Once, while sitting
On a tide-surrounded
Piece of Sunset Cliffs,
I smelled boyhood,
A summer scent:
Warm sand, blue cool ocean,
Seaweed, shells, swells, surf wax;
Coconut tanning oil
SPF 15.
The silence of waves before they break,
Bodyboard rash and sunburns,
The sharp asphault places in the parking lots,
Kicking sand on the backs of your calves
When wearing flip flops.
Bonfires and beer drinking,
Big Olaf’s waffle cones;
Smoke and fireworks and Frisbees,
Barbeques, volleyball leather, and Cokes.
The wet, towel-covered vinyl seats
In the Monte Carlo,
All in one accurate slap
Of a wave and the wind
Gracing my face.
Posts Tagged ‘Ocean’
Big Olaf
Posted: April 23, 1995 in PoetryTags: Beer, Blue, Boy, Monte Carlo, Ocean, Sand, Sunset Cliffs, Wind
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Rioting Raindrops
Posted: March 12, 1995 in PoetryTags: Ants, Banshee, Books, Clouds, Demon, Fire, Grey, Hail, Lightning, Mardi Gras, Night, Ocean, Rain, Siver, Soldiers, Storm, Streets, Thunder, Weather, Wind, World
The rain came down
Like cartoon anvils,
Spending itself on the cement
In an assault on the town.
The parachute-less troops
Gathered in the low-lying spots
And took over the streets
In order to regroup.
Rioting raindrops,
Seething and churning,
Swallowing curbs and sidewalks
And the floors of a few shops.
En masse, they moved
Like a swarm of fluid ants,
Chewing up the asphault,
Around, under, and through.
They occupied the intersection
Several steps from my domicile;
A congregation of soldiers
Moshing in misdirection.
The storm drain was debris overrun
By the midnight attack,
Mouth buried in what was handy,
Gagged by the silver-headed ones.
They celebrated down the gutters,
Their comrades swept down from the hills,
Retreating, they left for the ocean
Until their cries became gutters.
Discontent and garbled threats
Of heavy grey clouds yet to come,
Of their shock troops, the hail.
Big drops, little drops; they’re all wet.
Promises of thunder, their drummer boys
Their standards of lightning
And the wind-demons who bear them;
This I hear in the storm’s noise.
I stood in the lee of my apartment
Water draining from my hat and jacket
I watched the fury of the rain banshees
With a certain amount of excitement.
I love the rain and the wind; all weather
Which drives people inside to read books.
They boil kettles and build fires –
An opportunity to be together.
But I like to be outside in the dark
Of wildness and wetness and the glory
When the streets are reclaimed by the Mardi Gras rain
And the world’s turned into an amusement park.
I ran across the street
with a golden-haired girl
to watch the grunion run.
She’d never seen it before —
I’d never touched one,
always too scared —
but for her I wrapped one in seaweed,
careful not to touch its skin,
and I returned it
to my Mom,
the ocean.
I Can’t Breathe
Posted: September 15, 1993 in PoetryTags: Candles, Circle, Crickets, Dog, Dream, Echo, Fire, Fireworks, Honesty, Human, Joy, Lightning, Moth, Ocean, Rhyme, Sea, Sky, Smoke, Snake, Stone, White, Woods, World
why can’t I
just be another guy?
but I’m a person
with a snake-sharp tongue
and I’m a ripped flannel…
I shoot my mouth like a shotgun.
riddles and rhyming and rhythm,
not taken seriously enough to stay honest
just another number in the GTE phone list.
I lie and I lie and I lie
to convince you all
that the poet is just another human being;
that I am just another guy.
I thresh through these lines
like a dog wrapped in seaweed,
thrown with stones in the ocean:
I can’t breathe –
there’s all the smoke from the fires I’m lightning,
I’m telling the sheriff that I’m struck by lightning.
when does it all stop echoing ‘round in circles?
I think it’s just another dream.
