Seven Seaside Poems

IMG_1806I.

Wind kicks at her hem.
The skirt flaps and snaps.
White cotton surrendering
to stiff seaside gusts.
A palm shoots to thigh
to bar the immodest scene
of goose-bumped flesh.

II.

A fishing boat chugs through the sound.
Puttering on sputtering engines
–then silence and drift.
A surefooted seamen stands and slings
a net that splays open like pizza dough.
It lands gently on shimmering seas,
and sinks into green-blue waters in slow motion.
Trying to snare an unsuspecting catch.

III.

Snorkelers ride the swells
like drifting corpses.
Legs unkicking
Arms unstroking
Mesmerized by a new world below
Awe expires from tubes,
rising and evaporating in sun-warmed air

IV.

Sailboats rock like metronomes–
masts counting out a rhythm,
a planetary pulse

V.

Trudging ashore,
retreating seas pull sand underfoot
He leans into the trudge,
his body-weight barely defeating the sea’s suction.

VI.

Red and white lanterns drift aloft.
Slanting up into night skies over the bay.
Light flickers and dances
before flashing into cinder
that will fall silently into churning waves.

VII.

Water gurgles in rocky sumps at the sea’s edge.
The tiny caverns floods like a heart chamber,
scurrying metallic green crabs flee out onto the rocks.
No two tides are identical–nature surprises even veterans.

POEM: Random Fragments

Blue dye
catches the eye.
&
The flapping curtain
becomes an ocean
of possibility.


Mask of plunder
star of stage and scream,
he steals hearts and minds,
and pries about the perfect lines–
making them angles

-angles jaunty and inverted

plunge
plunge
plunge

into a soul that vaguely
desires perfection



A stentorian voice is all it takes
to make her weep, to make her quake.
She’s the victim of an illicit past–
illicit as was made her caste


locomotives chug through eternity
steam spurting from their boilers
no one knows where they came from
only when they came from



Hooked claws dent packed earth.
It lumbers, rotund, but quick of eye.
Slinking like a lizard.
Its belly scales grind the ground


Hooray! The stores are in the black
by putting you in the red.
Congratulations on clearing the rack.
Enjoy your water and bread!



Saris, pink and orange,
their tiny mirrors
turn disco ball and
light plays and dances
on benighted walls
in pentagons of illumination


A million colors
to honor the million faces of god.
A god known so well that people
visualize its face twisted into
a million permutations.

They know him when he’s happy.
They know her when she’s sad.
They know it stern.
They know it wrathful.
foreboding.
welcoming.
serene.
enraged.

reflecting the infinity of humanity.



IMG_0538

POEM: The Hippo

IMG_4377

The Hippo never took an oath

to watch its weight or check its growth.

Hungry, Hungry, it is in deed.

Five hours per day it’s known to feed.

The Greeks called it the river horse.

A horse that’s not a horse, of course, [of course.]

Hippos do like rivers, though they don’t float.

Submerged below, they’ll wreck your boat.

Where else can one find two tons of fun?

But careful, don’t think them too fat to run.

They’ve been clocked at 30 miles per hour,

and there’s scarcely a thing they won’t devour.

BOOK REVIEW: Poems: Three Series, Complete by Emily Dickinson

Poems: Three Series, CompletePoems: Three Series, Complete by Emily Dickinson

My rating: 5 of 5 stars

Amazon page

Three series are collected into one volume. Each series is organized into four parts: Life, Love, Nature, and Time & Eternity. The connection between these themes and the verse contained therein is generally clear, and the latter category is largely concerned with death—a popular topic for Dickinson. While Dickinson is known for being morose, her poems often manage to be both playful and dark at the same time. The best example of this odd combo of grim / playfulness may be one of her most quoted poems, The Chariot.

Because I could not stop for Death,
He kindly stopped for me;
The carriage held but just ourselves
And Immortality.

We slowly drove, he knew no haste,
And I had put away
My labor, and my leisure too
For his civility.

We passed the school where children played,
Their lessons scarcely done;
We passed the fields of gazing grain,
We passed the setting sun.

We paused before a house that seemed
A swelling of the ground;
The roof was scarcely visible,
The cornice but a mound.

Since then ‘t is centuries; but each
Feels shorter than a day
I first surmised the horses’ heads
Were toward eternity.

Dickinson’s life story is well-known, at least in broad brushstrokes. She was a 19th century poet who was introverted in the extreme, and eventually became an outright recluse. According to her own words, she didn’t take up writing poetry until she was in her 30s. This existence was facilitated by the fact that she was from a well-to-do family and had no pressing need of a husband or an income.

Dickinson’s introverted nature is touched on throughout her work, and no doubt contributes to her appeal among those similarly afflicted. The opening poem of the Second Series, another of Dickinson’s most famous, speaks to this aspect of her personality.

I’m nobody! Who are you?
Are you nobody, too?
Then there’s a pair of us! Don’t tell!
They’d banish us, you know.

How dreary to be somebody!
How public, like a frog
To tell your name the livelong day
To an admiring bog.

