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Friday, March 30, 2012

Poem: A Day at the Coast

I was walking through town
As always when I travel home.
The neighborhood along
The main road
Is an unappetizing sight, really,
(What with neon signs
Flashing advertisements
And the dull bustle of cars
And buses),
But for the graceful petite trees with small scarlet berries
That they are gowned in even in winter.
I once asked my mother
What type they are called
But she only gave me the name in the language
We speak other than English.
She said
When she was a girl
She made necklaces out of them
In her native country.
I ask a lot about her childhood
But don’t get a lot
Out of her.

My glasses have pinpricks of light
Reflections from the achingly sun too bright
To look at
That resemble the sparkling inter-locking crystals
In granite.
It is January
But the mild day makes my face
Even the breeze is spring-like
And balmy.

I was disappointed that it didn’t
Snow at all last year.
Other than the white powdery stuff
That thing I savor most
Is the smell of frost in the freezing air.
But right now,
My hair
Flowing in the pleasant wind
Suits me well for now.

I pass the stores
And the odor of clothes cling to them
And see
Tiny brown song birds
Perched on pole wires
Twittering away
Flying with the agility of hummingbirds.


I am now eating raisins
From a plastic bag
As well as sour yogurt from
An enormous container
While wearing a blue oversized faded T-shirt
With the aroma of the beach.
I watch the heaving ocean
Through my balcony glass door
As I consume peach oatmeal with donut shreds
Since I could not find any bread

If it was windy,
The sand today would be
Creatively etched
With fine ridges like the Sahara
Although here the pigment is pale
And not the rich orange-brown of deserts.
Here the dunes are long gone
Tramped by beach-goers
With only one measly hill struggling to prolong
The inevitable consequences of erosion.

Farther down,
Where people don’t really care about the sea
Or even use it as leisure
The dunes are still there
Flattened out perhaps
But overgrown by green reedy plants
Like the grass father inland
And seagulls flock there by the hundreds.

I saw such a huddle and dubbed it
What’s impressive about
A white mass,
Where each individual doesn’t count?
In my mind
I picture
The spectacular bird silhouettes soaring outside stained glass.
Now that’s worth seeing.

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