Poessay: Rosary 1 - Pink Sand Beach

Pink Sand Beach

I am wandering on the Harbour Island Beach off Eleuthera, enrapt in thoughts, hearing cosmic symphonies conducted by the waves, oblivious to gulls and others two legged creatures. The reflectimuse’s intensity and focus alternately sparkling and fading like the distant stars in the cosmos.- thoughts that nurture in mind's oven as we live our allotted three score and ten and either wither away or metamorphose.

From mundane to terrene, from mystic to mysterious they dwell on subjects that touch the core of some arcane hermeneutic practice, grass blades, shape of noses, how in the old the noses bloat as their bodies shrivel, colour of eyes, food wastage, garbage treatment, the tsunami of capitalistic apathy camouflaged as concern for the down and out or “them developing folks,” – they must have democracy, they must pull up their socks…beg your pardon sir, they do not have shoes…forgetting we bombed them to the last century before gushing forth with our charity (for which they pay with their unborn, with their pride, with their lives and their oil) and when they take ours we retire to cigar rooms and unthinking tanks and call them funda-mentalists and call them believers of the wrong beliefs, (they subscribe to the wrong Book, why don’t they learn that the new Almighty is the Greenback?) the survival of the fittest with $15 lattes, the abject poverty of $2 a day survivalists, (in darkened salons they discuss books and authors and shrug in dismay at the unfortunates who don’t read) and wonder about the look in the eyes of those who cannot afford bus fares to work but whose eyes lit up at the thought of the hole in the ground left by the disappearance of the twin exclamation marks in the concrete jungle across the oceans, how dare they display such vicarious glee at our dead, forgetting we unceasingly make them pay a thousand folds for dreaming such dreams...and global warming, melting of glaciers, hardening of arteries, the rush hour traffic, road rage, the desolate vastness of the beach, the hue of water, reach of the waves before they compromise with the beach, the colour and make-up of the sand...fine, grainy, pebbly, soft, hard, crunchy, the observing look of the security guard, ever ready to pounce helpfully, the blissful unawareness of the honeymooners, or the knowing smile playing upon the frolicking children's lips.

I will write. I will write about all these and more on the pink pages of this three mile beach.