Sticks

I find a lot of modern poetry is just word contortion and pretentious prattle. I thought I would give it a go and just let words dribble where they may in experimental fashion. But this is not what I call poetry.

Sticks settled

between toes,

forced deep in wet

sand,

ocean washed

with cuts like shells,

broken on the

beach – marooned, on

pebbles, smooth, bright,

as if lost – forgotten –

seaweed drowned, dappled,

fallen salted fronds – a dead

fish, yawning mouth, small

teeth, rotted flesh, embraced

death – pitted against the

detritus, plastic bottles, sliding

on the crusts of wave – mocking

towels strewn in disarray-

lost by fading swimmers, long

since gone away.

Version Two:

 

Ocean washed, cutting like shells broken on the beach,

sticks settled between toes forced deep in wet sand,

each marooned, isolated; hung on pebbled breast,

smooth, bright, as if lost, dropped by hidden hands.

Holding in soft arms, dead fish with yawning mouth,

seaweed drowned in dappled, fallen, salted fronds,

small teeth, rotted flesh, embraced by liquid death;

nestled, pitted against the detritus in final bonds.

Plastic bottles sliding on the crusts of endless days,

mocking, rising on the breath of ocean,  falling onto sands;

drenching shores draped with towels, strewn in disarray

lost by faded swimmers, gone to distant lands.

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About rosross

Editor, writer, poet.
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