THIRD POSTING

THE SONG OF THE SURF

One was a fisherman, the other kayaked the surf.  

Both held hope in aging bones

that knew the pull of an ebbing tide.

They’d meet at dawn where the breakers broke

and burnished bronze  beat a path from the sun to the shore.  

One caught bluefish, the other

sought swells.  Mostly a look and a nod                  

were all that was said.

Years passed, then unannounced the day came
when the sun painted its path

and the waves curled ashore,

but the two -- grown used to looking for,

seeing, and calling out

to one another – did not. 

With emptiness on its hands

time gave away its golden seasons to others,

but the surf circling its song, knew,

waited for a fisherman’s heart to mend

and a kayaker’s illness to ease

then led them back to the shore they loved. 

And again they saw, smiled, and called out,

but this time they hugged --

the two who never knew they were friends.

THAT SWEET VOICE OF THE ORDINARY

Last night, in the middle of the night,

my phone rang,

Mom, I said, startled, How are you?

But, there was no emergency,

and she didn’t say it, but I sensed

she just wanted to talk.

So we talked our usual, the everyday,

the common bits and pieces

of daily living --

the aches and pains,

what’s new in the neighborhood,

and how the kids and grandkids

were doing. 

Finally, I had to ask,

Mom, you died over a month ago,

 how…

That sweet voice of the ordinary,

the one that brought comfort

for so many years, drifted away

on a dream I couldn’t call back.

FEARLESS

For those nights of the days

spent in the Green Mountain National Forest

home to moose moving through the thicket,

bear I never did see but thought about,

beaver crawling about where I made my bed,

and other creatures

breaking the wooded sticks of my night

I slept simply out in the open with tarp

tied to tree and a sleeping bag upon the ground.

Then, for my first night out of the woods

and into a motel,

I closed the door, threw the deadbolt,

and then

hooked the chain latch

just to be sure.

A FEW SHORT POEMS

MOURNING MEAL

Driving by

the American Legion

my head was quickly turned

by the somber six

gathered by the flag pole.

Circling the deceased

and dressed in their cloaks of black

with heads bowed

under hoods of red

they stood.

Turkey vultures

picking away at the dead raccoon.

WELL, IT MADE SENSE WHEN I FIRST SAID IT

Every now and then

I think about

every now and then.

RAIN AND MORE RAIN

I

Looking through the mottled windshield of rain,

an impressionist’s silvery pointillism,

everything’s hazy –

the car in front of me,

McDonald’s where she went for food,

the young boy dashing through the downpour

that age of clarity.

II

Sitting in the car after leaving

the doctor’s office

rivulets of rain

ran every which way

after hitting the windshield

like answers

that couldn’t find their questions.

WHAT WE ALL MUST BECOME

At one time I could cast my line

into the sea,

feel connected,

and stronger than the one

of me

but now, Mother’s gone

and standing, stranded on land,

the fisherman,

looks out

to the fathomless face of the sea

and only hears

Come, it’s your turn now.

FIRST POSTING

Hi there,

I'm starting a new venture so bear with me as I find my way through this cyberspace world of blogging to share some of my poetry -- and at times my photos or maybe a drawing.  Okay, here goes -- three poems.

Join me!!
John

AT THE EDGE OF DAWN

It almost could have been anywhere.

The slow beat of a temple drum,
monks move to silent meditation.
Golden-eyed trucks crawl the dark,
the moon bulges towards full.
Tuk-tuks prowl early for fares,
dust hangs on the cool morning air.
A rooster ratchets the edge of dawn,
wood smoke drifts across the road.

A silent passerby nods, Sa bi dee.

As I said
it almost could have been anywhere
in this subtropical world,
but this time
it was in a small city
awakening in the mist of the Mekong.

Luang Prabang.

TRANSPORTED

Somewhere over the Rockies
flying at 29,000 feet,
no longer Baltimore, not yet Telluride,
no longer departing, not yet arriving,
emptied from past, not filled with future,
and across the aisle from me
my grandson sits quiet and absorbed,
stares into another world.

Lifted on the hollow breastbone of Now,
he too writes a poem.

FROM 37, 000 FEET

Below me
lights sprinkle the dark

houses
peopled with dreams,
despair,
the TV droning, bills to pay,
taxes to do

beds stained with sex

hoping for love.