Poetry in sand

Spirits of St. Augustine
by mike marcellino

Clouds the size of
galleon sails
dance in ocean pools
burnt by the falling sun
charred black grey,
red of campfires
miles an’ miles
a footprints
on flat cream sand
spirits of St. Augustine.

Costal clouds like
perimeter flares
hang
without motion
held up with
parachute suspenders.

Headlights in the dusk
head this way
scenes from Doctor No
miles an’ miles
a footprints
on flat cream sands,
spirits of St. Augustine.

Riding sweet Betsy to E
a woman an’ girl
hand an’ hand
out of the surf
with ankle length halter top dresses
pants of cotton on.

Do you always do this,
Hold hands?
No, I imagine you hold hands a lot.
Do you always wear dresses in the ocean?
They are modest. They cover our skin.

Yesterday’s crescent moon
tonight’s near a half.
Ships light the east horizon.
Seas darken
lure bulls an’ black tips
near 14 foot long.
Parties retreat to
houses in silhouette.
Scrub brush wrestle
in southeast breezes
on tales of Spanish saints
miles an’ miles
a footprints
on flat cream sand,
spirits of St. Augustine.

The writer in the night
rides by the trail,
daring not to cut though rabbit
rattle snake dunes.
The writer sees
lights
of the beachcomber,
visions
of the island of broken shells,
a fair Dutch girl
Nicole,
and brown skin Albina,
from Albania,
down to Augustine
to get their fortunes read
by the daughter of
a Rumanian celluloid queen.

Albina picks up
a tear drop
gun metal stone
cut with pin hole
from the sand of St. Augustine,
a trimast ship etched on. Nicole,
her flower dress gently flowing
gazes out to sea, wistfully
thinking of a short board
surfer
in her day dream.

Visions of
Anastasia,
in the night
miles an’ miles
a footprints
on flat cream sand,
spirits of St. Augustine.


Spirits of St. Augustine by Mike Marcellino copyright 2009