When the fisherman rock on their boats in the sea,
after pulling in a hard day with a big catch of crabs
ready to be shipped to Red Lobster for the next meal,
I sneak out of the house, my bare feet digging
into the powder moist sand. I crawl up the steps
of the boardwalk to keep from tripping down
and falling into the sand below, but most importantly,
to avoid splinters in my toes. Landing isn't as soft
as I would like, since I miss the bottom step,
but I don't linger on it long. Armed with a flashlight,
a bucket, and a net, I set off for my own crab hunt.
The little white ones are the hardest to spot,
as they dash across the sea hardened sand,
to find a hole that is probably not theirs,
but they all seem to understand.
I step as softly as possible, to keep from alarming them.
With my light glancing around, back and forth,
I finally spot a big one. The big ones scare me a bit,
because they could actually hurt if they got my hand.
But this hunt is not for the faint of heart, I decide,
and bolt after him. He didn't have time to blink before my net
came down and trapped him into the little pithole in the ground.
With a scoop and a gentle flick he lands in my bucket,
which still has some sea water in the bottom.
I look on with satisfaction as he crawls around in fright.
First one of the night and there are so many more to go.
Little pale ghost crabs always crawl along the midnight floor.
Tuesday, March 12, 2013
Grandma's Garden
We relax, side by side, thinking about the birds in the trees,
about their feathers, plush little freedom devices
of green and blue, black, brown, and white,
purest white like the sun when you look at it right.
We lay in this garden, surrounded by trees
filled with leaves that hang over our heads
like spiders in their web. We are the flies,
caught under their sticky weight as we sit
in the garden and meditate on the sound
of the flowers that blow back and forth,
then sing with the birds a nice little chorus of Vivaldi.
The roses are the piano, the birds act as flutes and trumpets,
the daisies play the french horn,
and the iris slowly draws the bow across the cello's strings.
Together, my grandmother and I listen,
with our eyes closed and minds awake.
about their feathers, plush little freedom devices
of green and blue, black, brown, and white,
purest white like the sun when you look at it right.
We lay in this garden, surrounded by trees
filled with leaves that hang over our heads
like spiders in their web. We are the flies,
caught under their sticky weight as we sit
in the garden and meditate on the sound
of the flowers that blow back and forth,
then sing with the birds a nice little chorus of Vivaldi.
The roses are the piano, the birds act as flutes and trumpets,
the daisies play the french horn,
and the iris slowly draws the bow across the cello's strings.
Together, my grandmother and I listen,
with our eyes closed and minds awake.
Witch's Pyre
Green snakes erupt from a time-glass jar,
but the lid never opened.
They seep to the air and pollute it with streams of sickly grime,
causing disease to follow every mile.
Just like her hair, that river of blood pouring from her head.
I remember it well as she passed by,
first when she was a child, and so was I.
Strange and beautiful, with innocent mischief.
Now dark and defiled.
I look on sadly as she passes by again.
No robe of green to cover her proud mane,
or shield her eyes from those who sought her dead.
I feel a tear slip down my face as she stands
on the witch's pyre, her leaf eyes looking at the men around her
with defiance. The torches are lit and set to the wood,
but I never heard her scream.
Laughing and chuckling, eerie in the wind,
like a banshee calling to her newly summoned dead,
she disappeared in the flames, but I couldn't watch.
I remember too well the taste of her kiss in my head.
but the lid never opened.
They seep to the air and pollute it with streams of sickly grime,
causing disease to follow every mile.
Just like her hair, that river of blood pouring from her head.
I remember it well as she passed by,
first when she was a child, and so was I.
Strange and beautiful, with innocent mischief.
Now dark and defiled.
I look on sadly as she passes by again.
No robe of green to cover her proud mane,
or shield her eyes from those who sought her dead.
I feel a tear slip down my face as she stands
on the witch's pyre, her leaf eyes looking at the men around her
with defiance. The torches are lit and set to the wood,
but I never heard her scream.
Laughing and chuckling, eerie in the wind,
like a banshee calling to her newly summoned dead,
she disappeared in the flames, but I couldn't watch.
I remember too well the taste of her kiss in my head.
The Old Druid Man on Beggars Hill
Does anyone know what happened to the old man
who lived in the mire below Beggars Hill?
Some say he was a wizard, or perhaps a druid.
Are druids really evil?
I can't tell the difference.
They say he had a daughter
who was brought to the village as an orphan.
Do you know how many orphans we have in this village?
Enough to overrun America, for sure.
They run among our people like pathogens run
in the air around a hospital.
She could be around us right now.
I bet she has the talents of her pa.
Magic never looks good on a man, but for women,
it seems to fit. They are all witches in their rite it seems.
Perhaps she will survive,
and maybe my own boy fall for her scarlet eyes.
who lived in the mire below Beggars Hill?
