Wednesday, October 26, 2005

My Mind's Eye (Press)

Each tiny grain
wiggles thorough my toes
the sand is cool
in the dark shadows
of the night
the ocean's softly
crashing waves
break the
stillness. The moonlight
is all that illuminates
the view.
A harsh breeze
chooses its time
to blow across
the abandoned beach.
The smell it carries
dances throught the midnight air,
combining the salt of the ocean
and the sweet essence of the night.
The wind whistles along
the rock formations
formed and set in place
so long ago
the rocks stand above
everything around the
stretch of sand.
Above them,
there is nothing.
Staring out to
the horizon,
the deep blue water,
almost endless,
stops where the
slightly lighter hue
of the sky begins.
Farther along
the shoreline,
a lighthouse,
robbed of purpose,
stands proud
like an ancient samurai
forced to accept
the new
bayonets and gunpowder.





This was my 'whistle' poem, and an 'address' I guess I'll throw in here is what can I title it that conveys that this poem is the scene that appears in my mind at the word 'whistle'?

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