Ominous, what one may read between the lines... the visions that come dancing, flickering between stanzas, between lines that reveal the deepest, darkest secrets of the inner psyche. The brush strokes, like finger prints, meet at critical junctures and align each word with its corresponding passion. How fortunate we call it poetry. Imagine other venues of interpretation where the proforma thoughts delegate unwanted villas in the style of a dark tomb. No beaches here. No wind or shouts of youthful laughter. "...time to go." Thankfully, this gallery is well-lighted and out of the weather. You are quite the artist, Leslie.
Posted 11 Years Ago
Thanks for the feeling of this one Leslie, for I felt at home again... :) and a child.
You write so beautifully, and you are able to capture moments, and all the feelings you put exactly and precisely down.
A good bit of imagery for a day at the beach. I often go to the beach, living on its doorstep, and in watching the children I am always amazed; there is a sense of wonder there that is truly breathtaking. I can remember the days when I would run straight into the water without fear of the cold or the waves...time has made me less courageous. Favorite part, the idea of the footprints being washed away by the water--short lived. Nicely done.
Down memory lane....sea-eyed and water-faced children with chipped front teeth......reminds me of our yester years when as kids we too played at the beach.Wonderful write!!!!Loved the lines--footprints lived short/as if just lost/ and---shouts stolen by the wind/