming you home.
by Nitika Balaram (@musings.by.nitika Instagram)
Perpetually
For once, I’d like to be edgy like the cactus in front of his window – on its own, not tolerating flowers near to greet the river tides. Sometimes the Summer heat leaves me mute during the night, after dark not much to say anyway. I’d rather stay in my own mind, facing the need to fall asleep in deep, to rest in tidal arms. I know I own the bells that toll for me, but they leave a tremble and melt my sky.
A desire to swim down the chain of days, to be with my people and feel a sort of timeless peace besides the windfull waves. Just as the urge to crush, to pulverise, all, all. I know I destroy effortlessly, it runs over me – again, and again, aching endlessly.
I walk and mind, I fight you shy. Three boats wait for the bridge to open, they travel south or north, I don’t know. My heart thrills without ground, my mind invites the flow – as ever, perpetual thoughts climb in and shoot my spine. Courage. Shame. Mainly rainstorm ideas. For once, I’d like to travel by instinct, get lured in by names, by straight railroads and soft roundabouts.
A vested moment to tow, to diverge over decks and listen to feet descending on wooden planking. I know I own the south Cali waters, I wish the rain-wind were not the prevailing kind and you not the rock to my tidings. As always, I don’t know.
by Kate Copeland (@kate.copeland.poems Instagram)
Borne Again
Back and forth, out and in, moon-led
To a fixed routine,
The tides can be surprising, rising
Above themselves,
Shattering the illusion of the faithful.
An unforgettable evening on the
Secret Beach
Where we barbecued – as always – on
The smooth rocks
Beyond the shifting sand where the high tide
Never reaches.
A happy half hour clambering at dusk
For driftwood and flotsam;
Building the fire, stacking seats of flat stones
In the gathering darkness as the sea swept
Steadily towards us.
“But it never comes up this high,” we agreed.
We baked our beans and scoffed sausages
In toasted baps,
And the waves whipped by the wind grew wilder
And higher, and closer.
“But it never comes up this high,” we scoffed,
As we roasted marshmallows and boiled tea,
Until, with a wild, ecstatic effort
A stray wave
Crashed right over us just as I was
Snapping a shot.
It still makes me smile: the flames frozen bright
Under a sheet
Of water, about to be extinguished
With a sizzle.
And with that, the ocean retreated
As quickly as it came and, drenched,
We squelched back up the muddy path,
Exclaiming, incredulous, “It never comes up that high!”
The morning after, there was not a sign
Of our stony seats.
Our bonfire, our existence, was erased.
As our children cartwheeled
Across damp sand, I spotted something gleaming
In a rock pool,
Fished it out with a child’s net: a gold ring
Glinting in apologetic sunlight.
“Will you marry me?”
I slid the ring on to the finger of
My future husband,
And again at our wedding, where it stayed
For years until, one day,
Kayaking in the bay, it slipped away
Unnoticed,
To a new adventure in the turning tides,
Back and forth, out and in,
Moving on, as we all must, borne again.
by Helen Williams (@helen.williams66 Instagram)
I wish I was on the trip
You went on a spring trip.
The ocean has seen your eyes.
Salty tides touched your feet.
I wish I was on the trip.
I heard you found an orange cat.
You took lots of Polaroids with him.
You buy him tasty treats.
I wish I was on the trip.
You pluck a yellow magnolia.
light rain greets your hair.
None of your friends carried an umbrella.
I wish I was on the trip.
by Inner Monologue (@inner__monologue__)
Like Shaken Up Champagne
The buttery sun shined down on me
as I closed my eyes
and breathed in the salty air
as if it was never going to
fill my lungs again,
maybe it wouldn’t.
I let my head tilt up just a tad
letting it soak in all of the sun
letting it be a replacement for therapy.
A smile tugged at the corners of my mouth
daring to come out
A laugh bubbled like
shaken up champagne,
ready to be sprayed.
My tired eyelids decided to awake
so they could see the show:
The waves splashed against the wall of rocks
the wall of rocks in which I climbed atop
as if I were four
and going on the biggest adventure possible
The wind roared and the ocean followed it’s lead
gracing the breeze with salt
as it kissed my face
like it was made just for me
by Jordan Coen
swim press 