I’m on a porch with a candle and a carpet;
there’s crickets all around
and I feel wonderful without the world dragging me down.
look, I see you don’t understand with a frown.
I can’t even repeat what I’ve said.
I can’t think of a poem I’ve written,
then read,
and thought that this is it, this is perfect!
I’ve even given up trying to rework it.
I don’t want to write for a living anymore
I feel like the homework that’s always lost to the dog
and I don’t remember whatever
I expected from myself anymore.
these fireworks of joy that I wished to paint the skies with
are nothing more than explosions
of white-winged moths from a log
that I’ve kicked walking alone in the woods.
Pennywise as a Lover
Posted: August 30, 1993 in PoetryTags: Beach, Blue, Eye, Love, Ocean, Pennywise, Salt, Sand, Sea, Tide
when I am away
I know that I am in love
with you,
with salts and breezes
from the ocean
that would go well
with your blonde hair,
helium balloons
for your big blue eyes,
dripping sandcastles
in the reflection of the sun
on the sealskin sand
of the tide on the beaches.
and I am the mist
that crawls in off the old pieces
of the sea that were caught
in tidepool fishing nets last night;
I come wrapping, a stole
around the necks of the cliffs,
rising up from the beach,
heads sheared off like
so many broken Michaelangelos.
Hush
Posted: August 22, 1993 in PoetryTags: Beach, Cat, Cry, Drum, Flesh, Moon, Ocean, Rock, Sea, Time, Water
you asked me once upon a time
if I could hear the speech of the sea.
I said yes and that
was where are agreement ended;
you heard eulogies, laments,
cries of change and supportive flesh,
the echoes of watery hands
drumming on cliffsides,
rolling rocks into its stomach,
a maelstrom of creative fury
controlled and unleashed
by the whim of the innocent moon.
But when I hear the ocean,
it is a purring cat, content
on lapping milky foam
on the sands of this one beach
and saying to me over and over
as it launders the shores
“hush . . . it’s alright”.
Dolphin Daughter
Posted: June 20, 1993 in PoetryTags: Daughter, Dolphin, Fly, Grey, Ocean, Sea, Water
A dolphin explodes from the water
because she is the daughter
of the foam that is flipped from her grey tail
flying skywards and seawards,
spraying dents into the surface of the sea.
she plunges back under the covers
of the ocean to meet the others,
dolphins which, not caught in tuna nets, are free.
I can imagine the surf in my hair
and the chill of the air,
when I stand up from the water
so I don’t go into the ocean.
because I’m a lilly-livered chickenshit.
I’ll walk down the cool tarry sand
and pretend that I’m under a wave;
trying to feel the slick water bead
on my skin and drip from my chin
because I’m far too afraid to go in.
Cliffs Look Good in a Certain Way
Posted: April 30, 1993 in PoetryTags: Damn, Earth, Grass, Green, Grey, Love, Ocean, Sky, Woman
the most damnable thing
is that I’m wistful, how it could have been;
a cliff by the ocean, powdery earth
and a fistful of the tough grass
to keep me from falling
into a grey-green sky;
an ocean with waves and tarnished sparkles
to lap at the leaden bluffs
where I first remember dreaming
of being in love with a woman.
I want you to see green
the way that I see green
in all of its fluorescence and grandeur:
a lawn and a suit
and a rain-clean forest in Hawaii fed by moss-strung waterfalls,
frog skin and garden hoses and glow sticks,
the bindings of books with gold letters,
childrens’ animated watercolors;
the hue and cry of the lifelong green
of the ocean where kelp beds hang,
or of a new car,
or of an apple.
I want to keep you forever, Fa –
you are a reminder of
my wonderful history with her
and you have never changed.
you, covered in lasting kisses,
big blue eyes made of waves
and ocean breadths –
you know where my spoon ring went.
