Packing for the Beach

South Padre Island National Seashore | 35mm slide film, xpro | photo by author

Shade – because there won’t be any
take some from the dark corners
at the back of the pantry
bring a little of the gloamy coolness
that lurks under the trees in the yard

Flip flops – that you won’t wear
because the wet sands sucks at them,
turning them into heel-paddling liabilities

a hat for the wind to steal

clothes you won’t use, except
when forced out of your bathing suit
for the partial respectability of dinner

a book – mostly for bringing home
remnants of salt and sand

buckets of sunscreen

a cooler to weigh down the towels

snacks for the gulls to scream for;
chip-clips to dissuade invetable aerial theft

dreams – to float and drift on the waves;
all the flotsam of a well-loved life
rushing away and back again, zipping off to
imaginary islands, caught in the riptide of summer

Guess what I’m doing. . . . . I noticed the other day that the WordPress app is very convenient for making posts on the fly. So maybe, just maybe, I’ll send y’all some live poetry and photo action from the beach! Thanks for reading – and happy summer, y’all!

At the Cafe

Medium format film image by author

Sidewalk scenes

a good dog
patiently doing
tricks for treats

a small boy
asks for the hot tub
after dinner

an old man
long beard bristling
goes inside

music drifts
outside from inside,
old show tunes

a couple
together but not
holding hands

window seat
a woman reading
now vacant

a young girl
talking on the phone
while she walks

flannel shirt
tied around the waist
makes a skirt

in a mask
a man with a hat
hurries by

the good dog
gets lots of notice
from women

Inside scenes

two people
sit talking loudly
one dances

on a date
or maybe just friends
at present

computers
rule the table tops,
free wifi

teenager
writing and dreaming
of freedom

espresso
machine makes noises
and coffee

one man sits
by the door alone
and busy

a woman
alone with her phone
and coffee

laughing guys
playing a dice game
fill the room

girls whisper
at the big table
together

a mother
trying her best
to relax

rolling dice
clatter and echo
the guys sing

when he left
he looked back at her
with a smile

window seat
no longer vacant
filled by me,
poetic spy

My daughter loves to go for “writing dates” with me at coffee shops. This tradition has evolved from us sitting together to her wanting to be left alone and me going stir crazy because she always wants to stay much longer than I do. Recently we went for one of these rendezvous in the late afternoon, and halfway through my cold brew I realized there was no way I could sit still for more than about 30 seconds at a time (anybody else struggle with caffeine late in the day???). To calm my over-hyped nerves, I started focusing on my surroundings, and lo – this poem appeared.

Thank you for reading!

Lies, Big and Little

Ondu pinhole multiple exposure, Ilford FP4 | photo by author

I’ll tell you lies,
sweet little ones
or big fat juicy ones

I’ll tell you how
the morning whipped in
like a windstorm
and last night fear
pounded on the door
from 3 to 5 am
until four of my neighbors
hopped the fence
to restrain him
then we all sat in the grass
and watched the sun rise
singing hymns
and passing a joint around

I’ll tell you about
a guy I met at a party
who carried a primitive
knife around his neck
to cut ties and bad vibes
this was on the beach
where he had been
swimming with sea turtles
I still have sand
between my toes

I’ll tell you how a group
of rattlesnake handlers
told me in the detail the best
way to prepare the meat
and groused about feral hogs
mowed down from helicopters
how they spoke the calm
language of wild danger
expressing fangs, tuned in
to the ranging dialect
of western nature

I’ll tell you about the
explosive flat tire we
had to change while a
tornado-wielding thunderstorm
bore down on the side
of the highway, drawing
herds of deer out of the
brush, across the street
fence-leaping, white tails
flashing like lightning
as they headed for
clearer skies

I’ll tell you,
and you can listen
but it’s up to you to excavate
the truth of it, should there
be any at all to find

This poem is part 2 of my tiny discourse on “the Muse” – part 1 was yesterday. Recently at a party part of the conversation I had about writing was whether or not there was any truth to it, as in does a poem (or song, as the case was) reflect your life, is it based blatantly or in coded fashion on your life experiences? Or is it lies, wonderful fabrications for the sake of art? Does it matter?

So, I wrote this poem. Which parts do you think are true? And how do you write?

