Blinded
oh my love , where are you ?
with out you i don’t know what to do
Water Spray
water is so cool
Don’t think it’s a fool
Where there is water
There is life to mankind
It’s ambrosia to everyday
Sometimes it hugs with fondness
Sometimes it tears down life with anger
Some time it creates fear
Some time it drowns into as tears.
It carries you until to your end.
Some time it becomes a rain
Some time it offers a pain
A drop of water creates History
A drop of water generates mystery
A Seaman’s Lullaby
Screaming, screeching, tantrum horn —
Startled sleep,
rocking left and right, gyroscopically down, up, a seaman’s lullaby,
some days.
A piece of it, towering, framed by sky’s dimmer-blackness,
alone, jagged, 3000 feet cone, piercing shark’s teeth shoals,
cresting waves,
terror moonlit, postcard perfect,
some days.
Phosphors flickering on then off, sideways wake
of 100 feet of double planked oak hull, under gaff rigged sail, made some place else.
All hands
on the gunwales, halyards, helm, sextant, compass.
Where had it come from? The push and pull of blame off South America.
Caribbean currents, pushing, roiling around fragment of Venezuela?
Deadly seas, always there, not feigned playful by a Norwegian,
or whatever cruise.
(Can I swim the mile,
or is it three?
survive shoals, sharks, and eat kelp and crab until,
Until when?
Some day?)
Hour 1 : In a Post Pride Thunderstorm
In a Post Pride Thunderstorm
And the rain comes, emptying the main street of all its characters. Only a few remain.
Running around as the brutal drops keep chasing them.
Your hair is wet, dripping with joy
and both our eyeliners are writing new words
across our faces. We don’t run. Because it’s too late,
we’re already soaked in history. Earlier this afternoon
we smiled at each other over a crowd of rainbow flags,
Watching a baby stumble their way to a stranger waiting with her arms opened.
And for the first time in 4 years, for 2 minutes I get to forget how much
I love you and you don’t.
As the rain washes away this old version of us
we step into the after party to the sound of rolling thunder. People as wet
and reborn as we are today. Bodies made of glitter and rain that keep dancing
despite
Maybe, somewhere on our timeline there’s a version of us
that can be friends without the hurt.
And in that storm I finally manage to find strangers’ faces pretty again. In this post everything
I finally say hello to this girl I only talk to online and avoid at protests.
She’s standing under a shivering tent.
Her smile is warm and bright like tomorrow.
Hour One: Memorial For The Family Cabin
Memorial For The Family Cabin
This Summer – no baptism
into cold water at the end of the dock.
No yearly ritual of swimming
to the buoy and back, freeing
my dormant muscles from winter’s
confines.
This Summer – we have memories,
a haphazard tumble of photographs,
and a signed real estate agreement.
Snapshot: five kids posed on the front of Dad’s boat.
Four boys surrounding one girl. Our ages range from smiling
school age to grumpy adolescent.
Snapshot: birthday party for our Irish Grammie,
toothless grin as she blows out the candles
celebrating 80-some years.
Remembrance.
Renewal.
Absolution.
Calming chaos
Sitting in front the Atlantic
violent waves defying logic and physics
A constant menance, yet still therapeutic
Take a dip the voice in my head says
No better way to connect with my ancestors taking as slaves
Diving in with a smile on my faces
All I could think of was them with a grimace
choosing death over servitude .
Prompts For the Second Hour
Text Prompt
Read Robert Frost’s poem Stopping By Woods on a Snowy Evening, chose one line or phrase, and with credit, write a poem with that line or phrase in it. Prompt partially contributed by Se Johnson.
Image Prompt
Photo by Rayson Tan on Unsplash
Hour 1: Amphibious
Amphibious
I was a small thing
watching the shifty line
between ocean and sand
a changing place
where I could find home
tides pulling under
the loose earth
of my body
below the surface, it was quiet
I held my breath as she rocked me
lulled by her heartbeat
Waking on my back
a flock of nurses in white
floated through the room
When I came out of surgery,
my first breaths were shallow
I was born in the ocean
taking my first steps
on land
My first poem
I am confused
I don’t know how to use this platform.
I will continue to strive for clarification.
I am concern about women’s healthcare in this nation.
I still have a minute to go not sure where and what is to follow.
I breath and the answer will come. It’s call faith.
Dadball
2. ‘Dadball’
Don’t you want to meet him?
Their line of questioning begins
when I tell them he left before I was born
there were so many things he could’ve taught me
like throwing these baseballs with good form
but, I explain, I’ve never had a problem
hurling them onto the roof above,
watching them roll and clang off of the gutter
then right into my glove.