Alan Catlin

THE GRAVEYARD OF THE BEACH CHAIRS

You can see them in late afternoon
the dead beach chairs:
all the collapsed seats,
torn webbing,
frayed ends wavering in off-shore breezes,
bent aluminum support poles,
a kind of in-progress kinetic art form.
And their companions,
the loungers,
dozens of them,
relics of some massive party gone horribly wrong.
All the terry towels,
blankets,
volley ball nets,
empty beer cans,
and wine coolers,
blown away
recycling with the tides.
Just the recliners now.
The empty lifeguard stands overturned.
All of them partially buried in sand
as far as the eye can see.

THOSE TRENDY YOUNG FOLKS IN THEIR SPORTS UTILITY VEHICLES

clutching their cell phones tightly to their
ears, never out of touch, quality time
with the kids means fielding less than
ten calls in an hour the ferry takes from
the mainland to the Island, cuddling the
“I need some attention for a change”
daughter not yet a teen, in between summons
from beyond; even at the beach they are
not immune to heeding unnatural calls,
such is the nature of relentless beeping:
there are no boundaries, no restraints.
The OFF switch must be defective or else
they’ve forgotten how to use it, where it is;
cell towers are everywhere complimenting
sunsets, lighthouse vistas, beach views, nothing
remains unspoiled by those trendy young folks
in their suburban utility vehicles, lugging their
environment wherever they go, despoiling
the unused, the formerly inaccessible by vehicle
out of the way places, front to back they park
on otherwise deserted beaches, radios on full
blast to far away Golden Oldies stations,
sharing their taste in tunes, take out, overpriced
Mexican swill beer, large dogs frolicking with
them in the surf; fishermen, swimmers, strollers
Beware! those trendy young people are no longer
Coming to a beach, resort, neighborhood near you,
they are here.

The singing beach

A naked lady in
a yellow hat sings an aria
from an unwritten opera

Soon the gulls join in
The swan pairs
Ducks
Even the cormorants singing

By moonrise their collective
voices are raising the sound
from the dunes

A Northeasterly wind is
enough to blow them all
away

Alan Catlin has two new poetry collections and a book of related short stories out this year. The poetry collections are “Unattended” (Cyberwit) and “Landscapes of the Exiled” (Dos Madres). The short stories are all set in bars and are told from the point of view of a world weary, cynical bartender with a strange sense of humor, “The Naked City” (Anxiety Publications).

“The Graveyard of the Beach Chairs” previously published in Nixes Mate

“Those Trendy Young Folks in Their Sports Utility Vehicles” previously published in Ship of Fools