Ocean Voices

Near Seaside Oregon
July 13, 2019

The early joggers are returned back to their rooms
neon running shoes drying outside the door
waiting for the sun to come around the building
to dry the white towels on the deck railing

Last night’s beach fires dead
those first to the sand this morning huddle on blanket
parkas and hoodies up, legs bare, not for long

A tiny little girl in puffy pink jacket
runs for the surf
stops
looks up, the waves crashing in
overlapping noise of waves coming in
over her head
she runs away
is lured back
stops to run away again
looking back
over her shoulder
her hair a flutter

Later, she comes back down the beach
she is hopping and jumping at surf edges
fearless
her puffy pink jacket
stowed in her father’s backpack 

II                            

We played pool (2-2) in a side-street ba
ignored by the regulars
just around the corner from the dodge ‘em cars
sparks from the metal ceiling
families watch, some applaud the hits
game over
drivers lurch-walk behind the screen
the gallery tearing off bites of smoked pepperoni sticks
in yellow wrappers
everyone well-grounded

Beach Pieces, Adrift
now they walk the ocean beach
head bowed, eight of them silent
they clutch their water bottles, heads bowed to phones
If there is a beach present, it’s lost its meaning

While the morning surf laughs in the distance
that one seagull returns to the railing
no eye contact, mind you
while I debate feeding her.

A fat family
walks the beach 
inside thighs chaffing already
their little short-leashed dog
wears a red life jacket

Beach Person - Sunday morning
He comes to the top of the path
stops
holds the bleached
beach-white rope railing
anchored to green metal wind-bent posts
driven at angles into the sand
he seems to be talking to someone
lips moving
maybe getting up the nerve
to talk with the wind

Looking for a Poem on Rockaway Beach
July 14 20129

This is a longer story
not suited to an easy unmetered haiku
the wind on the deck 
full of hesitancy 
gone every which way
just when we think
we know where we are going
it swirls around
sand whorls
not a kite in sight
it is unseasonably cold
below a mother sits patiently 
on the sand alone
knees to her chest
a purple sand pail at her side
son playing in the surf
she watching for undertow.