Beach Towel Memories
Out at the beach
with black hair and the smell
of chips floating towards the face
with children holding each hand
and one on the shoulders.
So hot the sand wants to melt and slip like a snake
into the ocean.
Ice cream hiccups and potato chipped smiles.
As the beach warms its back like a wrist of snakes
becoming withering sand.
Below as the tide stretches out like
a land forgotten.
Body Surfing in Santa Cruz
Took the ferry to the Alameda
Flea Market and met an old surfer
selling an old surf board and stuff with his wife,
and he lived in Santa Cruz
We started to talk about surfing
and about Santa Cruz. And body surfing.
“ So I am nineteen” I smile and he nods.
“ I am on the beach in Santa Cruz just there
for the day from San Diego.” He grins.
“ I see these guys with no boards, out , way out ,
and they are body surfing, catching waves..”
He laughs and nods again.
“ So I have my bathing suit on under my clothes
so I strip and dive in . Splash.”
I make the arm motions for a dive.
He nods again and so does his wife.
“Man, the first wave took me up like the hand of the sea god
was with me and I am flying above the beach and going
towards the rocks , you know, the ones covered with those
razor sharp shells.”
“Ouch “ he cringes.
“ Cut my feet to ribbons.”
So I tell him how I did a few runs and each run I ran into the rocks.
“ Then they told me how to bail out early.”
He is shouting to his wife and turns to me.
“ I learned to body surf there and then
went onto surfing with a big board.” I continued.
“ My feet were so bloodied I had to wrap
my towel around them for the rest of the visit”
He said it was cool talking to another surfer
and I added “ You know even though I got scars
from the rocks and things I had a big smile on my face
all the way back, that night.”
I gave him my card and we shook hands.
Two old men with grey white hair that were remembering
a early special time in their lives.
Night Sands
“ I am soft sift
in an hourglass...”
--Gerard Manley Hopkins
Stream running from land.
Shimmering sea. Silver. Alive.
Crescent tailed dogs cut through thick wind.
Barking after balls in the heat.
Run with children. I step outside as
freedom tears strips from my hair.
I cannot go there for hours.
Voices drain me. Ghost tell tales of how
oil slicks will be too high.
I see a beach a tails of snakes.
Sand flexed muscles in the heat.
d.n. simmers is an on line special editor with Fine Lines. He will be reading his
new book of poems The Red School Bus in San Francisco in July.
He is in riverbabble on line and Nomad Choir ( NY) as well as working on
his next book of poetry.
Out at the beach
with black hair and the smell
of chips floating towards the face
with children holding each hand
and one on the shoulders.
So hot the sand wants to melt and slip like a snake
into the ocean.
Ice cream hiccups and potato chipped smiles.
As the beach warms its back like a wrist of snakes
becoming withering sand.
Below as the tide stretches out like
a land forgotten.
Body Surfing in Santa Cruz
Took the ferry to the Alameda
Flea Market and met an old surfer
selling an old surf board and stuff with his wife,
and he lived in Santa Cruz
We started to talk about surfing
and about Santa Cruz. And body surfing.
“ So I am nineteen” I smile and he nods.
“ I am on the beach in Santa Cruz just there
for the day from San Diego.” He grins.
“ I see these guys with no boards, out , way out ,
and they are body surfing, catching waves..”
He laughs and nods again.
“ So I have my bathing suit on under my clothes
so I strip and dive in . Splash.”
I make the arm motions for a dive.
He nods again and so does his wife.
“Man, the first wave took me up like the hand of the sea god
was with me and I am flying above the beach and going
towards the rocks , you know, the ones covered with those
razor sharp shells.”
“Ouch “ he cringes.
“ Cut my feet to ribbons.”
So I tell him how I did a few runs and each run I ran into the rocks.
“ Then they told me how to bail out early.”
He is shouting to his wife and turns to me.
“ I learned to body surf there and then
went onto surfing with a big board.” I continued.
“ My feet were so bloodied I had to wrap
my towel around them for the rest of the visit”
He said it was cool talking to another surfer
and I added “ You know even though I got scars
from the rocks and things I had a big smile on my face
all the way back, that night.”
I gave him my card and we shook hands.
Two old men with grey white hair that were remembering
a early special time in their lives.
Night Sands
“ I am soft sift
in an hourglass...”
--Gerard Manley Hopkins
Stream running from land.
Shimmering sea. Silver. Alive.
Crescent tailed dogs cut through thick wind.
Barking after balls in the heat.
Run with children. I step outside as
freedom tears strips from my hair.
I cannot go there for hours.
Voices drain me. Ghost tell tales of how
oil slicks will be too high.
I see a beach a tails of snakes.
Sand flexed muscles in the heat.
d.n. simmers is an on line special editor with Fine Lines. He will be reading his
new book of poems The Red School Bus in San Francisco in July.
He is in riverbabble on line and Nomad Choir ( NY) as well as working on
his next book of poetry.