To: Night, There will be no words

Moon shimmer atop the sea
                              Take me
Into your crested,
              Closing, wet black
Mind-
          If I
Stand here,
                   listening to your
gentle snore, rhythmic as
                     White noise
No one voice
Rises up

High moon,
                    Mid-nite, we stand
edge to edge, like the
                    Folded note
I tried to sing
                   To you, like serenade
I made a solid
                        Offer,
of my devotion
                        Hereby

Anchor leaden legs
that sway and stay
in Place
              seemingly,
ceaselessly churning in places
                              vast, liquid,
Beckoning as foreign skin,
sucking in
                  the air between
Us,          as a magnet may
Be attracted

The Other
shore
is out there,
We stand here
and just Believe
We must.



Painting by Winslow Homer, "Moonlight' c. 1874 in Public Domain. 

Solid ground

The earth is severely sere here.

The mud has alligatored,

the clay refuses to mix.

October, at the end of Fall,
the ground is cracking open
as if fault lies everywhere,
lies, blaming saints, spirits
and the howling or screaming
of wind through narrow channels
gives way to funneled expression,
dust devils and whistling

which
severs connections
and strains the crust, curling up
at the corners

The baselessness of these terra firma's
now below sea level
seem deprived of all
but the wound salt.

And while we stretch out
in our gravel beds
the ocean spreads
its legs, the rivers open slender arms and
canyons yawn, too tired to carry more
and have already
spent all
the time
in the world.

In need of nutrients and lubricants,
and seconds,
we wait for the weather to change
it's mind and stay the way it was
predicted to be by date.

Terrestrial we talk of air and water
as if we did al-
right
with fire.

We have no choice but to dig our ruts
and pace ourselves
to death.




Painting by Arthur Streeton (1867-1943), date unknown, in [Public domain].

Graciously greening

Grateful grew
a waterfall-
when it seemed
dry
the stream had fallen into
a lull
a bye and by chance
a babbling brook broke the silence,
the banks exhaled
a warm chill
mist its forests
and swelling by providing
encurrentment
to every atomic bead
aligned inside sealed springs
to thaw and draw
themselves
forth
by means of appreciation
to rise in a flood
of movement
for no means other than
most simply Being
drawn willfully to the sea
of Eternity,
a wash in tranquility
when the thirst
for refreshment
all but evaporated.
This atmosphere
was everything we needed
to thrive.


Painting by Marcus Larson c. 1856 in [Public domain].

How salt takes to wounds

I made it-
not to say that it is done-
that I can breathe now
that I know this.

I am here
none-the-less
by the sea
all-the-more-
for me-
guilty
pleasures are all mine
in fine coarse grains.

I am aware,
consciously,
that the measure of success
is off the charts, the beaten path
off the grid,
infinite and yet most
definitely a direction,
like horizon.

It does not move me
along-
but still, I bother
to rise to each occasion,
daytime, in lightyears
despite the erosion, in spite of doubt,
the tides still rise
in order
to pull stars in
circular motions,
like me, reeling.

I am pulled back to sea.
The end begins again
with me
mixing carbon and salt,
separating oil from water
I found a solution
to stop the bleeding.




Watercolor by William Matthew Hodgkins c. 1894 in Museum of New Zealand Te Papa Tongarewa [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

Summersway

So the sun insists its way in
and over,
taking priority back
of kissing the skin
and drawing the ocean
on dreamy maps
that glisten.

The ripe sea air consumes
a whole head,
and it is contagious
with this trivial sense
of summer breezes, appetites of air
and lusty whims
that swing wildly between
again and memory, either or
reminiscent.

Time stretches it's long legs out,
roads unfurl possibilities in arcs, by bends
keeping mysteries, mountains echo
words overlapping in the distance,
and it can be heard playing for fun,
like us we were just
on the mend
and blending in,
taking our Time
back.

Maybe migration meant more to us
since we got locked in-side
our own ornate cages, (in) security,
as if this accessorizing, plating, and heat
signaled we chose this, as if these
swift summers were worth this
All (in),
for one great trip
away.
Sunsets only
a whisper a sway.



Painting by Robert Lewis Reid (c. 1910-1920) in [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons. 

The currency of pretty

How could you be so Beautiful
and not show anyone?

