DAILY PHOTO: Havelock Island Feathered Sunrise

Taken in December of 2018 on Havelock Island (a.k.a. Swaraj Island)

POEM: Seashore Mind [PoMo Day 15 – Villanelle]

The waves are churned to foam.
The sight mesmerizes.
My mind is miles from home.

My seated self does roam --
chaos that surprises,
like waves are churned to foam.

Like one w/ Capgras Syndrome,
hustler mistrust arises.
My mind 's wary of home. 

I focus on the chrome,
but my ear recognizes
the waves that churn to foam.

I've vagabond chromosomes,
but still the thought chastises:
"Your mind is miles from home!"

I'm sitting all alone,
and my mind surmises:
Like waves churned to foam,
your mind 's so far from home.

POEM: Infinite Ships


The voyage, now, is at an end.
The anchors have been cast.
The fleet bobs silently offshore,
looking boundlessly vast.

For fog has settled on the bay
and ship shapes fade to gray.
They count themselves infinite ships
while bounded by that bay.

The sea deceives, that much is true;
the rest we’ve yet to know.
Some will swear that trawlers sit there
that were lost long ago.

Coastal Haiku

shore wash:
chasing, and chased by,
tiny feet



crab sand art
alien beach language
’til high tide



dark clouds.
fishing boats race
churning seas



spiked urchin
wedged amid the rocks,
step wisely



low tide
glass sea stretches to
the breakers

Sea Haiku


liquid metal
shape-shifting silver seas
ribbed and rippling

 

tiny crabs
writing alien script
high tides erase

 

turquoise water
bound by brown patches
a tidal maze

 

tiny limpid fish
braver than your bigger peers
drifting as they dart

 

tsunami swamped
moments under water
forever changed

POEM: Sunset on the Sea

Will those trawlers haul their nets through the night,
even after darkness has descended?
When clustered stars offer the only light,
and the land-locked day has long since ended?

Are fishing vessels like the dreaded shark,
that swims endlessly when wetted by sea?
No mourning nor merriment owed the dark,
and miles between the hull and the quay.

They persistently glide on ocean tides,
measuring time by space left in the hold.
There’s a secret some sailors will confide,
each outing ends in a death unforetold.

There is the pleasant death of days at rest,
but then there’s becoming Poseidon’s guest.

POEM: River to Sea

The river twists through a barren landscape.

Filling with flotsam, detritus, and silt,

dragging death downstream,

it will pour into a bright, blue sea.

You should savor that scene,

but your view is from above,

and so you see a shit-colored plume

splaying into the clear, calm waters.

And you fear the shit stain

will spread across the sea.

But it doesn’t.

It seems to settle.

You never knew the clear and calm could

subdue those murky, mucky waters.