Struck Dumb
Posted: January 28, 1993 in PoetryTags: Beauty, Blue, Dreams, Drums, Faith, Magic, Mind, Ocean, Sea, Sky, Water
sometimes things will strike me, strike me,
strike me solid with a beautiful thought.
I thought that all these things were really real
but now I’ve blinked and they’re not.
that’s just my lack of faith, of faith,
of faith in what I truly believe.
I believe in the movement of drums in this music
like the water-flow through a sieve.
dreams came and went with the ocean, the ocean,
the ocean of sparkling blue and screaming sea.
the sea so flat so far and so much a sky of its own;
I stood on the shore and watched it be.
I don’t understand when you say that magic, magic,
magic’s gone and it’s left me behind,
far behind and lonely for its pretty paintbrush touch
while we argue what’s in each other’s mind.
Untitled Poem #143
Posted: January 21, 1993 in PoetryTags: Child, Circle, Magic, Mirror, Ocean, Sky, Untitled, Wind
sometimes it all comes full circle:
a beautiful sky that you can’t see the end of
in any direction; even the ocean
mirrors me in its watery face.
I believe in it all now, the magic
of the things nobody sees,
of the things children tell us;
the wind remembering who I am.
I am Adopted
Posted: November 14, 1992 in PoetryTags: Blood, Bones, Mother, Mountains, Ocean, Rain, Rock, Stars, Stones, Water, Wood
Adpoted, I adopt my own ideas
About who my real parents really are.
My mother; ocean and spring rain; the dew
On grass stems sparkling, a field of stars:
All water, blood that courses past my eyes.
My father – rocks and wood and muddy bones,
The mountains laid behind and raised before,
All sturdy piles of softly mortared stones.
A Dream of a Ship
Posted: November 9, 1992 in PoetryTags: Believe, Bones, Dream, Eye, Magic, Mother, Night, Ocean, Rock, Ship, Sky, Stars, Tears, Water
I sag into my bonds,
bound to this wooden chair
with water from my eyes
six inches deep on the floor.
I feel all alone on a ship
gently rocking, back and forth,
water rolling, sighing
from bulkhead to bulkhead.
my head is down
and my hair is in my face but
if I was to look up,
my pupils would birth stars;
they would burn their way to the sky.
my hands are tied with
my own intestines, wetly coiled;
every movement
wrenches my stomach
in dizzy circles, hollow
like an airplane ride.
the chair holds me up,
gives me something to be tied to,
roots me to the deck; an anchor.
my mind hurts from
holding these stars,
squeezing my eyes shut and bearing
the sting of gas
leaking through my eyelids.
sails snap in my ears;
I grow a mast for a spine,
grasping handfuls of air
through canvas fingers.
I grow old and feel my hull
rotting as it surges
through these black waters.
I grow very tired from dreaming
of the sound of surf
on rocks, a shore.
tired from creating all this magic
for no one to see.
below, I flash open my eyes
and stand forth from the chair,
wet bracelets hanging
from my pale chafed wrists,
and I climb slowly to the salt air
of the deck of my ship.
I balance on the railings,
ignoring the spray of rain and sea,
and the call of oblivion
in the depths of the ocean,
my mother. finding strength
after strength after strength and
whittling them into kindling,
like so much driftwood.
teetering on the edge of falling
from the railing into myself
forever, I like being here:
I am myself — I have nothing but me
and my starry eyes and
my wonderful rotting ship,
intestines around my hands
and an emptiness in my stomach.
there are no more tears to cry
in the hold of the ship
for the toys I have lost
when I was younger,
refusing to grow up,
to grow old.
nothing can destroy
my beliefs; without them,
I go. I would let all the stars
that I have created
stream to the skies,
shrieking for me,
for what will become of me,
a bag of bones, a sack of skin.
I remember my stars;
they will remember me,
whispering my name
through the nighttime.
