Stan Morner
Tsunami: A Beach AllegoryNo one could say this beach lacks charm, so sweet-
Of perfection the very image. They
All frolic, swim and laugh, whole clans who meet
And play in peace. No thought of break away
Wild wave surge or flood tide can spoil their treats.
These innocents will intermix their right-of-way
with sea and sky. Their psyches fear no harm,
And they create a scene of infinite charm.The pattern disturbs me, although it’s hard
For one to admit it. Yes, we who are
So strong, so self-reliant, whose regard
For Number One has been our true pole star,
We all smile at the ill-starred, rear guard
Humanity of this quiet communard.
We know no good can come from such neglect
Of care and caution, absence of intellect.And sure as shooting, wayward waves rear up
Like humps on the horizon below red sun.
The swell of water lifts a boy’s small pup
And rolls the helpless ball beneath a ton
Of surf. All bodies ripped, heads pop up
And they are mowed down by hit-and-run
Tsunami splashing followed by the suck
Of tide retreating. I am awestruck.Pathetic bodies banged against rocks,
Whole families are dragged out to sea.
A dazed girl grabs hold of a tree and talks
Herself into not letting go. The lea
Of vacated beach land reveals some pocks
Of life- a picnic basket here, some debris
That hangs from bushes there. The warning sign
remains in tact but floats in a pool of brine.“Beware the waves and watch for swells and tides.”
All there in black-and-white for all to see,
Wouldn’t you say? A predictable suicide
To our objective little bourgeoisie
And to their curiousity-minded ride
To cultures it finds piquant and ill-starred.
And still, no one could say this beach lacks charm,
Especially when one is safe from harm.This plush hotel, unique you must admit,
Is fortress, womb, and status symbol all
In one. Here we can spoil ourselves and sit
Detached. Waves may roll and storms may fall,
But we will be secure. Yes, we can flit
Through tasteful room decor as nature mauls
The outside world. Our fleur-de-lis showcase
Motif is balanced by Queen Anne's lace.But friends, is life just one fine fricassee?
The restaurant, I find, is in poor taste,
A hardhearted, dark flight of fantasy
In a wrongheaded and stark world of waste.
Oh, perhaps, I might overstate my plea.
Remember, I was there, saw diners face
The sight of natives, arms akimbo,flair
Like helpless herring. No they did not failto eat their quail, their snails, their bales of greens
With pales of ale. Expressions they would make
Of pity, empathy, and care between
The servings seemed polished and fake.
A silent voice was heard off-screen,
The kind of sound that comes from inner ache.
“God helps those who help themselves,” says the rule.
If you don’t know that much, you are a fool!A claw that pointed towards heaven’s face,
Her hand had hardened in sand. So small
A girl to stop and wave. This earth’s a place
Of inequalities, a free-for-all
That staggered my being. I would race
Away, put distance between this seawall
Of unfairness and myself. Had I not
Abandoned my place in touch-me-notComplacency by leaving “warmth and charm”
Made manifest in tourist’s fawning leer?
Through death grotesque I sift the sand and farm
Debris for blooms of life. Could I but hear
A mournful moan or see the twitch of arm
Or leg, I’d know that prayer interferes.
Unfair and grisly though the order be,
Our world is not without some pedigree.“There’s nothing! Only stranded fish that bake
On breached beaches beneath sun as red
As anger. Universe, you are bastard, fake,
not worth our pain.” I swore. The calm, Club Med
Inscape of ocean before me, pancake-
Like flatness replacing waves that had fled
And disguising the dead, it prettified
The truth and spit me out all cockeyedAnd tongue-tied, a man without a plan.
I bolted, left the scene. No way to stay.
But get this. Even before I began,
Those richsters took to the beach to play
In peace with salves and oils, their Bain
De soleil and such like popinjay
Accouterments. I’ll bet they’re still there
Because they love their lives- fair or unfair.
Bio:
Stan Morner lives in Walnut Creek, California. A retired high school English teacher with wide-ranging interests, his poetry, essays, travel articles and fiction have appeared in numerous magazines including California English, The Kansas Magazine,Clockwatch Review, Anais, An International Journal, Collages and Bricolages, The San Jose Mercury News, and Carquinez Review. Stan is a Deacon at the Lafayette Orinda Presbyterian Church and is a Vice-President of the Ina Coolbrith Circle. He was the winner of the first poetry contest held by the Mount Diablo Interpretive Association and the editor of Mount Diablo 2000 images.
