Blue as the geography
of footprints across the dunes
quiet as the white music
of a silent moon
like the wind blowing
the soul off the water
the shadows go out
and are lost in the evening
I conclude the hypothesis
of sundown making no sound
while night climbs the vines
where lowing sadness abides
the ritual of tides pulls me under.

Abandon.

Such a beautiful thing is a shell,
floating it sings 'tho half-empty,
sculptured for strength in excess
of accents or patterns an ecstasy
with wave-lovers has undressed
its close-partnered togetherness.

Oh shell of beauty, gone forever
your wholeness but in a sea-bed
still white your glisten measures
pace with the breakers in restless
dance of sheer abandon even yet.

all i want to do is
swallow swallow swallow swallow
i breathe death
and my painted knuckles bruise green in their luminescence
hearing her speak is like crushing lines
and tracing my entrails tract
you are not me
you are not me
you are not me
and i want to swallow the ocean
feel the sloshing tides consume me
burn the frizzy kinks from my hair
you dont see the light in me
you dont see me
i am so so much more than the minuscule sect you see
of me in this life
if i cant give my all to you
then i feel as though its clear that im so divided up
in my life that my the pieces of me cant collect enough
to put in your swollen arms
to call your own
calling me small is an understatement when in reality
i am so much bigger than you
and i may be crying now because you tell me that i am not enough
but in the end i will be so so much bigger than you

Attuned.

Those whose thoughts have not sprung
from the cadence of waves
will never know songs that were ancient
when all the now agéd were young.

Those whose respect the vast ocean
accepts speak its tongue, sense
vagaries known only to weathered
faces turned to catch tidal motion.

Those whose minds are ocean-attuned,
gather storm-ebb's precocious
mood as ****'s mineral wealth floats
in with extras like fresh crab food.

Those whose living has grown safer
with knowing sea-swell pictures
wave behaviour hear vague whispers
of sound-change in rising breakers.

Those who receive news of bad gales
before skies turn black have read
wisdom's past signs and hear sea-bed
rhythms not heard by strangers.

On Sunday’s Canvas
our footprints sketch a path
across the sand.
Out of focus, others dot the beach.
Hands drawn tightly together,
our talk ebbs and flows.

This is Sunday’s Cove,
the rim where rivers end and tell their stories.
Afternoon sea and sky run together until
we are surrounded by what we feel.
Sand shines in a festive way.

Here at the edge of the world,
night is celebrated with wine in a water glass.
Beyond the surf, we do not hear the silence.
We wake every morning to brush new paths.

The words on the paper flow endlessly
a cycle of dying and
living and
breathing and
choking
with pepper sprinkled in for
good measure

great is the depth of the
sea
that infinite battlefield where the
war never ends
the fishes themselves with not a moment of sleep
carry life as a trophy
we once called their land home
but
now it's a place where the world goes
to drown its sorrows

The ocean's pulse, the ebb and flow
of constant waves' re-nourishment
bespeaks to me of life, although
an undercurrent message sent
in whispered sighs of Gaia's breath
upon the shoreline where I sit
relates a tale of bounteous wealth;
the wind, the rain - that we exist
at all is purely by the grace
of Nature's cycles. Also heard,
a gentle, soft, disturbing voice
reminding me without a word:
when we have come and we have gone
the ocean's pulse continues on