Sand Surfers
Little boys and girls don slick black wet suits
as they practice surfing on ocean-edge
sand. Arms outstretched like seagull wings, they balance
their sun-screened bodies on un-waxed surfboards
while nearby parents dutifully watch their
fledglings from beneath their rented yellow-
and-green-striped beach chairs and umbrellas. Older
ones who sea-surf with confidence wonder
when their nestling understudies will leave
the safety of the unwavering silt
and venture into deep ocean waters
to feel the thrilling thrust of undulant
waves, cloaked currents, and sea-born independence.
By Jack Sweeder
Seaglunking
When you walk the sloping deck of sand
A mile out on Higbee Beach
Where the bay exhales agitated waves
Horizon-hugging ferries
Wash cloudless skies with smoky trails
While sunbathers cast their infinite gaze to nowhere
This summer archeologist
In waterlogged sandals and shorts
Scans retreating proxigean tides for talismans
Hidden among pebbles, buried in shell hashes
My hands are skimming, digging spoons Harvesting ancestral shards of frosted glass
Little epiphanies with sun bleached patinas
Glowing when wet: forest green, amber, amethyst, teal Gemstones of silica, sodium and lime
A resurrection story of molten relics Written by salt air and seagrass
Waves thunderclap the beach
My spirit ear hears
My animal soul responds
Sand submits to sea
Sea submits to sky The edges of each perpetually blurred
And like our mother ocean
We give-up what we have
In twists and turns
Forever
by Doug Otto
Washing off Italy
I wash off Italy
in the shower of my home in New Jersey:
particles of ancient travertine caught in my sandals
in the shadow of the Coliseum,
the droplet which splashed and dried on my skin
when I made a wish and threw a coin at Trevi Fountain,
Murano’s glass rings on my fingers
and Burano’s lace shawls around my shoulders,
the feathers and sparkle and brightly painted lips
of so many Venetian masks held against my cheeks,
the unconscious change in the set of my posture
as if I could reenact the sculpted perfection of David.
Italy passes through the drain and courses through the pipes
where the remains of other places have also passed;
I step from the shower and take refuge in the hint
of quilted Tuscan fields stretched out
across the tiles of my bathroom floor.
By Marya Parral