I enjoy Dickinson’s work, but it’s the playful nature, rather than the macabre, that appeals to me. This is accomplished by short lines, use of rhyme, or at least slant rhyme, that makes the poems melodious to the ear. I’m fond of lines such as:

Success is counted sweetest
By those who ne’er succeed



God permits industrious angels
Afternoons to play



Hope is the thing with feathers
That perches in the soul



Faith is a fine invention
For gentlemen who see;
But microscopes are prudent
In an emergency!



A word is dead
When it is said,
Some say.
I say it just
Begins to live
That day.



There is no frigate like a book
To take us lands away,



You cannot fold a flood
And put it in a drawer,–
Because the winds would find it out,
And tell your cedar floor.



He fumbles at your spirit
As players at the keys
Before they drop full music on;
He stuns you by degrees,



Deals one imperial thunderbolt
That scalps your naked soul.



For we must ride to the Judgement,
And it’s partly down hill.



While simple-hearted neighbors
Chat of the ‘early dead,’
We, prone to periphrasis,
Remark that birds have fled!



And if my stocking hung too high,
Would it blur the Christmas glee,
That not a Santa Claus could reach
The altitude of me?



This Kindle version is readable. A common complaint about good books, particularly those that are cheap or free, is that the Kindle formatting detracts from the reading experience. That is not the case here. There is a first line index at the back. This is useful as most of the poems don’t have titles, and Dickinson’s first lines are often attention grabbers.

I’d recommend this for poetry readers.

View all my reviews

POEM: No Chunky Monkey

IMG_1346there’s nothing sadder than a monkey

who’s grown pudgy, blown up chunky,

and become a Mars Bar junkie

just cause we’re genetically entwined

makes it neither right nor kind

to give them a bootilicious behind

 when swinger’s branches threaten break

and under foot the earth it quakes

it’s then too late to lay off the cakes

when dealing with our friends furry

remember no ice cream or curry

no panicked food drop and scurry

 IMG_1439

POEM: Building Mythical Beasties

IMG_1651
Hands of a surgeon,
Fins of a sturgeon…

Wait, no… that’s not right.

Let me admit that I have no gift
for mythical fliers that get lift.
One can’t just throw wings on a rat.

Of course you can, we call it a bat!

Alright, bad example…

One can’t draw wings on a whale,
and through the sky expect it sail.

Much better.

How did the likes of primitive man
create the myth of a flying orangutan?

They did no such thing.

Fair enough, then answer me this:

Who came up with ogres that eat babies?
Does a crescent-moon werewolf give you rabies?
Who first saw a spiraling dragon,
and how many drops remained in his flagon?
From whence came the fearless griffin
body of a lion and the head of a… chicken?
If by her shrill scream you know a banshee,
how’d you know it’s not any old woman she?
In how many beds are succubi layin’
in which the occupant ain’t already strayin’?
Leprechaun stories come from notorious drinkers,
and Gorgons and Sirens from a culture of thinkers.
My deficit, it seems, is as aligns with my fears.
Quick, get me a stack of books and a case of beers.

POEM: Awkward Bird Conversation

AgraFort17Three little birdies sat on a rail.

Two little birdies spoke of no avail.

“Sam, you’re just not one of us.”

“I’m not a bird, like you or Gus?”

“No. Some birds just don’t go together.”

“You mean the ones without any feathers.”

“No. Some birds are just kind of unique.”

“Yeah, I once saw one without any beak.

“Some birds are from very different type eggs.”

“We all have two legs, so what’s wrong–I begs.”

“It’s not that there’s anything wrong, per se–

It’s just that–well–we’re green, and you’re grey.”

“So you won’t sit on a rail, preen, or be seen

with any bird, unless its color is green?”

“Well, it just sounds silly when you put it that way.”

POEM: Scared Little Chipmunk

Taken at Fatehpur Sikri

Taken at Fatehpur Sikri

Poor little rodent, run up a door.

Chattering and chattering, frantic, he swore.

Babel Fish Rodentia translated his words:

“It’s not bad enough, the cats and the birds,

hectic humans and their frantic pace,

always running about like they’re in a race.

Stuck on this peg for nigh half a day.

‘A break in the traffic’, I fervently pray.

Pfff! Bipedal humans with their gigantic feet

designed to crush chipmunks right in the street.”

HAIKU: Notes From an Evening Walk

Bat black skies above
Jinking, rolling, and dipping
Dog-fighting for food

 

The Morning Glory
After dark is monotone
But remains shapely

 

A pack of street dogs
Bursts into barking, relief
Their mark? Lunchbox man,

 

Shadow silliness
Man flails his arms overhead
Walking behind me

POEM: Human Farm of Underachieving Aliens

IMG_2485

What if the world that we know

is just a two-bit reality show

or some high-def video game?

Wouldn’t it be terrible lame,

if we were the toys of an alien race

of underachievers from deep outer space?

What if our planet currently resided

on a beat-up, old card-table–lopsided,

in the basement of a strung-out dude

who sat around in a cloud in the nude?

What if all of the wonder and foreboding

is just the result of some skillful encoding?