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I was at my favorite beach–La Manzanilla, in Mexico, minding my own business, enjoying a wonderful sunset, when I came upon this man sitting in a chair out in the surf–sipping a margarita! I made a passing remark as I passed, and the next thing I knew, he was leaving his chair, pulling me over to it, sitting me down and handing me his margarita. “Give me your camera,” he said. “I’ll take your photo.” As he did, I didn’t really notice the woman out in the surf, but by the time he’d snapped a couple of photos, she had made her appearance–and, yup, bombed my photo! She gave us a back view, too, but figured none of the guys would want to see it.
For Friday Fun-Beach
I was looking for another poem that I wrote but have never published or put on my blog. I couldn’t find it but instead found this poem that I wrote four years ago. Seems as though it would qualify for this prompt!! It’s actually a true story. When I was at the beach a few years ago, I had a house right on the beach and it got so I never knew who I would find on my porch when I woke up in the morning.
One and two and three and four.
Four little music makers pounding on my door.
One beats a rhythm, one toots a horn––
wild and sweet––sort of forlorn.
One hums a tune behind his teeth––
a sort of descant underneath
the melody on the steel guitar.
The gulls reel in from near and far
to add their screams to the refrain,
then fan their wings, silent again.
Four musicians at my gate.
I wait for their music to abate.
Then I go and let them in
to add my music to the din.
I sing my lyrics fast and slow
first soft then loud, my lyrics go
up and over the drums and horn–
out into the sandy morn.
Over the rocks and out to sea,
setting all our music free.
When the drummer leaves my porch,
he leaves just three to loft the torch.
Too soon the horn, too, fades away
but the hummer’s here to stay,
and the steel guitar swells out to fill
the morning air until until
the morning fades into full sun
and our melody comes done.
Soon guitar and singer fade,
their morning share of music made,
and I fold my songs away.
I’ll bring them out some other day.
With music left behind I wind
only words around my mind.
They weave their spell with me along.
I lose myself in their noisy throng.
Wander aimless, round and round,
in getting lost, this poem is found.
For Fandango’s Dog Days of August Challenge: Something you Found.
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What is this photo of a light plug doing here? The triangle in front of my house has about 8 of them sticking out of the cement in a high-traffic zone. At night each is covered up by the table of a restaurant that crops up magically at sundown, but during the day, people crossing the little plaza just have to avoid them–crossing at their own risk. It pays to pay attention when walking in Mexico. And always look down.
The painting in the La Manzanilla gallery, entitled “Infancia” is by Alvaro Chavarin. Love it.
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I almost entered these photos for Cee’s Flower of the Day prompt. These breakfasts at a beach restaurant in La Manzanilla, Mexico were as good as they looked! Beautiful artistry for the eye and stomach.
February in La Manzanilla, Mexico:
click on photos to enlarge.
Here’s the link for this prompt: https://zimmerbitch.wordpress.com/2019/02/27/the-changing-seasons-february-2019/
La Manzanilla sunsets are always spectacular, but tonight’s ranked right up there with the best. (Enlarge photos by clicking on them.)
Martin, who owns the restaurant where we hold our Saturday writers group meetings, has his sons with him in the restaurant 5 days a week, and sometimes on weekends. He is just an amazing father, as you can see in these photos. You must enlarge to see these darling father/son poses.
On a Candelmas Afternoon
A woman with a white umbrella
strolls the empty plaza,
meeting the long-skirted bead vendor
who makes her hourly crossing from the beach,
her tray still heavy after five hours of trudging under the sweating sun.
Palm shadows of a lazy afternoon
brush over, but do not disturb
the sleeping dog who fills the pavement
in front of “Abarrotes Gloria.”
Under its dusty awning on a bench
meant for customers notably absent,
through one imperceptibly cracked-open eye,
the sleep-nodding senora watches for
anyone to stir the calm of this mid-afternoon.
That eye opening wider
as two young men on loud motorcycles
circle the plaza in Izod shirts
from the used clothing booth of the mercado,
leaving a tree-shaking breeze
that filters through shadows
to stir the fine hairs on her arm.
okcforgottenman pointed out that this poem reminds him of Nanci Griffith’s song “On Grafton Street.” Since it is one of my favorites, too, I’ve asked him to add a link to it here.