Roaming Marina Dunes, CA
Caught in my throat:
not sea salt but unruly sand
scurrying along the curves
of the wave-pounded bay.
A dozen coughs. A black crow frowns.
*
Like surfers on Oahu’s North Shore,
communities of seabirds master
the waves: float, ride, dive,
sub-merge, re-emerge.
No need for sunscreen or fiberglass.
*
Five ambitious waves conspire
to race me up a sand-packed slope.
They claim superiority,
but my pre-stroke feet win the gold.
Beach strollers cheer my dexterity.
*
Lupine, milkweed, hens and chicks,
protea, lilies, lavender: natives
rooted in sand, thriving on marine air.
They stun my Pacific Northwest eyes.
Photographs plant them in memory.
*
A hang glider launches off
a sandy cliff like a Western gull
catching thermals above crashing,
thrashing white. I track his glide
until it dissolves and becomes the cloudless sky.
*
Morning fog licks it way across
a holding pond, devours stands
of cypress trees, confuses the crow
sitting on the “No Entry” sign.
It ignores the decree.
*
Biting winds cancel my sunset watch
and send me back to my fireplace.
An English bulldog blocks my way
and tries to lick my chill-stung hands.
Owners apologize. I applaud warm breath.
*
Whoever said, “Never turn your back
on the ocean” was right. In this
wave-frantic bay, rip currents hide behind
swelling surf. Ankle-deep splashers stay
alert for rogues and strokes of undertow.
Carolyn Martin is a recovering work addict who’s adopted the Spanish proverb, “It is beautiful to do nothing and rest afterwards” as her daily mantra. She was blissfully retired—and resting–– in Clackamas, Oregon, until August 2025 when she suffered a debilitating stroke. In spite of physical limitations, she is delighted that she hasn’t lost her love of writing poetry. Her poems have appeared in more than 200 publications around the world.See: www.carolynmartinpoet.com.
Caught in my throat:
not sea salt but unruly sand
scurrying along the curves
of the wave-pounded bay.
A dozen coughs. A black crow frowns.
*
Like surfers on Oahu’s North Shore,
communities of seabirds master
the waves: float, ride, dive,
sub-merge, re-emerge.
No need for sunscreen or fiberglass.
*
Five ambitious waves conspire
to race me up a sand-packed slope.
They claim superiority,
but my pre-stroke feet win the gold.
Beach strollers cheer my dexterity.
*
Lupine, milkweed, hens and chicks,
protea, lilies, lavender: natives
rooted in sand, thriving on marine air.
They stun my Pacific Northwest eyes.
Photographs plant them in memory.
*
A hang glider launches off
a sandy cliff like a Western gull
catching thermals above crashing,
thrashing white. I track his glide
until it dissolves and becomes the cloudless sky.
*
Morning fog licks it way across
a holding pond, devours stands
of cypress trees, confuses the crow
sitting on the “No Entry” sign.
It ignores the decree.
*
Biting winds cancel my sunset watch
and send me back to my fireplace.
An English bulldog blocks my way
and tries to lick my chill-stung hands.
Owners apologize. I applaud warm breath.
*
Whoever said, “Never turn your back
on the ocean” was right. In this
wave-frantic bay, rip currents hide behind
swelling surf. Ankle-deep splashers stay
alert for rogues and strokes of undertow.
Carolyn Martin is a recovering work addict who’s adopted the Spanish proverb, “It is beautiful to do nothing and rest afterwards” as her daily mantra. She was blissfully retired—and resting–– in Clackamas, Oregon, until August 2025 when she suffered a debilitating stroke. In spite of physical limitations, she is delighted that she hasn’t lost her love of writing poetry. Her poems have appeared in more than 200 publications around the world.See: www.carolynmartinpoet.com.
