 |
| Larry Bailie helping a friend put up some fence in the Everglades |
The bells of Saint Martin
resonate deep inside your chest.
Food for your soul,
Ever Ringing.
The dust of the Sahara blows across the world,
Splashing the sunset sky here with extra wows.
Burning memories for our eyes, To be stored away in our minds.
On an island, years ago, I sat on a beach.
Cool white sand, water’s true colors,
I had never seen before.
Once in an open air bar on a river in Carolina,
I heard a young boy play guitar,
Like some forgotten blues player.
Riffs like island sunset, tones like cast bronze bells.
I heard small foaming waves curling on the wet sand.
When the music stopped,
I found I was in a bar on a riverbank,
With my stirred-up ghost,
Surrounded by a group of people.
Looking at each, I saw
I was not alone in awe.
Food for our souls.
My memory is filled with ghosts.
I do love their hauntings.
My book’s border has many penciled notes,
Of stories, sunsets, people and music.
I am exposed as a dreamer.
Like he said years ago,
I’m not the only one.
| Copyright © 2023 by Larry Bailie Larry Bailie was born two days after Saint Patrick’s Day in 1953, has been married for 47 years, and has two daughters and two grandchildren, who are his joy. Currently a realtor, Larry has worked in construction and run landscape crews. Traveling the Americas has given him many stories to relate, which he started journaling in 1968, but he has always returned to Florida, where he has gardened, surfed, fished, and explored the Everglades. |
A haunting poem, Larry. Yes, you are not the only one; I too – and everyone really – is a dreamer, but we are not all as aware of being a dreamer as you are. Thank you for provoking our readers’ introspection!
ReplyDelete