Confessions of a Beachcomber by Richard Weaver

If I wake early I walk
toward the sun; if late, away.
I accept what the island provides.
Obvious things I leave:
shells, numinous and ordinary.
driftwood--it burns faster
than I can carry it to camp.
But always there are surprises:
a pair of shoes came in one day, my size!
A bottle of port wine.
A pair of unattached wings.
Lemons, onions, an alligator pear, toys.
One day a book washed in --
The Pageant of Literature-
and a pair of trousers. My size.
And once, for seven or eight miles
the beach was green with banana stalks.
All the animals on the island
joined me in the feast.
I took my share, leaving the rest
for the grackles and crabs,
the few raccoons who won’t
wait for them to ripen.



-Previously published in Underfoot Poetry



Richard Weaver continues as the official writer-in-residence at the James Joyce Pub, though he splits time with Hooley’s Public House in San Diego.