beach

Beach Bum

Milt Jackson taps along the xylophone

And I need to rest

I’m so worn out

The sounds of the music

Fade in and out

Heavy is the night

And all soft drumming has put me

In a catatonic state

Such is the life of a beach bum

Too much sun

And now, tired eyelids hold the weight

Of a thousand men

But now is not the time to over-think

Not everyone loves the beach life

And those who don’t

At this hour

Don’t matter much to me

Today seemed pretty close to perfect

Maybe, maybe not

Maybe I’m wrong

Maybe it wasn’t

Either way

I think I’ll have another go at it

Again, tomorrow

After all,

Practice makes perfect

At least that’s what I’ve been told

© Dicky J Loweman 2015

 

View From The Edge

Soft sands

Rolling ocean

All mine, to keep to myself

I could stay lost here, forever

calming breezes

Soaring gulls

Setting sun

*

Staring outward

Mindless drift

To be caught in the current

Rocking back in her wet arms

Orange skies

Purple clouds

Picturesque landscape

*

chilled waters

Rising moon

Soon will appear, a starlit map

Of all the worlds far away

Closed eyes

To remember

Easy living

© Dicky J Loweman 2015

Days Away

It rains down on the thoughts

Which hide the mixed emotions

Of the very things we tire of

Days like this, I feel old

And I long for the beach

But the beach is far away

And I won’t see it, for at least a couple more days

I feel bad for all of them

All of us

Gathered in this tiny room

No one speaks above a whisper

And an organ plays songs

That I remember from days gone by

In an hour we’ll be at the bar

Washing away the greys of now

With even darker stouts and recalls

Two days

Three days max

It’s days like this, where I feel old

And long for the beach

Which is only two, maybe three

Days away

© Dicky J Loweman 2015

The Gold Digger And The Shitty Poet

I went down to the beach this morning

About 6 am, before most in this town have risen

I watched as the tide crept further from the walk

And I noticed all the seaweed and dead fish

Left behind, like the path of a tornado

Then I spot another man

He’s walking slowly

He wears huge headphones

And carries an obnoxiously large metal detector

I watch him as he makes his way toward me

I think about how boring his hobby seems to me

I laugh at him getting ready for his big hunt

Thoughts about finding all that lost treasure

Like a little spare change, soda cans and bottle caps

What a way to waste a morning

Says the guy, who wastes his own by writing these shitty lines

As he makes his way in front of me he stops

He stares intently at his machine

He takes his headphones off and says

“This could be a really good find!”

“I’m pulling for ya”, was my retort

He starts to dig, maybe three or four inches deep

Then, to my dismay, he pulls out a gold wristwatch

“It’s a good one.  Probably get $40.00 for this”

I’m amazed

I’m smiling a huge grin for him

He seems very happy

“Well, that’ll put gas in the car”, I say

“This pays my rent and buys my food”

I think about all the watches that he needs to find

In order to make that happen

After he’s finished wiping off the watch

He stuffs it into a bag, on his waste

He opens it wide, to show me the contents

It’s filled with coins, necklaces, rings and watches

I guess it’s not a bad day’s haul for him

Definitely making more

Than this shitty poet

© Dicky J Loweman 2014