PostPoems Be Artistic. Be Creative. Be Inspired!

On the beach, at unclouded, unimpeded dusk, the

outgoing tide has left its trove of gathered debris:

unoccupied shells and hunks of driftwood, and a

poet's brief poetic message rolled up like a

secret scroll entrusted to a drunkard's empty bottle.

The year is nineteen eleven; in three years,

no one can be bother to notice such peripheral items.

Just over there are the footprints, Tadzo's and Jaschu's,

their after dinner walk where they, boyfriends, can

hold each other's hand; and, as lovers do, pause to

punctuate their time together with an ardent, slow, and

(once in a while) very wet kiss (the wet ones often

lead to full and very suggestive engorgements).

They are clad in evening dining clothes:  long-sleeved

white shirts, off white trousers, and semi-sheer socks.

Shoes having been slipped off and left beneath a table),

their footsteps glide easily over the sand which---

unlike the prejudiced prudes of nineteen eleven---

awaited eagerly their visit, just as the stars

begin to emerge east of Venice during this sultry

but dwindling summer season.

Starward-Led