“Art thou

the shallows?”

says

the

twinkle-

striped

fish

hanging weightless

above

a foreign foot.

He stepped

upon a ray.

It looked

put out,

but forgiving

…

scooting

into

the oblivion

of sand

…

In hunter ball-

cap and long-legged

linen.

Striding forth

to meet the

sun and

wind.

Open-armed ~

A pelican

in human

form.

On the phone…

Memories of other

oceans cluster

on the line

like juicy

barnacles

that words

break open.

We say goodbye,

with the taste

of salt and salad

upon our

tongues.

Far out

The waves

break open

Silence

A pelican’s caressing

wingtip

slices into

the immense

turquoise

a zipper of white ---

And beneath,

the knowing

fishes

dart in

four dimensions

Up and down and

side             to                       side

oblique

tangential

C -

- entral

in  

sea

of blue

Their scales of

hoary light

in cool

shallow

reefs

Reflexes of tallow

moving beyond

the mind of motion

at one with

the eyes of gods

The sand takes it.

Shells pulverize

like a boxers

teeth

and spatter the

beach with faux

pearls.

But the sand takes

it.

Infinite patience

is merely

the ability to

break up and

reform

with elegance

and a little

humour….

Rivulets   let

the sea down

Frozen

         laughter

until another

wave

         brings

another joke

I saw you, silver

oval leaf of

life

lying where the

sea flang

you.

You had ceased

to struggle

back to that

fickle but

enduring womb

and lay there

on the beach

like an empty 

spoon

The moon in 

your eye,

your eye,

         in my mind,

my mind

in sorry

for your

                       plight ~

And hoping that

you had fainted

from the prank

of tides,

I threw you

back.

In a fisherman’s

Lust.

I prayed you would

get away.

I willed the

net to break,

the line to slacken.

Couldn’t look back.

Slippery Orpheus

watching my footprints fill

with hope.  

                          Dinner at the Crab Pot

A girl Dancing

with a Priest

Swirling delight

in the mouth of

War.

And suddenly

God tripped

on the

Delicious curve

of her

Young mouth

and

Wished to

Rewrite

The Bible.

But his imagination

was clogged

with cloisters

and oaths.

And so

He drowned

His love

in wine

And sacred blood,

The nail-polish

of the soul,

Stayed with the girl

Tickling her toenails

With the scent of

Roses.

The Dance  (Ma’s dream # 1)

A girl sat waiting.

Hands in lap

Lap on legs,

Legs on dance floor

stuffed with

the tails and

manes of

a thousand

horses…

Dreaming of drums

awakened something,

and the hands

stirred

like moths

as manes and tails cushioned

five-toed hooves and sparks

of love and lust collided.

The light drew

fingered feelers

across the luscious

lambent lilt.

Hooves and wings

and velvet

hair and eyes

and lips

fluttered and flew

between

heaven and hell

creating earth

memories

for us

to drown in… 

He

offered palm

to palm,

A sweet repose

for fingers

And like two

birds, the

hands ascended

into space

and lingered

~

A Young Sailor

Dashing as the waves …

Too cocky for

his rooster

                            Captain’s

    scratch

and roiling with

                                                                     ambition,

Sets sail from

         a wheat field

and ends up

tilting dragon-surf

of mind

with salty tongue,

lancing

sword fish wit,

bright eye.

Still cocky as

Hell

and sensuous

as heaven.

Mammy Sleeps

After a breakfast of

pristine oats and

cloven-ruby grapefruit

She sleeps

A critical dawn of

embodied poetry.

Miraculous

Her little face

a bashful sunrise

among the salt-

stretched sheets.

Rick

Following on bicycle

He picks up the

pieces of our words

and mosaics them

into

a divinity of

history.

He keeps the memories

in boxes on

innumerable shelves

made of shell and bone.

He sighs thoughts into

little glass bottles

salvaged from

defunct airlines

and builds castles of

time on the shores of

patience.

He is the architect

of heart

and the

philosopher of

tenderness.

He comes from

a planet where fish

float in air

and

humans

crawl:

Iridescent flies

on the face

of a

Goddess of Salt

and Sand. 

Neil

‘Neath hat,

to shield the mind

from an abundance

of radiance.

He twangles the

light into taught ligaments

for ideas to

sing through;

Protects young

musings from

the melting heat

of suns and

daughters

feeds them raw

meat of dreams

so they will

fledge their

own wings

with the ancient

fuel of curiosity

and desire.

A Shelf of Sand

Soon scattered,

Then rebuilt

As oceans teem

With the ability

To resurrect the

dead and conjure

bone from calcium

and tears from

rain

Memory

“TAKE THE LINE,”

the captain shouts,

and the first mate

disappears over

the sunny side

of nowhere.

The boat and we

stop

suspended

on the ocean

where only

a white hat

bobs

to tell

of her

determination

and the

shifting humour

of a changing

bottom.

A pause…

The sea is an

empty mirror…

A hand,

still with line,

breaks the

shining surface,

V

I

C

T

O

R

I

O

U

S

.

Soft Candles

Under shimmering

Surface.

On some dimension

ghosts are

real

aligning

corporeal

memory

with

waves and

winnowings

of

            time.

The Crab Pot

She sits across

from me

and

down from

him.

The giggling

fan dancer

hands waiving

like palm

fronds

In a flash, she

is the army

nurse

under a belly-

full-of-bomb

sky

Looking for heaven.

Another flash,

irate mother

chasing down

gigglers

with a

wet noodle nowt

She stands in

the third flash

against a

backdrop

of blue,

Easel at ease

and paint brush

unbuttoning

the sky

with viridian and

lilac.

He makes a joke;

“the electric

fan dancer!”

We laugh

like seagulls,

and take another

pull on

the wine.

“Neil’s at Home”

But he’s here too.

We conjure him

on the briny

beach.

A seagull pulls at an

idea of a clam,

downy feathers

ruffling thoughts

into sand

witches.

Footprints taper

to horizon,

Crablike

they disappear

over the

memory

of something

rare

yet ubiquitous.

There is a fat man

fishing.

Dad would have

fun with

that ~

Walrus with a thong.

And clouds

always clouds

                                                         Making the sky

A book of

       Endless

I 

  n   

     v

        e

           n

            t

              i

                    o

                     n

                                                                             .

Blackbird

Feathered

sharp-eyed

relative of

T Rex

You eye me

Slantwise

cocking your

fragile

skull

as if to

say

I could eat

you

in another

epoch

You settle for

toast

The evolution

of bread.

Rick sits

mock petulant

like a

vast pelican

with a necktie

shrunk with

suppressed

          laughter.

He wants the

other poem;

about wheat

      and wild

                  and cocks…

He roots in to the

deck chair

like a rock,

shoulders a

 grinning moat

around his clotted

mirth.

Dear Pete

Last year

Time caught you

in her calloused

fist and stopped

your heart.

She was drawn

by your love

and light,

Her grip too

close for

comfort.

Was it a mistake?

Or did she want

you forever, to heal

Her straining

eyes with

your bright 

  imaginings.