Sift

Distinctly the pad of her hand

the inside of her thumb

tapping like a tambourine

white dust exploding upward

each solid strike

and dare ask

why do you do that Grandma?

She liked wearing an apron,

To make it all smooth and loose

or something like that

she said.

The white powder 

was not flour

on my parents' kitchen counter

back then the oven made

TV dinners 

better than the microwave.

And as I sift

through the coarse grains 

of the collapsed sandcastle 

of my own making

where I grew into

adding on and adding on

but built too close 

to the tideline-

there was nothing 

softer than flakes of carbon and gold

no solid memories endured 

the crashing

like white shells

of me. 

Painting by Granville Redmond, 'Talk at the beach' c. 1931 in Public domain, via Wikimedia Commons.

Beading

The wind breaks
promises

and I storm off
in bitter retreat,

sucking out the sour
isolation...

And the shoreline
waves
recognizing its relationship
with the timeline

inevitable as the tides turn
over

Revealing
what has been there
and who is dancing at the edge
unafraid
of falling in

for a pearl.

It comes in waves;
pain, sleep, sound, this feeling
the crashing is closer

becoming brackish
tumultuous and turbid for a trace
of gold
in every full glass
we see through

The warm breeze
blew away
our differences.

How easily mist
the rising and falling
of all things

may be made
more
than solid or whole,
as in part

of us
is always drowning

and becoming
one and the same.


Painting by Władysław Wankie (1860-1925) 'Fisherwomen on the shore', [Public domain].

Weather (or not)

There are no problems, I have been told,
simply-events, an occurrence.

It is no coincidence, it suddenly occurred
to me, occur can be like low tide, recurring.

If there are no problems, are we living
in a comfort(able) zone, which becomes
uncomfortable,

like growing out of shoes,
or them growing apart
from you.

Returning our attention
to the steps we take, looking down,
we notice the children all looking up.

The sky is never the same.


Painting by Eugene de Blaas [Public domain].

@ the Piers Edge

I shudder to think of jumping in-
which toe first...
or how to swim?

Perhaps it was warmer then...

Now my icy blue veins are showing through-
But brazenness grows like a dragon in my chest

         and i see naked me, vulnerably, visibly,
trembling at the waters edge-
red tears pool about
                               -then this trepidation
                                lulls me in
But I stand firm. Rooted. Waiting for the tide to rise,
high enough
to reach me
                   before I begin
                   to sink any further.

I remember in there
it is warmer than the air...



Painting by Edvard Munch [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.