Training at Ned’s Point, Mattapoisett, Massachusetts

 

The lighthouse, white

washed brick stands

stark against the matte

grey, winter waves,

darker than the leaden

steel clouds, my breath

hangs in the air, a puff

of steam captured in a mask.

 

It sits, as grumpy old New Englanders do

cold and silent, watching.

 

Seagulls dart over the tarnished silver

surface of the sea, but human

trash is easier pickings.

Rats of the Sea

Ocean pigeons

Dropping discarded wrappers

on the rocky beach.

 

Every Saturday morning, we bow

to the East, the tides

silent against the rocks. Boats

in their moorings sheeted white

with plastic and snow.

 

Submerging, the pain is instant.

An exquisite icy blow

shocks me alive,

pins and needles

more electric than Afib paddles.

I shake

red and blue

dripping on the beach.

 

Its lines have long since

smoothed into aesthetically pleasing curves;

its jagged character flattened.

Vessels crowd wooden docks,

glistening, reflecting the polished

sheen of privilege.

Quiet and still more often than not.

I wish I was more

like the lighthouse

like the sea

like the boats.