Myrtle Beach, SC
The heavy salty air. The bleached
white sand. The white capping water
and singing of sea gulls. The sun so
lovely and beating down. Far from
the foothills. Shells clattering in the
surf. The alien jelly fish poked at with
a stick. Driftwood and palm trees
tough and fibrous. Sea oats rustling
with the forever wind. Nights of lit
up piers and cool ghostly open
moonlit ocean. Hotel lights shimmering
in the distance, golf carts racing up
and down the waterfront. Ferris wheels
and roller coasters downtown, cotton
candy and corn dogs. Restaurants at
Murrells Inlet, late night oyster boats.
Shrimp boats cruising the starry skies.
Happy chattering voices all dark.
Girls and boys, college kids, and
women and men. Drunken laughs and
sober joy. Putt Putt courses, and water
slides. Fire ants and pine trees. The
board walk and lake. Swans and
mallards, dipping and upside down.
Pelicans plunging. Fighter jets and
airliners. Helicopter rides. Single
engines and banners. Sunglasses and
tan lotion and screen. Muscles and
bikinis. Dreading going home, shells
and shark teeth as souvenirs. A long
sleepy drive from the beach. Stopping
at historical Charles Town Landing,
a galleon, floating in the port. A park.
And beautiful Cypress Gardens. Spanish
moss and statues. Swampy black water
and sneaky eyed alligators with blackest
of marble eyes and rippling water. All
homeward bound to the foothills of the
Danny P. Barbare resides in Greenville, SC. He loves the salty air of the beach in the lowlands of the South. He has been writing poetry for 33 years. His poetry has appeared in Dead Mule and Dead Snakes.