11/20/22
Waves crash against the rugged rocks,
A storm approaches, gathering in the distance.
The clouds morph into a deep, foreboding dark,
Distant echoes of barking dogs resonate.
The storm inches closer, a palpable presence,
Sea spray mingles with the taste of salty air,
A distinct scent fills my nostrils,
As the water playfully encircles my toes.
The sky unfolds, releasing drops one by one,
The first rumble of thunder nudges my curiosity.
I ponder on the imminent display of lightning,
A thin streak of white illuminates the scene.
A tree briefly transforms, bathed in red light,
A thunderous crack followed by a resonant thump.
Fear grips me as the storm fully materializes,
In the symphony of nature, its arrival crystalizes.
11:11 PM
When your sweater fits over your knees,
a droplet drips off the tip of your nose.
Clean porcelain skin with rosy red hues,
cream knit socks are a little too loose.
The carpet still needs to be vacuumed;
you're not even sure if you want to go.
That little globe string light is still out,
in the corner where the paint is chipped.
A layer of dust coats the hardwood floor,
icy fingers and toes, but you're burning up.
You wonder if she still remembers you.
The Stone Snakes
Gray is for emptiness,
the lonely, the forgotten souls:
The pigeon’s wing, that gray,
the chipped paint;
Soft shadows, the gray of invisibility;
The gray of rooftops, their shingles gray;
The cold gray of death;
Desperate gray, the gray of rain;
The silvery gray, showing the emptiness of a stadium;
The gray of greyhounds, a wide paw print in the snow;
The gray of what is remembered;
Grey of cement, gray of stones;
The gray of countertops, the gray days’ light;
The gray of tin pails, their fragile handles;
Shark gray, majestic power;
The gray of zinc, the thimble,
the stone snakes.
Turns Gray
The grays of gray clouds on gray days,
Dulling gray, longing gray, resting gray.
The gray of blurred morning vision
After a night of gray sheets
And gray pillowcases
And gray dreams.
Gray is for emptiness and lonely thoughts,
The loss of childhood excitement
When bright life slowly turns to gray,
The dark gray where all hope is lost,
The light gray, the indifference
Of being alive or dead asleep.
A patterned gray tissue box
To wipe my gray tears,
A gray water bottle,
Hydrating gray.
He feels it more than me.
He is colorblind.
His favorite color is gray.
He dilutes my gray with his bright white,
The bright white of his big smile,
Surrounding his vibrant blues
And his blindingly bright heart,
Coloring my gray world as I color his.
I want him coloring my life
Like a child with triangle crayons
Until every last hair on our heads
Turns gray.
Eight Hours to Paradise
Just far enough away from
Crackling heat and cherished voices,
Cool, dark, serene.
Cooing loons near and far,
I have yet to encounter a tougher bird,
So protective of their little loonlet,
Making the sight of a little guy,
A spectacle for the naked eye,
Broadcasting beautiful, choppy siren calls.
An ancient orange canoe,
Grey, black, brown, and maroon skipping stones,
Covering the rocky shore of my second home.
Helping to identify these familiar surroundings,
Faint light from the nearly full moon.
An old tan, metal chair merely existing.
Wood planks older than my father,
Stories of this dock flood my mind,
Dad’s memories stomped into the wood,
Eight siblings must share this puny dock,
Five brothers and three sisters.
My middle child father assures me,
The boards have always been sturdy,
My father I love and trust, of course,
But the treacherous fifth board,
I do not trust to hold me above the water.
Dipping my hand and expecting a chill,
Lukewarm, for once, is a pleasant surprise.
Minuscule monsters on eight little legs,
Lurking and scurrying on their turf.
The slight shade change across the water,
I’ve always wondered what's out there,
Surviving the thick, ominous forest,
And the extreme Canadian winters,
Black against a deeper, darker black,
Shows me the dense forest hills,
The mountains of my childhood.
The moon’s shine kissing a glassy surface.
The stars above are as clear as ever.
No polluting light from busy places
Travels to reach my ideal place.
Years pass and feelings grow,
For my home away from home,
An eight-hour drive to this paradise,
Could not feel any longer.