Shaking the tree

Ondu pinhole photo by author

we had it out, inspiration & I

she got tired of my attitude
and left, taking the entire
basket of fruit with her

always nimble,
she climbed to the highest
branches before there were
even any leaves

I could see her
from the second storey window,
brooding
over apple after apple

it was quiet in the house
quiet inside my head

the sun moved, and rains came
little by little the season
ripened and grew

by the time the shade had returned, I ventured to
the base of the trunk
where, with binoculars,
I could see her feet

I called and called
but she ignored me
eventually just tossing down
a well-chewed core
for me to side-step dodge

so now, impatient with the silence,
with two hands I am
embracing the hard stem
of her refuge

with root strength I am
quivering to shake her loose,
to bring her back down to me,
humbled and lonely
penitent to the core

Recently, I had a conversation at a party with someone about “the Muse.” Mine has been missing for most of this year, and I had already written this poem as part of my frustration with her absence. You’ll find the counterpart to this – a poem I wrote after that conversation – tomorrow! Thank you for reading!

Fall

Ondu pinhole photo, Ilford FP4 | Photo by author

I let the evening absorb
into my skin
as the light fades
I let it soak into me
sunset streaks and little
pinches of early stars
punctuate the gloom,
become ornaments for
the magical blanket
of twilight that
I’m gathering about me

smoke from the grill
rises through the trees
like an Appalachia
mountain exhaling
ghostly gossamer rays into
the encroaching night
the lamps click on with a
soft invitation
but they are still a
poor imitation
of the sparkle my body
has taken in

Thank you, readers, for your time!

Flamenca

“Torito Veloz” by Manuel Miranda, 2019 | hipstamatic iphone photo by author at Papi’s Pies, Round Rock

“torito veloz”

wild toro on the wall
bullish scimitar horns
a stab of the tail
charging colorful ground
fullish circular forms

“torito feliz”

little happy bull
hears the call of toro
sees the active cape
with wild and smiling eyes
fears no fall of morrow

torito, hooves will clip
the pointed horns will snip
blossoms in the ring
hot fired rush of breath
anointed, borne, they slip
estoque’s pointed grip

These poems represent the pleasant afternoon where I played around with the poetic form of Flamenca (read about it here). I was at one of my favorite places – Papi’s Pies – eating chocolate cream pie and drinking coffee, and as fate would have it, the walls were covered in the absolute perfect artwork for this form, so I made the instant jump to ekphrastic writing. The photo you see at the top is of a painting by Manuel Miranda. Take a look at his website and instagram. Thank you for reading!

Face

Self portrait | Medium format film Holga image by author

my face is riverstone
the bedrock smooth and sculpted
by eons of rushing water
and the dry season’s wind

ruts and valleys channeled in
by the laughter of a babbling brook,
pebbles deposited under the eyes
whose stillness are the pools
near the banks, where moss and
algae rest, green, sometimes blue,
with flecks of visiting dragonfly

the long line of my nose is
the giraffe who bends to drink
cautious, always vigilant

for listeners I have a nautilus
swirled and pearly, echoing oceans,
and a monkey, half leaping
into the air like some kind
of splendid joke

This is a recent poem, written in response to a prompt in the book I am using for inspiration (which is proving effective in getting me back into a writing habit, and which I would recommend if you’re looking for something similar). The prompt had to do with describing your face as if it were a landscape. . . . so here y’all go! I decided to pick a photo where my face is obscured, to let the words speak. It’s up to you to decide if any of it is successful; feedback is welcome! Thanks for reading!

Carnation | Orchid

iPhone photo by author (cyanotype supplies of fresh wildflowers)

Carnation

A coronation for a buttonhole
near a man’s impenetrable heart
cloves drift from the spot
tickling the nose, begging entry

A crown for the wrists
of beautiful youth bound
in a fancy dress for the prom
full of promises not yet broken

A tightly ruffled wreath
in the bundle from interflora
who outlasts the roses and other
less hearty blooms,
with its princely feet rooted
in the blood of cornerstones

Orchid

Inside the glass house was fragrance
and peace, an incubator
for the exotic nestled in the
mundane, shifting climates,
from zone to zone we wandered,
year on year, two lucky girls,
and then three – one small –
until one by one each was plucked
and packed and sent away
to nestle new and make her own
way, no longer incubated but set
free to bloom where she would
choose, far from the gardener’s
heavy fist

This post represents the last of the flower poems I wrote last year. Thank you, readers, for your time!

Chrysanthemum

iphone hipstamatic photo by author (not the right flower but whatever)

Lion headed autumn prizes
roaring outside the door
daring to show fresh faces in May
carefully preened manes
sparkling the early summer dew
daring the sun to be
quite as brilliant in his
yellow raptures

Once upon a time
my Grandmother planted
a host of these rampant kings
on a far forgotten side of the house
an offering to the neighbors
a place of pleasant pilgrimage
for us

Tomorrow I’ll share a two-fer with the last two flower poems. Thank you so much, readers, for joining me on this journey!