Crochet

I'm wondering if there was a storm
out in the ocean over the weekend
that produced these huge waves.

I was here on Saturday
and the ocean was flat
with just foot high slats.

Today they're six feet giants
building, building, falling
into lace, a doily crocheted

by my grandmother. I can see
her hands grasping the hook,
twirling the thin, white thread

over and under, punctuating
each move with her anger, her
dissatisfaction, her mouth a straight line,

creating beauty out of her everyday
disappointments. The sun is warm.
The wind is cool. The waves keep pounding.

Yesterday

I don't even bother to lock the car since the area is deserted.
The sky is a paragraph of sadness and the wind a scythe
slicing through me. I put on my sweatshirt, grab my phone,

and almost run up the boardwalk to the beach, snapping a picture
as I go. I have a letter from a fiend in a sunny envelope I plan
to read on one of the benches, but, as soon as I sink my sneakers

in the sand, I know it will be too cold. Instead I walk around
and notice an area fenced off for the nesting plovers. I don't see
any, though. I take a few photos of the layers of steel waves,

then say goodbye for today. I tighten the strings of my hoodie
and head back over the dunes of short, spiky, grasses. Stop. Lilac
blossoms arch over the sidewalk. I put my face right up into them

and take a big sniff of memory. Of our old lilacs in the back yard.
Of a vaseful on my desk at school. Of walking by the neighbor's
and plucking a few flowers then chewing on them. That sweet

bitter fragrance on my tongue. I don't steal any today but I think
about it. I glance up and spy a sentence of blue. I continue on
to my car, lilacs in my lungs, breathing in the the poetry of nature.

After Writing Too Many Poems

Thursday 4/30/09

After Writing Too Many Poems

I think
I'm poemed out.
I need a break
from figurative
thinking.

I need
an afternoon
of sitting on the beach
looking at the waves

and just thinking
about them
as waves
and nothing else,

just water
being pulled
by the moon
splashing
onto the shore.

That's it~
not waves of emotion
or waves of sorrow
or waves of troubles,

just
plain, simple waves
that do not beg
to be put into
a poem.

3WW: Fog, Lenient, Struggle

Sand, like wet cement,
sucks at my sneakers
as I walk along the foggy

shore.

My sharp thoughts
cut through, separating
the halves of my

life.

I struggle forward
trying to make a decision
where only I will

win.

My lenient ways
have masked my true
feelings for so many

years.

A stray wave builds,
builds, fast, faster,
gains momentum,

slaps

me in the face, wakes
me up. I head home,
the same person, still

gray.


- Posted using BlogPress from my iPad

Calmed for One Single Impression

Calmed

The waves are tiny
just six-inch slats
moving slowly
along the sand

I escaped the land-locked
mountains and stand
on the beach
breathing peace

Each sea gull
is freedom
each shell
is abundance

The salt kisses my lungs
Driftwood is my soul
My footprints
scream I am alive

Poetry Train: The Red, White, and Blue

I wrote this one three years ago yesterday on Independence Day.
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The Red, White and Blue

Today, I'll hop
on my red bicycle
and ride to the beach.

I'll sit under a blue sky
and watch the white
clouds play tag.

I'll listen to kids
laugh as they run around
their parents.

I'll read a few poems
and maybe write
one of my own

on plain white paper.
I'll stretch out
on my blue towel

and stay as long
as I want.
Later, I'll join friends

for a barbeque
and dip red lobster
meat into melted butter.

Then, in the navy blue
twilight I'll listen
to the pop gun

of fireworks and see
freedom written out
in multi-colored calligraphy.

Sunday Scribblings: Me

Memories Underfoot

Ocean Park Beach
at low tide
provides a firm
surface to walk on.

My steps
leave only shallow
footprints,
little bits
of myself
that I shed
as I walk.

The worry
over money
is way back
at the beginning
because it is really
so insignificant.

That little spat
with Gary
is back there
seeping
into the sand.

School stress is left
a couple steps
behind
so that now
the indentations
are empty
just filled
with promises
and hope.

I breathe
salty air,
hold it in
my lungs,
every last
wordful
of it.

3WW: Hassle, Inject, Wealth

Because it was too much of a hassle,
I decided not to write a poem today.

I had no insights to inject into one
and no wealth of cool words to use

except for the ones from 3WW
and even those were not doing it.

