Sunday, June 24, 2012

Fly~away, 1

Elevens, originally.
Nine now.
No, the two are still,
yet don't know
(nor care).

That forty-two years should pass.
That you took me in
three beyond.
That our fathers are buried
within stepping stones of each other
in the
middle of this town.

Few have this,
I know.
We rarely squabble.
Ha, true.
Yet so different.

Words for each:
But me, lighter/
yet grateful.

So, we leave soon.
To the northern town
to adventures
before we see.

We had that, you know,
in the land after Kennedy,
in the days of Jude,
before lost children and brothers
and broken hearts
and stranded lovers
and fathers

Nights up long,
checking of boys 
over pizza at the Red Lion,
dreams of school
and airplanes
and the
world to be saved.
Did we save anything?
She nodded in the way that just we know:
Only the enchantment of elevens.


Sunday, June 17, 2012

Brigantine whispers

Exquisite sun beyond bearing
dive into warm Sound waters/yielding sands below.
Fond shouts above/below, bathe in silence.

Laughter of boaters
Sundays after mass, our mass all the night before
as sun set
and bottles cracked
and faint voices floated from
the long dark brigantine beyond the pier.

After the fall of eve
a bull shark slips by beneath
Just passing through, worry only in the August heat.
The manta sleeps at dawn,
the pelicans settle in before the storm.

Taste the salt and
watch the shore storms rise.
Wait, my love,
to swim
'till morning enters.

Saturday, June 2, 2012

Spur of the lark

Spectacularly stubborn.
Staying despite the Blue Ridge wind-jump
and curious moths.

Ink-stained grape-ade
for the one
not drinking.
Drink not.

The tall beauty in
that hurt the eyes.

Beswept potion.
Tempting to
Alpine stablers
grew a-plenty,
the purple fencelines
where whispers told to witches,
another day.

Battle of the Blacksnake

Say you, who wins?

They're lovely, aren't they? he said from the warming soil.
Black back coiled only slightly.

Was that a wink?
Seven feet of sleek and he winks?

Sweetly seductive bubbles of raspberry
in the old French basket.
Pungent leaf lettuce
butter-melted in the southern sun.
Slither-son saucy knocks
slips in. 
No introduction needed,
he knows the ground in ways
we never will.  Dirt
is his respite.

Let's make a deal, he said.
You take the blue ones, I the red.
I'll get home faster,
as I see that you tumble along when you walk.

Toes are so inconvenient, aren't they?