Some young Mexicans built this pirate ship at the beach at Los Cerritos. They rent surfboards here and live in it (and a tent) with their two sons, one is about four and the other about 6 months old. Who’s to say this isn’t the way to live? What a creative couple.
They even have a rooster and a chicken in a crate to provide a breakfast of eggs. There is a blanket over the chicken coop crate to keep the critters settled down at night, but that rooster wakes up early and crows for all to hear. Los Cerritos’s morning surfers will attest to this.
I have a feeling the “ship” isn’t finished yet. But whose ship is ever finished?
The “chicken coop” is off to the right in this photo.
Close up side view
I got to thinking about how writing poetry is a personal thing like constructing pirate ships and choosing how to live. Maybe my poems aren’t all good, but on the other hand, maybe they just might do the trick (sometimes).
They’re not all good—your poems
the earth won’t move in
a different direction
an upside-down message of
extraordinary news
come to save us from ourselves.
They’re not all bad—your poems
they rest on pillows of ideas
ready to spring and cause
a commotion somewhere on
somebody’s front lawn
as the sun explodes in through
the crevices you didn’t know
even existed there.
Maybe they fall short—your poems
of making other poets weep
or laugh or smile outwardly
at your ordinary rhymes and words
set down with pen on paper
meant to please or even to
enlighten a preacher—a teacher
a drunk—a seamstress.
Maybe if you scatter words like
pebbles in the sand and
send them out with some smooth
jazzy sounds of a saxophone
we may learn to feel a little better
riding two inches off the ground.
this is a most excellent post and your poetry is magical – you made my day 🙂
You two weren’t kidding!