Instead, I hopped on my red bicycle
and pedaled to the beach. I wrote

a letter to my friend who lives in Florida
then read a book for awhile.

I took a picture of an airplane
flying by with an advertising banner

swirling behind saying, “J Greeks
lunch buffet $7.95 11-2.” On my way

back to our campground, I inhaled
the scent of wild roses, admired a field

of clover and buttercups, then sat
on the screen porch typing this nonpoem.

ReadWritePoem Mini Challenge #2

From Absence and Presence.  A cento patchworked together from lines from Pablo Neruda's poems.
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Look here, look for me here
I must feel the crash of the hard water.
I let my hands fall to the sea

for that is the place of joy.
Where the sea is concerned, I am
the ocean overflowing from its bottomless cup.

I have salty experience.
I am one who keeps turning out dreams,
dreams like a sea-green girl

to learn to return from such depths.
I need the sea because it teaches me~
the university of the waves.

Bump in the Night for Sunday Scribblings

Okay, this isn't really a bump-in-the-night story but it's all I've got today, and, really, the end of the summer season is scary to me!
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My Bump in the Night

The air smells
like sun-dried laundry
and sounds
like children's prayers

hopeful and true
on this Saturday
in October.
Gary's boat

is out of the water
and we'll be closing
camp on Monday.
I'm at the beach

taking photographs
of the sky
and ocean. The sun
waves its wand

here and there
highlighting the pier,
red maple leaves,
a lighthouse on a point.

Birds are flocking
and skimming
over the water
and I'm catching

it all in my lens.
It's high tide
and the waves spread
on the sand like snow.

Totally Optional Prompts: Beach Thoughts

Ocean Park Beach, Maine August 13, 2009

four men playing Bocce

two little boys
and two little girls
building a sandcastle

a taildragger
trailing a banner:
JIMMY GREEKS LUNCH BUFFET $7.99 11-2PM

a fog bank
sitting like an angora
elephant just offshore

my feet
sifting through
sand

the shadow of my pencil
on white lined paper,
beach thoughts
flowing through

3WW: Sweet, Yearn, Collapse

My brain has been on vacation! Sometimes I just need a break. Here's a little cinquain.


When I Yearn

Barefoot
I walk along
the mirror of low tide.
The problems of my day collapse.
Sweet peace.

NaPoWriMo Day 17: Missing

Vitamin Sea Deficiency

The ocean
is locked in a box
in the back corner
of my brain.

I can barely see
the tiny waves
rolling over themselves

or the glints
of sun sparkling
like fireflies,
ephemeral & brief.

Soon, soon, the screen
of the ocean
will be as large
as a drive-in

and I’ll be sitting
in the audience
with my eyes
full of sea.

3WW: Caress, Jaged, Ruthless

Caress Jagged Ruthless
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Cauliflower waves
caress the brown sugar
sand

late in the afternoon.
I know I have
to get back to camp

to make supper,
do the dishes,
take in my laundry.

But the sunset
is leaving
jagged shadows

all over the beach
and I’m comfy
in my nifty seat

and I just want
to stay here
and ignore

the waves
of ruthless
time.

Internal Rhyme for TOP

I tried writing a poem with internal rhyme this morning but it just wasn't happening. I've written two such poems in my entire life and I read them both to my tenth-graders and they liked this one the best. So here it is from many years ago.
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Lure

I love the beach when the reach of the waves
obliterates, inundates, and engraves
the rocks. The sand and land disappear
so no one’s there for this rare atmosphere.

I love the shore when the roar of the surf
comes crashing down with a frown on the turf,
when clouds are gray and the spray stings my cheek~
deserted stretch that is fetching and bleak.

I love the ocean’s emotional tug
so powerful like the pull of a drug
when wind and foam form a comb for the weeds~
alone by choice I rejoice and my needs

are satisfied by the tide when austere.
When others spoil, I recoil and I veer
away to wait, hibernate, while it’s nice.
I need a storm to transform and entice.

3/12/91
Bradenton Beach, Florida

Day 11 and Writers' island

Flights of Fancy

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A simple house
near the ocean
white curtains
sashaying
to a rock ‘n’ roll
breeze

Big bookcases
a small TV
a poetry book
open on my
grandfather’s
trunk

me
on a red bicycle
curls bouncing
under my visor

I can’t pedal
fast enough
to the beach