Vovoa's beach

It's the smell of salt water that gets me,
the crunch of broken shells breaking anew underfoot,
seabirds wheeling above, floating on the surf,
and the particular quality of sunlight reflected off the Atlantic,
barnacles cemented to the rocky quays,
the ugly little grace notes-- broken bottles and junk food wrappers--
and that one shade of purple only found in wet clam shells,
sea grass and seaweed and sea shells,
dirty-looking teenage sea gulls,
and that steady ocean breeze blowing back my hair.
Oh, I know this place very well,
salt water as familiar as my own blood,
this beach of understated beauty in an ugly city,
Clark's Cove, the place my soul returns to rest.

lovelorn, redux

I take it back. Your eyes are nothing like the sea,
except that I could drown in both their depths.
There's nothing in you dirty as a seagull,
unfaithful as the ever-turning tides,
chill as an ocean breeze in December.
You couldn't be as blue as waves reflecting sky,
as grey as storm clouds mirrored in the sea.
No, you're golden, bright as the late afternoon sun,
soft-spoken as the whisper of waves on sand,
steadfast as the walls that keep this harbor safe.
No, you are not the sea, but perhaps by the sea,
close enough that I can see a reflection of you
in the salt water of my infrequent tears,
that my seabird cries might somehow reach your ears.

a literal metaphor

One broken shell on a beach of rocks and shells,
one soft-edged fragment of brown sea glass,
one grey seagull in a flock of dozens,
one wave that breaks and then is gone forever,
one speck of sand the same as billions of others.
The only special things are the noticed ones:
the brief attention of a poet's pen,
then once more anonymity, once more the same.
I leave myself here on this sunny beach--
one speck of sand the same as billions of others,
one wave that breaks and then is gone forever,
one grey seagull in a flock of dozens,
one soft-edged fragment of brown sea glass,
one broken shell on a beach of rocks and shells.