Category: Poetry

Dry Grass at the Beach, a poem by Phil Cline

Dry Grass at the Beach, a poem by Phil Cline

Dry Grass at the Beach

 

Dry grass at the beach house

Beneath rainless clouds,

Thirsting next to eternal acres of sea,

The drought remains, piteous, aloof.

 

The fog’s damp mist wet insufficient

To reach down, nourish, resurrect

Dead roots and parched strands

Of sun burned grass.

 

The retired captain peered outward

At an ocean of wavering memories.

He watched their white caps peak, glance, roll under,

Returning to their watery depths forever.

 

Gone now, those Wet years of Plenty,

A Frolic of time expended freely,

The Loud discordant Songs,

The Drinks, The Dances, The One Regret.

 

The Captain cupped his callused hands,

Against the warm wind, lit his cigarette,

Deeply inhaled, swallowed really,

The cancer didn’t matter now anyway.

 

He dropped the smoldering match

On the dry grass.

And ground the final ember to death

Under his boot.

 

He resolved

There would be no more tears.

She was right not to wait for the rain.

It won’t return.

Beauregard

Beauregard

Beauregard

 

What would a Caesar do

If he knew they said

He could be a hero no more?

 

Would it matter to him

Where his monument went,

That they took it down,

 

Left it out back of a vacant lot,

Amidst the dust and gravel

Of Carolina or New Orleans?

 

Does a General care

Who once charged the redoubts

With noble heart

 

That his sacrifice,

His courage now

Be labeled most poor

 

By those less heroic,

Of rank character,

But more bombast,

 

Who from safe places

Malign so righteously

His purpose of a century ago?

 

Would he think no matter the loss

Of plaster and wire. It’s no worse than

The Busted Bust of Brave Columbus lying there.