Fifty Years on the Wrack Line: The Greatest Poems from Corona del Mar's Second Greatest Poet

By William Hauser, MD

Fifty Years on the Wrack Line is a collection of poems, haikus, and musings from Corona del Mar’s second most eminent poet and author, Dr. William Hauser. He moved to Newport Beach, California in 1968 and upon retiring he sought a spiritual life of meditation and reflection. The quiet and solitude of the shoreline provided the peace of mind he was seeking.

The beaches and coves from Newport to Laguna Beach and also the sands of New Zealand and Hawaii inspired him to put his thoughts to paper. He wanted to share the wonder and magic he found while observing the confluence of land and water, of man and nature, and of life and death. He found all this in the thin shifting line of wrack washed up every day and night by the seas.

Included are poems he constructed during his daily walks across the flower streets of Corona del Mar and the love and beauty he found there. Also there are some poems he wrote “just for fun.”

So join the doctor and listen for the Earth's music while he deciphers the meaning of life from the script left by the sea.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Newman Springs Publishing, Inc.
• Release date: May 18, 2020
• ISBN: 9781645316640

Book preview

Invitation to the Dance

A soft, smooth wind flows

                    down from the snowfields

                                    pausing in the crests

Of the pine trees. Let’s pause with it

                    and hear the ebb and flow

                                    of our breath.

Inhale, ebb; exhale, flow.

Follow its easy rhythms,

                    point counterpoint to the heart’s

                                    syncopated beat.

See—it’s easy. All matter being interaction,

                    all life rhythmic motion, playing

                                    to an unheard music.

Listen. There! Do you hear it?

                    Touch your breast, feel your heart,

                                    now begin the dance.

Deep Down

Down deep down, deep down deep,

far below the verge, below the sea,

within the earth, fires blaze,

always burning, never consumed,

they key the chords and tone

of the glacial music of change,

and the shifting of the stormy seas,

the drifting continents, the great cracks

and crevasses within the earth,

the troposphere, its winds and weather,

the snowcapped peaks, the depthless seas,

the blazing hills, the flowered meadows,

are all a part of that music, and I have

sometimes been able with an open heart

and passionate ardor to hear that music,

music from deep down within our spinning

globe and I am filled with silent praise

and an ardent hope that you might share it too.

In Deep Caverns

In deep caverns winter’s waters weave.

Elegies.

Sad sea songs, plaintive waters grieve.

Threnodies.

Dark lament in sea green widow weeds.

Sea wrack wreathes.

Salted tears lie beneath the dark wave’s swell.

Sea moans tell

Sad sea dirges in briny groan and hollow shell.

Lonely knell,

The deep-sea woes which far below do dwell.

Passing bell.

Far above the sea, the gray gull flies.

Lonely cry,

She feels the pull of dark sea lullabies.

Woeful sigh.

Lost in dream deep water’s music lies.

Hidden tide.

Threnodies of such depth never show.

Secret flow.

Enchanted music where the seabird dares not go.

Dark sea throe.

While high above the west winds gently blow,

Soft and low.

Sea Voices Calling

Off Ocean Boulevard

Sea voices calling,

Calling our names.

Calling us out

From habit engrained.

Musical offings

The moon’s silver light

Shines upon mermaids

Who sing through the night,

Who ride golden dolphins

Beneath silver beams,

Whose sweet voices reach us

From tide selvaged dreams.

And when we awaken

From sleep’s soothing flow

Too soon we’ve forgotten

Our dream’s silver glow.

Sea voices calling,

Calling our names

Calling us out of

Habit engrained.

Sea voices, sea bells,

Calling, calling.

Language

The wrack line,

                a place of erasure and rescission,

A place, where people go

                when language fails them.

A place, where words seem superfluous in the sound

                of sea and wind.

A place, of long horizons and far reaches.

                The wrack line,

A place, where there is the possibility that

                language can be transposed.

Hunting

I sit here, indentured to this small cove

Of sand which lies below the jetties’ pilings.

In the late light the groin rocks, bird limed,

Turn a reddish ochre and white tips of

Sail float soundless down the channels.

A soft wind blows, the far bell buoy tolls.

Shorebirds bustle back and forth amidst

The tide lines, always active, always hunting.

A small pair of grebes float near the shoreline,

Quickly dive below the surface, hunting.

And sitting at the wrack line I am hunting too,

And this small poem is all that I could catch.

Shore Cliffs

My home for fifty years

Plotted land above a beach. A few houses.

Wave sounds, moon phases, the sun’s arc, tides.

All day, all night, nature lies beneath the quotidian.

She’ll show herself to those who take the time to look.

The entrance gates to the beaches; privacy, simplicity, generosity.

The walkway down to the overlook; sunrise, sunset, harmony.

The original concept of sharing space and time,

Despite the travails of the years, neighbors staying friends.

New births, children, skateboards, surfboards, growth,

Laughter, fresh beginnings, breezes, salt tang, a good life.

Within the long rows of coral trees, the open parks.

Shore Cliffs—a great idea—a troubled execution.

The Cove

Not so very long ago

And maybe even now,

Not so very far from here

Heavy sea wrack covered

A hidden sandy cove

Between two rocky shores.

To find that cove

One must