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Fireworks Suddenly July 21, 2008

Posted by The Typist in cryptical envelopment, Dancing Bear, poem, Poetry, Toulouse Street.
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They come out at night, the flashlight people
combing the tide line, lights swinging wildly
like some Shakespeare clown watch with a bottle.
What do they think to find out in the night
that would not wash up in the glare of day?

Fireworks suddenly burst over the sand
with a bang whoosh snap pop hiss of colors,
bursting metallic blossoms in the dark,
leaving a column of smoke, hesitant
then rushing past us like a crowd of ghosts.

A whale, my son turns and says as sudden
as the fireworks. What, I ask? A whale,
that’s what might wash up. Let’s go down and look.
Blink: one flock of lights vanish. Down there some
thing large and dark sings a watery blues.

Cross posted from Poems Before Breakfast. The flashlight people in Destin, Florida fascinate me. I don’t recall them from my trips here as a child, or on the beach in Rehoboth, Delaware.

Pardon me if I’m brief. I have to run out this morning and replace the landlady’s blender.

Redneck Riviera May 29, 2007

Posted by The Typist in New Orelans.
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1 comment so far

Yes, I know that’s Alabama and I’m in Destin, Florida. Still:

• In the south there are people with the accents we associate with Blance du Bois and the characters of Designing Women. They must all go to the beach in the Carolinas.

• Why does a man with a confederate flag tatooed on his back have a woman so tan she couldn’t pass the paper bag test?

• Why is all the crab at The Crab Shack overlooking the Gulf of Mexico Alaskan and Dungeness?

Really, I have no right to complain or to condescend, In spite of the building down the beach which looks barely boarded up since Ivan in 2004, it’s lovely to sit on my balcony staring at the moon’s track on the water nad listening to the constant rumble of the surf. I have b een away from the sea too long.

— posted via Blackberry