Reflections: White Scorpion

 Deliberately

Destin

May 3, 2021

Foggy Bottom Thoughts

a Mexican fog reaches the pan handle

unannounced and unexpected  so soon,

visibility dims north of the horizon

pleasure yachts lumber along parallel

to the tourist laden coastline where

motorized vehicles are banned except

for those paid to guard their investments;

a curious and consistent breeze makes its

way eastward as clouds are pushed out

to sea by an undressing sun whose

behavior has become rather predictable along

the shores never invaded by pirates only

conquistadors mesmerized by the language

and mysterious stories of alien ghosts;

muted sounds of silence are replaced by

babbling conversations of clothes styles and lifestyles

exaggerated by marketing executives who rely

on sixties music to attract an older generation

with retirement income mimicking salaries and

desire to travel is limited by pandemics;

children with body boards ignore their

elders and their body surfing techniques as

caution inhibits their watery adventures...

canvas covered wooden chairs hold the

onlookers without motivation yet have the will

power to lift cocktails to their lips between words;

moods like the weather change rapidly

and once a polite generation turns impolite

with their impatience and predeterminations

of religious preferences never questioned or

doubted against the tides of growing evidence

venturing into the unchartered living waters;

however flimsy their excuses these same believers

strong along the edge of the enchanted waters,

invited our of their chairs and into the sun to

worship anticipated suntans yet to be received...

seagulls fly against the wind as they watch

and wonder why everyone is still here.

Mental Shorelines

red flags dot the shoreline

warning wave watchers,

impending danger looms,

wet sand footprints mask

all well worn paths

through weathered dunes,

tracing ancient journeys

of our memorable past;

relocated water pools,

wind rippled movements

large and small

short and tall

under umbrellas

protecting who?

or what?

distilled thoughts

resurfaced and lingering

near and far

buried alive in a 

vain attempt to forget

present and past

warriors who first arrived

and left no signs

of smuggling inside

random thoughts;

curious memories filter

themselves through

uncertain recollections

before the dawn

and after sunset,

cascading in shallow pools

of incriminations...

selfless but personal

instinctive but logical,

pursuing the water's truth

and the shoreline's defenses;

seagulls stroll by

on thin legs

supporting large bodies

leaving one in awe,

readjusting opinions

and the flavors of ideas

soon to be forgotten

by the relentless sun

and battering waters

of the gulf

against our bodies.

Watery Wasteland

fingers of time hold not the

water nor the sand any longer

than a wisp of wind remains

around a body as it passes

on its way to another place;

broken shells collected along

the sand dunes of an abandoned

beach long after the water tides

have pushed them well beyond

their original intent...

without recourse or remorse

but with a force long since

believed to be used by the

boats of gods who journeyed

here not to fish or plant crops

but to create a race of future

inhabitants whose sole purpose

was to remember and record

display and deliver

arrange and rearrange

the sequences of life left

behind by life's fingers.

Tides

tides move in and out

back and forth

up and down

but never do they move

out and about...

tides rip out the souls

of man's fearfulness

as it strips the

weak from the strong...

tides force generations

to rethink their

reckless attitudes left

in rented rooms

in the summer sun...

tides are not restrained

nor embarrassed

nor ashamed

of their appearance and

their rituals of death...

tides live along coastlines

of our imported cities, 

waiting for us to

forget our manners

and pay them a visit.