The Santa Monica Symphony

Sounds of the surf,
Crashing against old, stubborn piers.
Sounds of the parents,
Dashing their pride against stubborn ears.
And the People of the Sun,
Shrieking in the splash of cold Pacific waters.
And the gulls fighting the pigeons for crumbs,
Like mothers and armies of prodigal daughters.
The quiet sounds of new lovers sighing,
Moist and heavy saying nothing at all.
The clamor of old lovers falling away,
Like tired leaves in the winds of Fall.
The babies gurgling with wonder,
The little girls begging to play on the beach.
The bells tinkling on the yachts,
Moored as far as my eyes can reach.

Young fishermen dreaming,
Of the fish yet to be caught.
As they lean back against the rails,
And lay their poles upon the boardwalk.
The handsome one cracks a joke,
And the older one laughs into the wind.
They clap each other across the shoulders,
An old Spanish song they begin to sing.
Then they turn their gazes north,
And stare at Malibu across the Sea,
And their eyes pool with so many hopes,
Glistening for all the world to see.
The hushed murmur of cars,
On the Pacific Coast Highway.
So unlike the cars where I come from.
And fleetingly I miss Bombay.
And the sound of my own laughter,
Rises to join the symphony in the air.
There is so much music in the world,
In the little things, anywhere, everywhere.