Poetry

Waves pound the shore with sputtering froth.

Young children terrified of crushing waves

are quite content with sifting malleable sand.

Old men lounge in sunlight like lizards.

Breast-less young girls in pink bikinis

squeal in the roiling surf.

Lifeguard drives a four-wheeler buggy

like he’s CEO of the sand.

Plump middle-aged women sport

fading tattoos of their frolicking youth.

Umbrellas sprout like mushrooms after rain.

Lost plastic shovels and goggles sleep under sand.

Seals wonder if humans are safer than sharks.

Broken shells know they are not.

High tide red flags whimsically wave

while beach sand swallows the salty source of life.

The ghost of Marconi’s marvelous machine

still lingers in humid moonlight air,

but there is not a solitary soul there

to hear what he had wrought.

Blessed is the afternoon ambiance

when raindrops tickle your eyelids

as your feet tread between puddles

and your hat drips like a leaky faucet.

Blessed is the afternoon light

when a butterfly lands on your arm

and you freeze to admire

that motley coat of color.

Blessed is the afternoon mood

when thunder rumbles

with distant mellow echo

like a sea-shell cupped to your ear.