Walking on the Beach in a Windstorm

I feel

that I’m walking across

the end of the world-

this place,

where crabs caught unprepared

scurry and dive

and look for holes in the seamless landscape

where my footprints are gone

just seconds behind me.

They tuck their eyes

and wish to become stone.

The sand

becomes a stinging

ghost-mist-

a fast fog, snarling and cutting and biting.  Sand

is not one color, no-

it is deep blacks and browns,

reds and yellows of the richest texture,

white as bone.

The colors that lack are found in sea grass,

pebbles and shell:

purple, blue, here an orange.

And never

never,

do the colors stay.

Even the ocean,

sickly gray and churning,

bilge brown where the shorebreak twists up the shallow seabed

in a moment of sun is suddenly

breathtaking green and

shimmering blue and silver.

Then all becomes thunderous white

as water

soaks to earth

turns to air

as bits of sea foam

break from the mass and roll-

like living things

like the crabs

like shooting stars-

until they become something else.

This,

all this is roaring,

screaming at me-

pleading, “don’t you see?”

The lines we draw, so convenient,

(this is water, this is sand, this is color, this is man,

the stars,

the crab that wishes to be stone),

so blurred in this place

at the end of the world

(don’t you see?)

Peace

A song in the joints
and marrow of a man
carries with it
all the peace

of bowing out
of a fight with God.

of a car accident
instinctually averted.

diving under
powerful ocean waves.
of then breaking the surface.
of the first clear, sputtering breath,
of the buoyancy-
and the precious glimmering sparks
scattered skyward and
caught, frozen, by the sun.

of never being hurt.

of the jewelled and sacred night.

Been on vacation...

Sorry for the lack of updates, I have spent the last 2 weeks on the coast of North Carolina.  This does not mean that I have not been writing- just that when I am on the beach, as most times, I prefer to write on paper.  My goal for the rest of the summer is to write every day.  This does not mean that I will be updating this blog every day: I am currently working on a prose story that I hope will become a novel.  I have already spent several hours putting together a rough outline and fleshing out the characters.  I will, however, keep working on my poetry as well, and will set a goal to update this blog, if not daily, at least twice a week.

I will start with the next post.

Neither Here Nor There

Before they come to bleach my bones,

let’s talk about

a few things less pretty.

After all, there is more beauty

in the carefully folded stems of discarded daisy chains

and empty chairs at restaurant tables

than I had previously thought.

I wonder if he could have imagined those things,

kicking the dust from his sandals

before he had his future figured

as a martyr.

But maybe that’s neither here nor there.

Now that that’s out of the way, we can talk about my ego.

The asshole likes to walk around in public

in his trendy clothes

and spout clever clichés

like, “That’s neither here nor there.”

He is a fool and a braggart

but I can’t deny that sometimes

he’s good company.

So where were we?

Ah, yes, all that ugliness.

You see, there is nothing that is truly

neither here nor there.

So where were we?

Ah, clever clichés.

You see, all wise men know that they know nothing,

and that we always have more to learn.

Maybe that’s why there’s no perfect human teacher.

Maybe the truly wise don’t teach.

The morning after the rant.

A friend of mine referrred me to a talk that John Cleese gave on his method to be creative: foremost among his tips were allowing oneself time and space for your mind to rest up against a problem.  Now that I have some time and space, I thought I was lacking a problem.  But no- even in the midst of what was supposed to be a celebration last night, I found myself completely angry at the world.  And myself.  I realized I have not only strayed from the path of the light- I'm not sure I was ever really on it.  It's just a path.  I have no idea where it leads.  And as time went on, my eyes drifted from my surroundings and just looked down at my feet.  I have forgotten how to properly live in this place.  I have forgotten all spirit.  But it's a place to start- and now, for the first time in a long time, I have some time and space.

I tend to look at myself before I look at others when things are out of place. But as I look around, I realize, it's a trait that may be lacking lately.

Progress

The fields where we played as children are now
shining new
suburban subdivisions.

But where are all the fields?