Anna Maria Island description

The waves pulsed across the dimmed sand, softly crashing like a baby's cry; they mimicked each other, the foam of each recycling in its follower. These copy-cat waves were the green-blue of a crayon drawing, chartreuse and cerulean, the sea painted my eyes. I sat amidst the cozy, pillow-mounds of sand, my fingers and toes creeping lower into the damper coolness of the aged sand underneath: the unwavering character of sand which persisted beneath the blowing frailty of white sand which flit with the ocean breeze. The seagulls came to worship the finder of their feast as they flocked to the dismembereed crab, flayed and laying helpless as he deteriorated at the beaks of these white cloaked vultures. Moments later there were only three left, stiffly waddling about with the swagger of an assassin, around the emancipated shell of the crab carcass shoving their insatiable beaks into the fragile, hazel shell til it cracked in agony and surrendered the crumbs of flesh it had hidden--and as soon as they had come, the gulls had gone leaving me to look once more at this recycling beach, filling within each moment the sonorous shout of death and the gentle whisper of birth. In a way nothing ever stayed the same; in a way it always did, as the fleeting lives of the waves and the sand captured at every interval an equal scene. The brash, dirty waters of the mid-Atlantic I was used to haunted me 'til I felt guilty as the ocean's azure portrait sieged my eyes with sparkle. Acrid summers of scalding sand and icicle waters moaned its surrender as I fell in love with Anna Maria--no bustle of elementary school vacations, no tacky umbrellas littering a tranquil scene (for there was no need), simply the lightly salted scent of untainted waters filling my lusting nostrils, if home is where the heart is, Lord, I am home.

My Flowery Words: A Poetic Tragedy

Because of the ever increasing cacophony ringing in my ears,

To kill the metaphors I holdeth dear

I put forth this poem as I try to obey

And hope They understand I can’t help burning away

Away with my words, fleeting like ashes,

I struggle to find me amidst all these crashes,

But maybe an A, nay just a B

Would give me some promise as I die on my knees

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For what is truer than a word

Who by its prowess solely, stood?

And amidst the hefty storm of man

Carved a meaning out of wood

And in this door he carved it in

A groove for grace to snuggle in

This word which allows for dark and bright

To meet, collide in its shapen eyes

Where beauty and tragedy wed forevermore

Lay at the feet of this wooden door

A word they say, but whom of power

On this word, is girded— flower.

And flower with her brazen tongue

Pulchritude and subterfuge in effigy hung

Interposed with confusion who makes

Mysterious

And lends my thoughts in minds

Delirious

That I may hide, and safely stay

Behind this flowered door allay

‘Til one day comes

And fear unbinds

And I open it up

Perhaps to life

But ah what haste have I to run

As my metaphors glitter among the sun

You call them poor and ask to kill

But the knife will penetrate my heart as well

And with prose They love and praises fill

My heart lies with my words

Warm from the kill