Things seems to be very clear,
When actually felt it is unclear,
What really seems to be clear,
May never ever be clear for ever.
Your help for others,
May be to be appreciated,
Or taken as what is called,
to be uncounted.
My question is clear,
Why the help for others,
Is sometime never appreciated,
However it is always delivered.
In response to ethics,
lingers in my mind the answer,
To help others is not to be recognised,
But it is to be called someone,
Who can be respected.
To all, continue to help,
Not to to be appreciated by others,
But to be respected by yourself.
Dawn’s arms rock us awaken
First light guides our eyes open
A minute or two we bask
Before we rise to the tasks
Buzzing we go, all duty
Not missing the melody
Of plans laid out well in war
When the battle cry did warn
Signs were posted in plenty
In aches of flesh past groaning
Clocks ticked too fast to keep up
We sensed the call to the Sun
Finally armed and fueled
We three and the engine revved
Taking routes always farther
Away from the walled master
Warmer becomes flesh and heart
As we steer like movie stars
Heads high to catch the sun’s drops
Eyes shaded in blissful lost
Soon we are flying through air
Passing green-eyed rooms with cheer
Bucolic scenes blaze colors
How beautifully they merge
Tempo slows as deep blue nears
Silent, the wait comes to bear
Descent is smooth, toes sink in
Digging in grains so golden
It is here we recover
Here, we let go of the war
The rush of swish against the shoreline
The wind blowing swift by is a sign
A storm a brewing, clattering, and shattering
The thunder clapping a great sky battering
The waves swoosh higher up
As you can get this sound like in a cup
But more so just cover your hand
Now the feeling of grit giving sound to sand
Whoosh! the wind takes your hair
It is fear-est when water spit as it declare
War on your skin, with vibration that pings
And the silence of slow blowing wind sings
E-Z Glo Punk, Lightning Flash,
TNT Devices will burst, do crash
Southern Night, Piccolo Petes
are hard to beat...
I like hand held Sparklers, Tanks
flashing fountains, Solar Flare
Six to #20 Gold I have to share,
no incidence, no burns, thanks...
Whistles blow, fountains glow,
pop'n sounds, entire sky all aglow
I love those colors, high an low
trails eched onto my retina
inspired me to let ya know
Now you close both eyes
in pitch dark, what a surprise
for you to see, right there
darkness, absolutely anywhere
beautiful trails of lights in motion
"Always read a label of caution"
From one end to the other,
I love to take a ride.
What great sites, I get to see,
Down the seawall side.
I like to ride on weekdays,
On my way to work.
Down the beach, makes me forget,
I’m only just a clerk.
As I look over the gulf,
Up into the sky,
Nothing blocks the scenery,
Only the birds and planes go by.
I’ve lived here all my life,
And the beach is never the same.
But the fishing boats and swimming,
Will always be here to remain.
Summer weekends and Holidays,
Are always fun, you see.
Tourists come from everywhere,
To join the beach activities.
On the boulevard, late at night,
The beauty is still there.
No one could ever paint a picture,
To even closely compare.
Every chance that I may get,
I’ll always take a ride,
Down the beach, to get a view,
From the seawall side.
Florence McMillian (Flo)
LE TRE SORELLE
My favorite spot in Italy, and perhaps anywhere, was Ristorante Le Tre Sorelle
in Positano. It was at the bottom of at least a hundred stone steps, just on
the right, and right on the beach. A hundred steps seemed like ten, with
delights for the senses on every step. Chic bikini shops with tan young clients,
tiny pastry shops, ice cream vendors, mini-galleries, and lone musicians, all
bathed in the soft bright sunlight of the Amalfi Coast.
Le Tre Sorelle had affordable pasta and a priceless view. Between
checkered tables and cobalt sea marched the ancient beauty of humanity in
every form and state.
Over espresso, we created names for people in this parade, to suit our
fancy. “There is Mr. and Mrs. Cold Obtrusive boring Mr. and Mrs. Kind
Receptive.”, we might say, or, “There is Mr. Old Fat Rich failing to interest
Miss poor Young Georgeous.” Sometimes we would separate our unwitting
victims into “should wear bikini”, “maybe should”, and “never should”
classes. We made up other rude categories depending on how much wine
we could afford with the affordable pasta.
The challenge of youth in Positano was to find a place to sleep for free.
Step one in this quest was to find a pretty girl who also had a hotel room. Step
two was to persuade her to share it. Step three was to sleep on the beach.
But the beach was duly patrolled by the Beach Patrol. So the trick was
to dance in the last-open disco until everyone, including the Beach Patrol,
were too tired to care. Then with luck, we could borrow some fisherman’s
boat cover for the night, until the fisherman went fishing. Still, this meant
one or two good hours of sleep.
Besides, at sunrise, we could swim in the sea and chill ourselves awake, just
long enough for the first espresso of another beautiful day, at Le Tre Sorelle.
In spite of youthful nonsense, the crushing beauty of Amalfi, both human
and stone, pressed it’s lovely wisdom deep inside our souls.
Even as thunder boomed mighty overhead
and power lines on San Domingo Avenue outside
faltered and succumbed to the tempest
the Ortegas stood breathless in the family room, gaze transfixed
upon the television screen like so many deer in the headlights of a truck.
Finally a flash from without, and a snap
extinguished all light within the household. Ten seconds passed
without a sound. Then the father uttered something and
the family members scattered, each returning a moment later
bearing possessions of infinite value. Within a minute,
all had crammed into the station wagon, evacuation route ingrained
within their minds like a seed of hope.
All but one. Manuelito had been lost.
The mother howled and flied back into the house,
tears streaming down her face hard as the rain.
She reached the back porch, and to her eternal shock
found Manuelito standing alone on the beach like a mannequin
eyes locked upon the Cyclops-eye of the storm.
The mother cried out through anguished sobs
in vain, for the howling drone of the wind overpowered all
and when Manuelito turned around to face all that he loved
he did so with all the finality of a grown man
resolved upon his course of action.
The mother abruptly ceased her crying, and
her countenance briefly matched that of her son
as she, too, turned her gaze upon the jewel center of the storm
and was hypnotized by the awesome power of the divine.
At length she regained self-consciousness, and her eyes
darted back to that segment of the beach where her son had been standing
but his figure, like a stream of sand on the dunes of time,
had been replaced by nothingness,
the allure of the unknown and
Poseidon’s call of wild fury
too strong to resist.
Salty mistiness enters my head.
Nostrils take in. Waves crash!
Sting rays sting! Crabs scatter!
Sandcastles, built wet on dry sand.
Walking miles on water-lapped shore.
Caesar remains, constant companion.
Then man politely asked for my hand.
Next year, for my hand in matrimony.
Ah. Salty, misty, water-waves pull.
Floating out to horizon, swim back.
Suck in the sweet, ocean air retreat.
Summertime vacations, every August.
Gray, weathered house, long ago gone.
It provided shelter, bed to lay head.
Shish kabobs! Stone crabs from fishy,
Dead heads on string. Left turn, bay.