On the Beach
I had to see it,smell it, touch it,
finally know it –
the beach of Florida's Atlantic shore.
So I saw it
and touched the surf
but could not smell the sea,
as past a certain age
I believe
one smells the sea
no more.
Or perhaps the sea
has lost its scent
in our time.
I struggled to walk
through the fine white sand
that devoured my foot steps
sinking as horse hoofs
in the bog of a lingering nightmare.
So I did not walk far
as nobody walks far
on this constant beach
but watched the parade
of high rise condominiums,
meek in the presence
of The Donald
in this ocean of wealth
not quite as vast
as the Atlantic,
an impressive sight,
majestic as the cliffs of Dover
with a life of its own,
thriving as a mold,
a passive culture for
the benefit of everyone.
The azure sea with no odor
lapped the shore gently,
warm as bathtub water
and languished as a pond
under the mild winter sun.
Out there a yacht
violated the stillness
of the pastel canvas
motoring at high speed
plowing a white wake
to get some fish perhaps.
Beach people came out
to set up chaise longues
to sleep or read,
becoming life forms
in a pupa stage,
focusing on the printed page
or simply empty space.
Others laid out in the sand
and closed their eyes
under their shades
in random poses
of broken corpses
flung out by
an epochal explosion without
concern for being stepped on.
The beach was free of charge
to walk and swim,
and do telephoto photography
of interesting cleavage --
free Florida real estate,
but it cost to set foot
on the fishing pier and
contemporary digitized parking meters
accepted credit cards
twenty-four hours a day
on the beach road.
Ubiquitous eateries beckoned
with mouth watering offerings
of scallops and stone crab
and trips to Margaritaville.
I resisted these temptations.
Damn it!
I strove for purpose here!
I planted my flag
as de Soto!
Poetry by Peter J. Kautsky
Read 1068 times
Written on 2014-02-02 at 19:32
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