for Magpie Tales, Prose Poetry, Writing

Caprice by Santorini

Charleston Farmhouse Door

Hopping and skipping on uneven cobblestone paths

on this warm sunny day.

Watching the taverns dot the caldera of the island,

I gasp in the air filled with garlicky and organoic aroma.

Then I stopped for a moment to wrinkle my nose

for I wouldn’t want to eat lunch just yet,

I scraped off that layer of smell and inhaled the wet, salty taste of the sea,

and chuckled, thinking, Only dogs smell in layers, not humans.

Not sure as to where my feet would take me, I recollected my early morning’s memories

of the latest beach hopping that I had.

The last beach has the finest sand my feet has ever buried themselves in, and

I jumped and built sand castles only for the waves to wash them away.

I could always build another for I am a princess, 

my kingdom follows me wherever I go. 

That beach has become my favorite. Who would have thought dreadful things breed beauty?

Like what the volcanic eruptions did to my known sanctuary.

I opened my bag and brought out polaroids of the beaches that I’ve been to

and I sat, my flowing skirt ballooned halfway through my action.

As my floral bottom fell flat on the uneven pathway, I laid each polaroid carefully.

Red. Black. White. Cream. The colors were varied and each photo palette holds its own grace.

My nana used to tell me that the colors of the beaches on our place

depended on which geological layer is exposed.

A heart tug is what I felt for the black beach; I think it’s wickedly sophisticated,

however, I disliked its ability to absorb the majority of the heat that hits it.

I looked up and an appalling chagrin replaced my earlier carefree doldrums,

the black dead lock remains as it is, while its chromatic wall paint happily danced.

*Written for the Magpie Tales

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