There are enough twists and turns in life...
I see no need to add any more.
Sunday, January 29, 2012
Wednesday, January 25, 2012
An ignominious memorial
Tuesday, January 24, 2012
Even Now
Leeward Danger
The sun is low, near its demise, on the sea's horizon.
Even the breakers are seen by a child as pulling down
The very sun itself in their grasps clenched white;
And the clouds mount to the heights and so weight down
the sun, burning red in the evening.
From out across the shallows, the sound of the surf
Upon the coral reef has its alluring charm to the unsuspecting:
even now, the skeletal remains of a sloop
finally give way to the turbulent, wrenching waters
on the coral--full of its own deceptive beauty,
The child cries;
A man weeps to the sky.
But the weeping is only
to be lost in the settling fog.
Even now, the moon is only something vague
hung in the heavens.
For the sun, in its apparel red,
Succumbs to the night so oppressing.
A sloop is to windward,
Beating away from the land to its lee
With the reefs lashing out,
Foaming white in eternally unrested rage.
Hard-pressed to the wind,
And with double-reefed main and storm jib,
Yet, the land looms ominously to the lee.
The bow rises to each wave,
And so it falls in the trough,
Spray rushing across the deck into the faces.
Caught in a current and a headwind
(lest the wind veer around to the stern)
Surely tragedy awaits:
Its fingers ready to greedily grab
Away the vision given.
Yet, was not the sun aglow in varied hues of red
As it left us to the night?
The sun is low, near its demise, on the sea's horizon.
Even the breakers are seen by a child as pulling down
The very sun itself in their grasps clenched white;
And the clouds mount to the heights and so weight down
the sun, burning red in the evening.
From out across the shallows, the sound of the surf
Upon the coral reef has its alluring charm to the unsuspecting:
even now, the skeletal remains of a sloop
finally give way to the turbulent, wrenching waters
on the coral--full of its own deceptive beauty,
The child cries;
A man weeps to the sky.
But the weeping is only
to be lost in the settling fog.
Even now, the moon is only something vague
hung in the heavens.
For the sun, in its apparel red,
Succumbs to the night so oppressing.
A sloop is to windward,
Beating away from the land to its lee
With the reefs lashing out,
Foaming white in eternally unrested rage.
Hard-pressed to the wind,
And with double-reefed main and storm jib,
Yet, the land looms ominously to the lee.
The bow rises to each wave,
And so it falls in the trough,
Spray rushing across the deck into the faces.
Caught in a current and a headwind
(lest the wind veer around to the stern)
Surely tragedy awaits:
Its fingers ready to greedily grab
Away the vision given.
Yet, was not the sun aglow in varied hues of red
As it left us to the night?
Long Ago
In The Hands of Winter: Thoughts of Magnolia Bend
A lone bird flies low
Over the estuary,
Cast a grayish hue
By the forbearer of night.
A Norther scoffs bitterness
In the eyes of the lone bird,
In silenced grace banking to the South.
The sun remains
Only as a smeared red
Faded among the branches-
Frozen in seasonal dismalness.
The first vestige of snow
Lay upon the ramshackle pier,
Withered and dry-rot...
Never to die.
Soon,
The night is choked by white
Monday, January 23, 2012
Sunday, January 22, 2012
Thursday, January 5, 2012
Wednesday, January 4, 2012
Monday, January 2, 2012
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