| General Poetry
posted May 28, 2016 |
potlatch octogram
On The Beach
The wind is sharp and smells unclean
as waves roll in
I feel it's something I have seen
before but then
my home's in mountains green and tall
I've seen no oceans to recall
my blood's imprinted with this scene
as waves roll in.
It's like I've stood here on the shore
some way back when
and heard this growling surf before
and now again
it's racial memory I guess
from long dead fathers come to bless
a mountain boy's senses once more
as waves roll in.
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