Pebbles on a Beach


Pebbles on a Beach

 Pebbles on a beach
beside an ocean.
"I like the smooth ones," said I,
running my fingers across the surface.
"I like the rough ones," he said.
He inspects them, tracing every seam.
"I like the red ones," she said.
They are easiest to spot.

I collected some, put them in a bag.
I like to take them out and file them,
and arrange them until they
speak.
He frowns, "Why so many? All you need is one."

He found one by the bridge,
waves had crashed around it
and made a little hole.
He likes to watch the moon through it
until he can't see spit.
She rolls her eyes. "It's just a hole. Who cares?"

She found a dry stone,
not much kissed by glistening waves, ephemeral.
She chipped away at it
refining and structuring
until it gleamed the shine of centuries.
I pick up the chips. I like them too.

To each their own, I guess.
And to me, a poem.

Comments

Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

The Patience of a Tree

Image
  The Patience of a Tree By Thea Clarkberg Two paths diverged beneath my feet— One paved, and one muddy, off the beat. I left the cars and bustling street To find a stream, a would-be retreat. Its waters were choked with plastic and waste, Ignored by those who walked on in haste. Among the muck, an egret white Stood still, a fragile, ghostly sight. It flew away as I drew near, Its instinct sharp, its path so clear. What was that sickly sweetness in the air? The stench of death was everywhere. I saw ahead a wolf or dog, hard to tell, Its teeth gleaming white in a sunken shell. I passed it by and did not stay, But the path just stopped and fell away. Some draft of a park the city had planned— Now swallowed up by brambled land. I stood where trail met thorn and stone, Staring at trash the world disowned. The highway thundered just overhead, While the water below ran thick and dead. Oh world, I cried, what have we done? We’ve scorched the soil and blocked the sun. We pass each other, m...
Read more

Warm Hands

Image
  Warm Hands By Thea Clarkberg In the dark of night, Fingertips on a cold glass pane. Chills the tips, warms the glass, only just. 20 floors up, I look out into the gaping void beneath me, a hellish blast of screeching sirens and glaring neon lights. Aloft above it all, this hardened world of glass and steel. I rest my forehead against these ancient grains of sand and search and search for the hands that shaped them into crystal ice. I find none. I ache for just a hint of breath, of warmth, of animal scent. I bang my head into this barrier, like a goldfish in a little bowl. I walk through structures meant to hold meaning— policies, procedures, portals— but all I feel is cold. I am met by signs, not people. By sentences without fingerprints. By answers that answer nothing. They sand off the edges of individual identity in favor of rules and repeatability. I scream into the system, but it does not echo. It absorbs. Intention is often the first thing to vanish. Someone may have poured...
Read more

Night Biking

Image
Night Biking I zoom quietly over wet streets, echoes of laughter and smiles fading. Hissing water sprays out behind the bike wheels accompaniment for the unseen symphony of crickets in the night. Cold numbs my fingers and I can only think it will be over soon and my fingers will burn with warmth. I do enjoy the crisp cold that seeps through my thin sweater, sweetens my mouth, and pleasures my nose with the tang of freshness. There is a sharp stab of pain as I wrap my fingers around the cool metal brakes and press. I release and fly faster and faster. It is so quiet and I feel I am the only one here. The only one... that ever felt the last breath of fall as I do now.
Read more