Michael Lorne Leard has been writing for 15 years, and believes the idea is as important as it’s execution. He has been published in Quills Poetry, Carousel Magazine and Monkey Bicycle among others. Currently, he continues work on a collection based on the concept of loss, and its effects on the young.
The Beach
Isbella, on the shore, stands wanting,
alone, barefoot.
The ocean fills the spaces between her toes.
Her flowered dress- a thin cotton,
changes color as the dipping sun
sets the world ablaze.
The wind grows cool as
the evening courts the shoreline.
Her skin tightens from its caresse.
She rubs her arms for warmth.
In the distance,
children are playing,
running,
towels around their necks.
Heroes they will be.
To someone, someday.
She watches the ocean as it
deposits trophies at her feet.
Some new.
Some old.
But like her, all forgotten.
Feverishly,
she reaches for the sky to
pull a memory from a cloud or
feeling from the wind.
Any feeling at all.
Nothing.
She waits,
heart pounding,
eyes filling with sand and water,
Nothing comes.
Only more waves lapping at her feet.
She realizes her obsessions have become cumbersome.
And today is just another day
at the beach.
