Mary Jane's Shoes

Mary Jane's Shoes

Musings of one person among many. Not exceptional in any way, as with all, I have exceptional experiences and varied reactions to those events. Mine is one of many life stories and how I manage and cope with the events which make my life my own, I attempt to put forth by way of my writings.

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Summer Union

July 6, 2015


Dragonflies in palm trees,

hot sand wills her to run 

as only one can on heated and heavily crushed shells,

on the balls of her feet, toes flexed to the sky. 

A hat of straw with white ribbon,

sunglasses hide under eye sweat

and beads of water run down her back.

Shade by lava rock, by shoreline flora

blocks late afternoon early evening sun,

here she comes to stop. 

With slow breeze, a sitting spot, here is a found break from searing sun. 

Lying down,

cooler sand coats 

her greased and sweat soaked skin

as if she were skinned fowl coated in breadcrumbs for pan frying. 


With shade in time she cools, somewhat. 

Breezes bring more relief, 

perhaps periodic momentary heat chills

as the sun lowers and shadows bloom to cover more sand, more lava around her. 

Lulled to near sleep her leg twitches,

breeze blown hair her cheek brushes. 

These movements and doves’ calls keep her still aware. 

She finds sand no longer a nuisance to be brushed aside. 

It is a real and virtuous bed, one that conforms to muscle,


Wind her blanket, sea waves breaking are her lullaby. 


Her skin disappears with more sand, 

enveloping her size with each breeze. 

Earthly comfort and connection, 

grains move into the bend of arms and shoulders,

the curves created by bent legs.

She no longer smells the sea 

as blessed she is to become entwined with its presence,

as a cook needs another to check the aroma of his dish. 

Rhythmic natural sound exists, that of water moving by action of waves.

The spin of her world, as she breathes now with the rhythm of the tide, sees the moon rising and setting, drawing and releasing oceans. 


She is but one extension of this world,  

as is a fish, as is a horse, as is a palm tree

lanky and curvilinear.

As she drifts to sleep she is noticeably such, an extension, if any are to see. 

With time, more enmeshed her form becomes

as skin melds into sand. 

The doves’ soothing intrusion refuses her complete immersion within the spot she lies. 


Though with his musical call

the shore is her bassinet. 

It is her carriage.

It is her bed of ancient lava and shell. 

It is safety,

is built from the same as she. 

The shore is home. 

Senses, hers, blend with that which earth emits. 

She is the shore. ~ mj goodman 

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