Poetry

Clam Digging

 

     The tide was low, the sand wet and packed where the sea had been. Covered in squeaky boots and raincoats we wandered the beach, wet hair sticking to our cheeks and blowing in our eyes. Lanterns and flashlights bobbed and glowed up and down the shore, a thousand places where darkness was cast out. The dull roar of the ocean was our constant companion. My hands were dull too but my chest felt like one of the lanterns burning in the evening fog. My grandfather knew this place and knew what he was looking for: tiny holes in the sand were our clues. We rushed to them and pulled a tower of sand up to capture a small creature digging with all its might downward. That night we caught 12, a decent catch. The cabin was somewhere past the high struggling dunes but from where we stood all was weeds and sand and water and fire.

Herbs

Lemon verbena, rosemary, thyme

Cilantro, oregano, basil- they’re fine! (Sorry, bad rhyme! How ’bout sublime?)

All mostly green, still variation is seen

In texture and fragrance and flavor serene.

With a few simple plants we’ll all eat like queens-

 

All for the price of a few dozen dimes.

Socksaroo

He has tiger stripes and polka dot socks

We loved him at the first and haven’t stopped

With his slinky cat stretch and kangaroo hop

He eats grass likes cows- but is really a dog

A Small Ode

One day in a small ode far away
Some phrases discovered a young beat was gone

They took great measures to uncover the sequence of events
That led to this sad mode
The various movements came together in a great show of unity and harmony
Expressing in sympathetic vibrations what no words could say
Inquiries were made into the dynamics of the fateful day:
They spoke to those wearing staccato heels
And those taking legato steps;
Those with strange accents
And accidental homes;
The staid old tenutos and young sforzandos;
Those with anxious tempos
And those taking a ritardando;
The small fragments wishing they were arias.

But no one knew what played out
The day the beat went missing
And all despaired that the rhythm would ever be regained

Documents were signed with the time and date
And locked up with keys
All the notes huddled in their clefs
And gathered in chords

 

But soon only a fading melody remained 
Of the great music they had sung
Before the young beat went missing

Changing Ground

I sat on the hillside by the river, 

as drops of earth found their way with drops of rain

to the confluence of all their destinies

 

Standing still, the trees,

unhurried by the changing ground,

still clung to the hill

 

Quietly their branches hung

like lanterns in the fog,

inviting guests to enter and to rest

their feet from the changing ground