Post by alfredo on Mar 9, 2008 16:48:07 GMT -5
Decided to follow MFW's advice almost throughout
At a Mission Bay Café,
upset at the missing serviette,
my wife says I’m wasting time ...
..admiring the perfect curve
of a seagull lifting in the breeze;
on a day when the sea is pea green,
the sky pale blue.
All this against the roar of glorious waves
rushing the sand into twirls only to slide away;
leaving it to sort itself out;
And again
the great thump of the wave
creating a salty slurry of sand and sea.
Moments later,
the sliding roar of its slow withdraw;
rubbing, clinking, scraping,
graveling shells and stones
and bones —swirling disintegrations
reducing all to the elemental.
Large and small crash together—
back to the beginning of time,
washing everything back to genesis
where under the hot sun and an easy tide,
the slurry flows from the fingers
of a man called Adam,
onto the skin of a woman named Eve
who lies beneath him.
The blending of air and sea and sand
bring smiles to faces that look past the
wispy whites to the misty line
separating them from what matters
Original
What Matters.
« Thread Started on Feb 23, 2008, 2:38am »
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
At a Mission Bay Café,
upset at the missing serviette,
my wife says I’m wasting time ..
..admiring the perfectly curved
seagull lift in the bouncing breeze;
on a day when the sea is pea green
and the sky pale blue.
Again the great thump of the wave
dashing all into a salty, sandy slurry
and moments later, the sliding roar
of its slow withdraw;
rubbing, clinking, scraping, gravelling,
shells, stones and bones.
A swirling disintegration;
reducing all to the elemental.
Large and small crash together;
back to the beginning of time;
washing everything back to genesis.
But later, under the hot sun, and a sliding tide,
sand dries and flows and caresses
warm, through the fingers of a man called Adam,
to the skin of Eve that lies beneath.
Now the salty smells bring smiles
to their frowning faces that look past
the wispy whites
all the way to the misty line
that separates them from what matters.
At a Mission Bay Café,
upset at the missing serviette,
my wife says I’m wasting time ...
..admiring the perfect curve
of a seagull lifting in the breeze;
on a day when the sea is pea green,
the sky pale blue.
All this against the roar of glorious waves
rushing the sand into twirls only to slide away;
leaving it to sort itself out;
And again
the great thump of the wave
creating a salty slurry of sand and sea.
Moments later,
the sliding roar of its slow withdraw;
rubbing, clinking, scraping,
graveling shells and stones
and bones —swirling disintegrations
reducing all to the elemental.
Large and small crash together—
back to the beginning of time,
washing everything back to genesis
where under the hot sun and an easy tide,
the slurry flows from the fingers
of a man called Adam,
onto the skin of a woman named Eve
who lies beneath him.
The blending of air and sea and sand
bring smiles to faces that look past the
wispy whites to the misty line
separating them from what matters
Original
What Matters.
« Thread Started on Feb 23, 2008, 2:38am »
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
At a Mission Bay Café,
upset at the missing serviette,
my wife says I’m wasting time ..
..admiring the perfectly curved
seagull lift in the bouncing breeze;
on a day when the sea is pea green
and the sky pale blue.
Again the great thump of the wave
dashing all into a salty, sandy slurry
and moments later, the sliding roar
of its slow withdraw;
rubbing, clinking, scraping, gravelling,
shells, stones and bones.
A swirling disintegration;
reducing all to the elemental.
Large and small crash together;
back to the beginning of time;
washing everything back to genesis.
But later, under the hot sun, and a sliding tide,
sand dries and flows and caresses
warm, through the fingers of a man called Adam,
to the skin of Eve that lies beneath.
Now the salty smells bring smiles
to their frowning faces that look past
the wispy whites
all the way to the misty line
that separates them from what matters.
