“Beach Walk,” “Flint” and “bouquet from the garden”

“Beach Walk,” “Flint” and “bouquet from the garden”

“Beach Walk,” “Flint” and “bouquet from the garden”

Beach Walk

a conch shell emptysea-gifted

carried back to window sill

trapped voices now extinct still

in shifting sandsbreeze-lifted

sounds of surf on gentle winds

crashing pulselife’s quickened flash

mutes the tracks with ocean slash

silent ciphersexpunged suspend

the reverie I walkthe smell

and sight of tumbling seas

salted onto sun-licked skin

hide within the hollow shells

ring within ear’s deepest wells

tolling timefuneral bells

Flint

one bowl, one spoon

silence throbs on the inner ear

admits strange and fearsome noises

memory’s heft and texture

irons itself flat with

the hot smell of scorch

the smallest of tasks becomes

transcendent reason for life

as living dims to insipid

drama plays on a stage

an actress without an audience

no one hears the pathos

acknowledges the mien of sorrow

eyes shiny with twice shed tears

unaccustomed to stage markings

stumble over footlights

raptin a Greek mask

cajole anguish

strike a smilechuckles spark

laughter flaresstill...

one bowl, one spoon

bouquet from the garden

manuredtiny seeds ripen and root

sprout in dark odors

bouquet from the garden

a beer glass

rim chipped

the only sober one still standing

from a set of eight

two inches of green

clouded water

in the bottom

sousing eight

Dusty Miller branches

three Butterfly Bush spikes

slump over scattered florets

yellow and purple blossoms

no longer complimentary

clutch in crispedcurled

discolored tangles

above the water

spongy stems

decompose

in bent mangled

angles below

richpalated musk

waits above the glass

spicedfermented honey

breathes

earthydizzy drunkenness

trajectory

enoughed

About the Author

Arlene Downing-Yaconelli

The author lives slightly outside of Sacramento, marginally past the age of new beginnings, somewhere between contemporary and avant-garde, and wholly within a life of possibilities. Grateful for all of it.

Read more work by Arlene Downing-Yaconelli.