Red sand Beat poet Jack
Sitting loner, listening sadly to the Big Sur sea.
Pacific sky with sad white puffed clouds
Reaching for the shore laugh whilst winding
Round the azure of what was for one moment
The perfectness of an April day.
That old Devil of a sea, that Pacific Oceany
Kerashes and that first drop of rain is no surprise
Nor the turbulent thousand that shed disguises
Dropping one by one, patter splatter.
The ocean stretches, pulls at the sands of that bronzed beach.
The rain is cold, dampens the soul, but who cares?
The sea and sky sing in near perfect harmony
And sad old Jack recalls the shout, the scream of Big Sur sea.

 
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