My Mother in the Ocean
Posted: November 5, 1992 in PoetryTags: Beach, Blood, Moon, Mother, Ocean, Salt, Sand, Sea, Sky, Tide, Water, Woman
it is something, standing by the sea,
feeling my heart and my blood
fashioned rudely out of ocean-salt
and the milk of beach-foam.
I feel the pull of the moon
on the tide standing here,
examining the sky
in the sheen of the wet sand,
in the surface of the water.
I smell the wet sexuality
of my ever moving mother;
a lover of immense strength;
hypnotic, the woman with depths
for her eyes, skin wet and fluid,
salty hips and buttocks and breasts,
cheeks and lips and thighs
in the flexing of waves and
in the rolling of the water, the foam.
Untitled Poem #131
Posted: June 22, 1992 in PoetryTags: Forest, Moon, Night, Ocean, Salt, Sea, Tree, Untitled, Wind
I slunk from the sea
late last night
to stand in a moon-dappled room
under a broad-leafed tree
to write these words from the ocean,
dripping and streamered
with ribbons of seaweed,
leaving the smell of wet salt and wind
behind for the forest
whose paper this is.
Creature from the Black Lagoon
Posted: June 15, 1992 in PoetryTags: Geoff, Glasses, Memories, Mermaid, Ocean, Stearns
Geoff Stearns rose dripping
from the ocean strung with
seaweed and shaggy hair
but without his glasses
which the mermaids claimed
for the memories.
Untitled Poem #-19
Posted: May 20, 1992 in PoetryTags: Cloud, Clouds, Dreams, Light, Ocean, Sand, Sea, Sky, Spider, Stars, Time, Untitled, World
once upon a time I was a youth,
no corpse dream thing, tiny and small,
but I was as big as the world,
bright and unbuttoned like metal.
so anyways,
I bend and I breathe.
the sieve of my skin leaks the sand
of my cloud life;
strange clouds, odd clouds
for people far away on cliff tops
to comment on and guess shapes in,
to play drums into rhythms for.
clouds of youth dreams;
light pouring through in great angled falls
touches the ocean far below me.
in awe, I flood across the sky.
a spider slowly connects the dots of stars
to build constellations of ships
for wistful sailors of empty seas.
I
the wet skirt of a salt girl
looks a lot like
maybe, a fruit roll-up.
II
the salt girl
with the wet skirt
is Madonna.
I think of you always.
III
it is a pretty picture,
but now this salty girl,
whom you have thrown in the ocean
with your poetry,
must go change her clothes
and take a bath.
Untitled poem #-11
Posted: December 26, 1991 in PoetryTags: Dream, Mirror, Ocean, Sand, Stars, Window
tonight
as a dream
of ocean,
there is seaweed,
a corsage
on my wrist,
sand in my nails;
my window was open
to the stars,
mirrors to
mad poetry.
Derivation of Philip Larkin: And the Wave Sings Because it is Moving
Posted: May 15, 1991 in PoetryTags: Dead, Dragon, Ocean, Sea, Wave
“And the waves sing because they are moving
And the waves sing above a cemetery of waves.”
the waves sing great Viking songs,
full of mead and adventures in stormy seas,
songs of lifting mighty dragon-prows
across many leagues of untamed oceans,
of bravery and of tales of distant lands,
but deep in the midst of the deeper sea,
the waves roll quietly in respect of the dead
over cities festooned with age-old seaweed.
show me show me show me how you do that trick,
the one that makes me scream she said,
the one that makes me laugh she said,
so I did I cut her head off
and then I jumped up and down on it
and then I threw it off a cliff into the ocean.
One ivy leaf do I sadly float upon the ocean in memory of you, who have retired in disappointment, disgusted and betrayed.
Untitled Poem #103
Posted: February 10, 1991 in PoetryTags: Ocean, Sleep, Tree, Whipped Cream, Wind, Window
I can hear the sound of the ocean
as I float in my sea of whipped cream sheets.
the wind in the trees outside my window
calls me softly
to sleep.
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