For whatever anyone (including myself) may/may not think of my writing, I am not a poet. I love poetry, but don’t know anything about the various forms, never studied it or felt compelled to do so. Of course, when I was a teenager and young adult, I wrote plenty of angsty poems. All free verse, because, of course, I didn’t know what I was doing. Attempts at rhymes resulted in the love children of elementary roses-are-red and the man-from-Nantucket, and I abandoned poetry for short stories by the time I was in my twenties.
Once in a while, though, like once every ten years, I have an urge. I went to the beach with Art Child the other day. Took the train out to Brooklyn to “my” beach, just beyond the shadow of the elevated train tracks. Brighton Beach isn’t what anyone would call paradise, or even clean–truly, you have to shower off the layer of dirt and grime before determining whether or not you got any color– but I love it. It feels like home, what can I say. When we were walking to the water, I noticed chicken bones scattered in the sand, probably rejected by seagulls. Those bones, complete with bits of batter and gristle, stayed in my mind.
Past the end
down and down the steps
up the ramp
splinters of before
push through
Sun soothes, empties the cells
Look Ma! No cancer, Vitamin D–
except skin
Pleats and furrows pulled taut by kelp flies
pores opened by the heat
for sweat to drown the fleas
Open
wider to swallow
shell fragments
broken beer bottles
chicken bones
And the salt
taste it
on the breeze
in the water
against the scummy layer of coconut oil
Grains of could-be
meld into
Squishy mud of
should-have-been
and I dive.
Once again I read something written by mrs fringe and felt myself tearing up. And once again, if someone asked me to put my finger on why, I’d be hard-pressed to explain it.
But I’ll try.
There is a rawness to her writing. A longing. Dreams set aside when reality got in the way but even so, the memories are there, and not forgotten. And sometimes in her characters’ lives there is a moment, bittersweet and fleeting.
Unless. . .
Despite everything, or maybe, because of it, her characters take the plunge. Mrs fringe puts us right there, in those small, quiet moments that somehow say everything there is to say.
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Thank you, kk. I want to get all mushy, let you know how much I appreciate you and your support, but…Always, thank you. ❤
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❤ right back at you, mrs f.
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I quite enjoyed your poem. It brought to my mind images of ‘my beach,’ and how I feel when I’m there. Thanks for sharing.
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Thank you, Cathleen, I’m glad you enjoyed, even more so that it evoked your own beach. 🙂 And welcome to Mrs Fringe!
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Hey. Not lousy at all. As noted by some of your other readers. And believe me, I have seen some truly bad poetry. But I am of the flavor that poetry and writing poetry deserves to be encouraged and that even the most terrible poem shows that someone tried to put music into expression…. Just aiming for poetry is admirable. And you hit.
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Thank you Kyla. 🙂 Yes, good poetry is music, movement and the sigh of just the right note.
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Not that lousy……………..just saying
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❤
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