Tag Archives: Beach images

Empty Morning

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Empty Morning

Since the fish refuse to come and play,
the fishermen have gone away.
And since there are no fish to score,
the birds have found another shore
to swoop over and sit upon.
The beach is empty when fish are gone.

Yesterday a busy throng
milled on the beach the whole day long.
But today they’ve gone to job
or school or kitchen—the whole mob.
My world is quiet. The ocean swell
once more has a tale to tell
purely itself. No interlopers.
No beer-swiggers or docile dopers.

No kids squealing as they wade
with parents watching from the shade
of palapas strung along the shore
close enough to ocean’s roar
to grab a toddler grown too brave
from the grasp of an ambitious wave.

Once more, the beach is just itself.
The sand has formed an unmarred shelf
just outside my beachside door.
No beach shovels to scoop and gore,
no sandcastles along the shore.
No footsteps strung along the beach
extending far above wave’s reach.

No butts or bottles, abandoned sandals.
No beach graffiti by vandals
innocently written in the sand
with a stick held in the hand.
“Chuy loves Luz” erased by wave,
impossible, perhaps to save
in either beachside sand or heart,
their teenage love doomed from the start.

All these stories tucked away
by one of few who chose to stay
after the throng has returned home,
leaving only ocean foam
that overnight swept them away.
Every morning, a clean new day.

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The prompt word today was minimal.  I used the theme for the poem, but not the word itself.  If you are a prompt-purist and feel the word must be seen, read on:

You won’t find the word “minimal.”
Its presence is subliminal!

“I Imagine” dVerse Poets, Prose Poetry

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I Imagine

I imagine one more holiday.
My mother sits at a large picture window
looking out over a broad beach,
watching dogs fetching sticks.
Then, because she cannot help it,
she takes her shoes off to walk through packed sand.
I imagine her sighting the offshore rock
where puffins nest.
I imagine footprints—hers and mine
and the paw prints of the dog—
someone else’s—
who joins us for the price of a stick thrown
over and over into the waves.

My mother could count her trips to the beach
on one hand,
and most of those times have been with me.
Once, in Wales, we sat on the long sea wall
under Dylan Thomas’s boathouse.
A cat walked the wall out to us,
precise and careful
to get as few grains of sand as possible
between its paw pads.
As it preened and arched under my mother’s smooth hand,
its black hairs caught in her diamond rings.

The other time we went to the beach
was in Australia.
We stayed out all afternoon,
throwing and throwing a stick,
a big black dog running first after,
then in front of it,
my dad sleeping in the car parked at the roadside,
my mother and I playing together
as we had never played before.

My mother and the ocean
have always been so far divided,
with me as the guide rope in between.
I imagine reeling them both in toward each other
and one more trip.
My mother, me, a dog or cat.
Wind to bundle up for and to walk against.
Wind to turn our ears away from.
Sand to pour out of our pockets
to form a small  volcano
with a crab’s claw at the top.

So that years from now,
when I empty one pocket,
I will find sails from by-the-wind sailors
and shark egg casings,
fragile black kelp berries
and polished stones.
The bones of my mother. The dreams of me.

From the other pocket, empty,
I will pull all the reunions I never fought hard enough for—
regrets over trips to the sea we never made.
And I’ll imagine taking me to oceans.
Walks. Treasures hidden in and hiding sand.
Someone walking with me—
someone else’s child, perhaps,
and a dog chasing sticks.

Note: I never took that last trip to the ocean with my mother, but I think of her every year when I come to stay at the beach on my own, and this year in particular, every time I throw the stick for Morrie and every time children come to play with us.

Written for the dVerse Poets prompt, Prose Poetry.To play along, go HERE.

Things are looking up in La Manzanilla!

To see the enlarged photos and read the captions, click on the first photo.

https://ceenphotography.com/2017/02/28/cees-fun-foto-challenge-looking-up-at-things/

Looking Down on Things

My favorite thing to do is to look down, Cee!  Thanks for this prompt.

 

https://ceenphotography.com/2017/02/21/cees-fun-foto-challenge-looking-down-at-things/

The Beat of the Band

I could hear the beat of the band when they were a good distance down the beach, and wondered what the occasion could be. The festival of the Virgin on Guadalupe, Christmas and Tres Reyes were well behind us and Candelmas is a few weeks away. No patriotic observance was in the offing and I’d seen no previous funeral processions up the beach.

As the music drew nearer, the beat stayed true, but I was increasingly regretting the melody, which seemed to be comprised more of sounds than harmonies. I could tell that they had stopped in a nearby restaurant, though, so I grabbed my camera and made it to my porch just as the small cluster of boys with huge drum, jerrybuilt horns and impressive drum stand carried by a small boy who also carried a well-decorated tip jar made their way up the beach in my direction.

Spotting my camera, they set up in front of my porch and played one (very long) piece seemingly of their own authorship and possibly impromptu as well. The drum player belted out the lyrics while the others tooted their toots. Morrie seemed to be fascinated, although it’s hard to tell whether it was the music or the shoe of the tip jar bearer that intrigued him more. A very hefty tip was called for since none of the neighbors seemed to be appreciating this concert as much as I did and they thanked me heartily before moving once more up the beach.

Click on first photo to enlarge all.