High Tide

During the early morning mists
heavy waves thunder to the empty beach,
their frothy wetness spewing forth
long strands of kelp.
Kelp recently uprooted from the ocean
floor by some far off storm.
Kelp that lies flaccid and drying atop
the hot glistening daytime sand.
Kelp that is gradually baked
as the hot summer sun climbs in the sky.
Kelp that is kicked about
by children busy at their work of play.
Kelp that is ignored by the hoards
of sun worshipping adults
that arrive with their paraphernalia;
drinks, chairs, books,
which will eventually disappear
back into the hulks of cars
patiently waiting in crowded public lots
as the fiery red orb begins
to sink into the azure Pacific Ocean.
Leaving behind for the night
a bare and empty beach. Except for the
dead strands of kelp.

False Gods

Do these people really believe
that they will never die?
These grimacing
runners and joggers
that fill the parks and sidewalks
every Sunday morning
instead of the hard wood pews
of local churches.
You know the ones I mean;
with their vacant eyes
and designer shoes and sweats.
The misguided ones
trying so hard
to take such good care of
their outsides.
What will these folks do when,
sooner or later,
they finally meet their maker
and are asked
for an accounting of their life;
about lessons learned,
or good works done?
About honesty and ethics?
About love?
Will they try to present muscles
smooth and hard,
or numerous plastic credit cards
and cold cash?
Surely, the Gods must
be rolling on the floor, laughing.