The Beachcombers

A middle-aged fisherman
Holding a grandson’s hand
On a surface of flows and ebbs
Of the drab Pacific Ocean
Heading from sand to sand
Imprudent of the expectations
Aware of the options
The many options

Things that washed away
By the waters of their sea
Are the extra ghosts
Of the departed savages

They hunt like deprived scavengers
From their inequitable Canaan

The weather and air
Are cruel to their pursuit
When they cannot walk
In the comfort of a normal verve
Their homage is dead
The country is a ramble of toothless gods
Bodies are jaded, bodies are weary
They drowned themselves in bottomless waters

2008-2011

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About chester maynes

poet, and a lover of music and books.
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