BEANERY ONLINE LITERARY MAGAZINE
DESOLATE AIR
Erin York
The smell of yellow roses and stale seaweed ache,
Potent in the beach cabin
Pots and pans catch rain
From the caved-in roof
Shingles, half-buried in wet sand, leak,
Their color smearing the ground.
Rivulets of water
Splash up from under
Broken boards, reach out to touch the ocean
Faded sunlight blushes
Through soiled, spider-webbed windows
The stench of sweet decay
Hangs over the moth-eaten furniture
Like the rain clouds
Creeping veins and blooming flowers offer
Stark hues against white paint,
Roots chipping away rotted wood
This is No Man’s Land.
Made of deep sea trenches
ADDITIONAL READING:
CURLS AT TWELVE YEARS OLD
JOAN’S VICTORY RIDE
TO FEEL SAFE
MAGIC SHADOW-SHOW
SHAKE, RATTLE AND ROLL
A SONNET IS A POEM?
“DATING WHEN FIFTY-SOME:” A Guy’s Version
A Cry For Goodness
HAIR UNAWARE
Bookshelves of Conscious
EMILY AND MR. SPIDER
Moose, Goose, Deer
Two Haikus: A Summer Day & Night Sky
SITE LINKS:
www.beanerywriters.wordpress.com/
www.carolyncholland.wordpress.com
www.westmorelandphotographers.ning.com