Why do you squander this Gift
doing nothing powerful
with it-

You don’t have enough to spend
frivolously, you said.
Our investments differ dramatically.
Meanwhile, I have been saving up
All my paper money
for disgraced tears
the old fashioned way.

Only trying to help you get
A head of yourself.

Your advice is not the flotation
device
I need to keep a heads up.
I think I am too heavy, too deep
to let it Be. Do not worry about me.
I would happily dissolve back into the sea
as in, dis-
appear
coming back again and again in tide,
leaving crumby trails of gold.

This was you being ugly,
or just one of many duplicates.
Monotony blinds anyone who sees just
silhouettes and small talk, grains as significant-

Personal preferences aside, you should see
Yourself in this light.

Instead we blow off the complimentary
and make glass castles or ballerinas,
all so fragile where thinnest.
If only we could trade
places
matter and Purpose
melt in twisted hands,

beauty was nothing new.

Photo credit by Graham Crumb/Imagicity.com [CC BY-SA 3.0 (http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0)], via Wikimedia Commons.

She seas you

dreamt that you brought me
a bag of sand
for my hourglass

the gold flecks sparked, alit by
the sunlight in your eyes, whereby
the ocean leaked

and the bag was empty...

certain it was you.




Painting by George Bellows (1917) in [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

Muffled cries in the marine layer

Everything comes in waves.
Everything that matters
will remain but moved.
Droplets as dew travel
covertly along these liquid lines
where air and water are harmonized
and expressed as external forces
weaving winds.

Victims of our voices;
cliffs conduct the falls,
reefs set the pitch,
reflections in the glass face(s)
blink back sharp silver lights
tossing frothy stinging beads
and foaming at the rabid lips.

The water was left wild.
The sand shows where steps,
the lines, the lyrics, the chorus
soothe all savages, beckons all beasts,
who seek definitive ends
in horizons.

The sirens wail while
time takes its toll in salt
and lets the rest settle.
Absorbed and absolved
in a sea of selflessness.


Image By Pogobuschel (Own work) [CC0], via Wikimedia Commons.

A Sea of Soles (Haiku)

Learn to (not) look, (not)

see the mirror refracting

the shape of our soul. 

Image of painting by Paulus Moreelse, c. 1632 [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

Tide & True

The ebb and flow of tricky desire

peaking on crests

crashing loud and rolling calm

the horizon line wearies the eyes

taking in forever

a panoramic view

a scene in a moment with you.

Trudging against rocky seas

tip-toeing on the glassy surface

touching the liquid mirror

and licking the salt

of savory endings.

What does a wave want

more than release?

To rise and become more

than itself.

A glimpse of glistening face

in a marine metropolis

under the melting sky

gathering all the glow

and casting it back

in a reflection of the

whole whirled.

Image by By Amada44 (Own work) [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

Elementary and Primary

Basically,

these three things;

(by) Blood, (by) Air, and (by) Sea

and their causation with us

we are able feel inertia
in these,from these
most elementary, learn of

likeness, of course-ness, like us, 

matching a certain momentum, 

catching Time in between any of these

molecular miracles, mimicking 

all that we are (not) and more

that we may bear witness

as Being

as Blue

And though, it may seem true, 

temporarily

but truly, beneath all three,

as deep as one could show,

I know and have long said

I would paint them red instead.

Call me color-blind

and paint me white

whatever you do

don't say,

I shouldn't be blue.

Image of painting by József Rippl-Rónai [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

Las Olas para dias...

Way way

d

o

w

n

South                             West

Perhaps we are un poco loco

As Latin lingo-goes

Spanglish by the seashore

Where-Donde

Las Olas-The Waves

peel like Naranjos

Nobody I know though

peddles oranges under freeways

These days

D

o

w

n

Here, where El Sol, warms the soul

holding sway

in the Santa Ana way,

winds                                Offshore

salt air beckons to play

Building castles made of sand

stuck on Land

Breaking-Ruptura

frothing white mane in charge

liquid glass breaks at my feet

but See, the Sea, El Mar-La Mer-Las Olas,

-faces holding-                           Up

     o      l      n        along,

R       l     i       g

settingtogether  a  l  o  n  g

-Venus and her Sun-

hugging our vast horizon.

Composed 5/21/15.