Some say he was a wizard, or perhaps a druid.
Are druids really evil?
I can't tell the difference.
They say he had a daughter
who was brought to the village as an orphan.
Do you know how many orphans we have in this village?
Enough to overrun America, for sure.
They run among our people like pathogens run
in the air around a hospital.
She could be around us right now.
I bet she has the talents of her pa.
Magic never looks good on a man, but for women,
it seems to fit. They are all witches in their rite it seems.
Perhaps she will survive,
and maybe my own boy fall for her scarlet eyes.
Illusionist
Magic blue eyes run over the white page,
but they don't see white. They see black,
black and red, gold and green, yellow or brown,
perhaps a touch of grey.
The image of a tree, bending beneath the load
of a thousand little sparrows lives there,
but never once on the canvas.
The birds chirp happily and stare at his electric blue.
They chirp one triumphant blow in unison
and take off to torture some poor soft wood,
winking at him as they go.
A lion lays down beneath the shade of the freshly renewed tree,
with leaves growing like daisies from the snow,
out of nowhere, but fully alive.
The lion snores and rolls over to more comfort.
Ghostly hands spring from the tree
and caress the lions fur,
the branches reach for the brush
and finally the sight begins to grow.
but they don't see white. They see black,
black and red, gold and green, yellow or brown,
perhaps a touch of grey.
The image of a tree, bending beneath the load
of a thousand little sparrows lives there,
but never once on the canvas.
The birds chirp happily and stare at his electric blue.
They chirp one triumphant blow in unison
and take off to torture some poor soft wood,
winking at him as they go.
A lion lays down beneath the shade of the freshly renewed tree,
with leaves growing like daisies from the snow,
out of nowhere, but fully alive.
The lion snores and rolls over to more comfort.
Ghostly hands spring from the tree
and caress the lions fur,
the branches reach for the brush
and finally the sight begins to grow.
Pocket Watch
Golden metal gears, running in circles,
like a guineapig in the Matrix on his wheel.
Even then, he runs faster than they.
Unlike watching sand slip through a tiny crack
carefully measured with size and weight in mind,
these mechanical wheels move on their own
nothing but gravity, springs, and two giant hands to hold.
In the metallic reflection,it glows red like the marriage
thread of old, tied to two separate fingers
on two separate hands, to show and unending connection.
And unending stream of love and minds,
where two chaotic forces meet to make something of mankind.
like a guineapig in the Matrix on his wheel.
Even then, he runs faster than they.
Unlike watching sand slip through a tiny crack
carefully measured with size and weight in mind,
these mechanical wheels move on their own
nothing but gravity, springs, and two giant hands to hold.
In the metallic reflection,it glows red like the marriage
thread of old, tied to two separate fingers
on two separate hands, to show and unending connection.
And unending stream of love and minds,
where two chaotic forces meet to make something of mankind.
Monday, March 11, 2013
Unfaithful Hands
Black ivory and pearls connected to drums lay waiting, hoping to burst into symphonic praise.
They won't be toyed with today by anything other than sunbeams
playfully running their fingers across the taught strings
and carefully tracing the golden rims.
Pieces of paper littered with the minds of great men
who donated their skulls to the world at large
before passing away to be forgotten forever more,
leaving behind no more than the legacy of a soul.
But you don't follow music.
You just let you hands crawl seductively along.
You play each string like a cassanova,
making love to one then moving to another,
but never two at once. At least you stay true for a moment in time,
even if not for a whole measure.
Don't tell me you love me more than her
because I know it isn't true. Anyone who can trade ladies like that could never be loyal,
but if you will settle for second best sometimes, I will content myself in your hands,
in watching them swerve and dance, like a bird in the air.
Birds dance the best of all creatures, even bears.
Hold her carefully, touch her gently, don't let go.
I want to hear you play her some more. I know you are cheating on me, but I like the sound.
So play it like you love her, but play it only for me.
They won't be toyed with today by anything other than sunbeams
playfully running their fingers across the taught strings
and carefully tracing the golden rims.
Pieces of paper littered with the minds of great men
who donated their skulls to the world at large
before passing away to be forgotten forever more,
leaving behind no more than the legacy of a soul.
But you don't follow music.
You just let you hands crawl seductively along.
You play each string like a cassanova,
making love to one then moving to another,
but never two at once. At least you stay true for a moment in time,
even if not for a whole measure.
Don't tell me you love me more than her
because I know it isn't true. Anyone who can trade ladies like that could never be loyal,
but if you will settle for second best sometimes, I will content myself in your hands,
in watching them swerve and dance, like a bird in the air.
Birds dance the best of all creatures, even bears.
Hold her carefully, touch her gently, don't let go.
I want to hear you play her some more. I know you are cheating on me, but I like the sound.
So play it like you love her, but play it only for me.
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