An hour at Palolem Sands GOA.

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Travel  |  House: Booksie Classic
I spent an hour at hi-tide shack at palolem beach ,goa,india and penned all that happened around me .

Submitted: November 09, 2011

A A A | A A A

Submitted: November 09, 2011




A near I glimpse the tidal waves, rise high,

Sweaty brows drip on the face, a dry.

My tender soles they trod the fiery sand,

Salt stained draft, it kissed moist lips on my face tanned.


The sunbathers, surfers and wading beach walkers they cluster,

The sands of the beach, without whom the trade here lacks luster.

The mousy shacks they, lie in garland about the beach mouth,

The water sports boys they peddle their drills further down south.


The surf board freaks and the water dipper are so many,

The dolphin rides the touts could coerce you for just a few penny.

The red vested lifeguards are always on their toes,

A breath of relief, as the tippling tourists, their number grows.


Either rocky edge so grand they seem,

Looks like some image straight out of my dream.

The ripples, sounds a melody repeat,

The artisan, tests his skilled percussion cask to a beat.


The guitarist dipper strums on the gat,

It’s fun for us in the shack as we sat.

The artisan jams to the strumming note,

The sale of his percussion he wishes to promote.


A robe draped lass, she captures her lover,

The sun, its rays darkens the picture as above it hover.

Reshoot does she, from another angle,

A smiling lover’s flushed face she manages to wrangle.


The hi-tide shack it’s perched a high,

The view is great and the breeze ,it zips by.

The distant travelers they bathe in the sun,

Some on the sand , others  swelter drip their as they run.




  Balding head darts, it reflects its gleam,

Of the scorching sun and the skin cream.

The peddling tribal woman with an orange drape,

A family cuddling a little one, the sun to escape.


A young woman, alone she walks,

A stray young man I think he stalks.

The tattoo on his arm seem so strong,

They are lovers I see and I know I am wrong.


The flower power oldie, he walks with his guitar strung  back,

A bag in his hand and stuff he puts aside on the beach rack.

Beside them a hulk walks by, in nickered blacks,

To the percussion maker’s shack we can see his sandy tracks.


A bikini clad lady, she dart towards a fella,

The blueness in her robe shades her name tattooed, Isabella.

A chat they seem to have and away he’s gone,

She kicks some sand and wades back to her beach chair all alone.




Past noon it’s time and ebbing are the tides,

The dippers galore and we can see them lying by the watery sides.

The eagle sweeps down and glides a close,

The chasing birds they are but a murder of black crows.


The tall blond man ducks on the water he ambles,

With a bulging tummy we see it rumbles.

The thatched roof stays the sunlight on me,

The blue clothed ceiling textures the sky and the sea.


The dark Indian lass, aglow on her face,

The heat rays redden her skin ablaze.

Hurriedly she moves to the thatched shack.

Her lover here rubs lotion on to her back.


Cattle herds , see them stroll the sandy water,

An English couple walks away from the boat with their daughter.

Beneath the beach umbrella a man cleans his shades,

The strong breeze its trapped around him under the glades.




An hour has gone by and my throat is all dry,

Sparkling water I gulp down the bottle with the blink of an eye.

Content is my heart for this poem I create,

Good or  bad , you can choose to debate.

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