Tag Archive for Imagism

Il Herculano è Solo

Dirt rain clings to my spoiled

marble, gathers in oiled puddles

in the basin of a mosaic. The

lemon sun grows shadows

from ombrello pines like

the sparse weeds of my stone

garden. Still, the sidewalk cracks

from the pads of feet. No vendor

stands in the ashes of my

market, zucchini-iron fences

coil like garlic, my dry bones

reach beyond them for contact.

 

Nonni pause beyond my gated

serenity and lift their wilted eyelids.

I am a graveyard among living

houses; restful and untouched.

Pompeii would love to gather my

rubble and we could breathe

in the smoke of Vesuvio, but I

lay in the centre of Pozzuoli,

stretched like a single painting

hung in a gallery of walls.

Tranquility

It is early in the morning when I rise. The light of day has yet to grace this side of the earth with its presence. No longer do I need my alarm; my very instinct, something deep within, tells me when it is time to awake. Gathering my surfboard, a swimsuit, and other necessary equipment, I step outside and pause at the bottom of the stairs. Listening intently, I realize that the shouts from the amusement parks have not started, and the noise of civilization has yet to arrive. Everything is virtually silent save the waves crashing in a location just beyond my view and the summer gulls trying to collect their food for the day.

I smile and begin to walk. Up ahead, the boardwalk comes into view, and memories abound within me from childhood summers spent on that walk: bike rides I’ve shared with my family, trips up to the shop in the evenings for ice cream, chasing seagulls and even learning how to fly a kite. This boardwalk defines my past, each individual board somehow tells a part of my life story. As I make my way up the steps and onto the worn, splintering boards, I look down both lengths. The numerous stores that line the expanse are closed. Their lights, once welcoming and bright are off, as if they need a rest themselves. As I make my way across and finally off of the wooded walkway, the undeniable and easily recognized smell of the beach, a combination of salt and seaweed, overwhelms me. I pass through the dunes, covered with ocean grass and the most beautifully natural sight greets me.

“Tranquil,” I think to myself. If any word could possibly be fitting enough to describe the sight before my very eyes, tranquil would be the word. It might even be something beyond that, to some it could even be considered spiritual. It is a beauty recognized or at least acknowledged by the common person, but only truly appreciated by those like me.

We’re more than surfers. Our love of the single sport that binds us is built less on our own skill than by the secret we share, that the ocean is mystical. It heals inner wounds that nothing else can and is capable of consuming your very soul. Respect for the ocean, the result of the driving force of nature and our communion with it, define who we are.

As I sit on the sand, still cool from the previous night, with my board by my feet, I realize beyond a doubt that I am the luckiest person on the planet. The waves are breaking in perfect sets of four, some splashing into the jetties, while others make their way to greet me on the shore. I take a moment to close my eyes, and everything is free and completely at rest. Like the pieces of even the most intricate puzzle, everything just fits.

Then it starts to happen. This is something I have been a witness to on countless occasions before, yet it still never ceases to amaze me and never will. The sun, the very light of the world, begins to make its appearance over the distant, ever-present yet mysterious horizon. It is almost as though a giant light switch has been flipped on as glorious rays of silken purples, radiant pinks and delicate blues shine bright. The sun’s likeness reflects off of the vast ocean waters in front of me, and, despite its blinding qualities, it is mesmerizing. I do not blink at all, for fear I will miss a single second of the sight that is far too beautiful for words: something beyond mere mortal comprehension.

Now, almost as quickly as it had begun, it fades away before ceasing. The moment in time connecting the opposites night and day is gone. The sky shines clear and blue and the coolness of the night before vanishes. The day has brought its life and night has been chased away under its vanishing horizon to bring darkness and mystery to the rest of the world, before making its return.
As I grab my board and head for the ocean, the wholeness of day and with it, reality returns. I face it with excitement, regardless of the unknowns because this one thing I know with certainty. Tomorrow, that marker in the space of time will return and once again I know I will be awed and captivated by a secret known only to those who fail to take it for granted and remain humbled by it.

An ocean sunrise, tranquility at its best.

Did You See the News Tonight?

I saw a man in his prime

shrunken and emaciated,

eyes tinted red and unaware

his whole image stretched out

on a 12-inch screen.

 

“James R. Thornwell died today

of an epileptic fit.”

 

Moments of unconscious

rolled by like white-washed waves

in a black sea.

Up and down, flowing with

the current and then crashing

on sandy banks.

 

Heart beating in a fury,

eyes shocked wide,

fingers embedded into

white sheets as soft as clouds.

 

The sense of touch is lost.

 

“James R. Thornwell died today”

He left the manic depressive

world of floating orange clouds

and transcended

into a plane of floating light.

Corn

The cornhusk is

oblong and green with overlapping peels.

The interwoven quilt covers

a sheet of silky threads that sticks in white,

fades to yellow and then brown,

twisted ragged at the top.

Huddled underneath are the kernels,

deep yellow dulling to white

through the cob’s length,

little teeth,

stuck in close and rooted deep.

 

Row by row the kernels dig into

the bed of the cob,

which nestles them close,

a firm mattress forming

to their soft, waxy skin.

 

I wonder how it is that they never argue,

lying so close together like that,

like my mama and daddy argued

before they divorced.

 

Now I have to find my way,

my teeth navigate the cob,

from Rock Hill to Cross Anchor,

with Lockhart in-between

and McConnells on the way

to Lockhart from Rock Hill.

Symbiotic Summersaults

Sometimes

when the planet does

summersaults

and your words slash my

thoughts

in

half,

 

I, in the fetal position,

feel the blood beat

in the skin beneath my ears.

 

A hand touches my back and,

like IV leeches,

we remain

symbiotic.

Estrellas

Fresh thyme souls mingle with chives and serve

Sweat-gears spinning, basket weaving, stars overhead

Chopped.

Forgetfulness

Old withered tree

Gnarled and knotted

Towering to unreachable height.

Lifeless branches climbing—

Escaping their host’s unhappy fate.

Hangers clinging precariously to each branch;

Clutching their precious cargo.

Such cargo—images!

Images of places, of persons, of ideas

Scraps of cloth, of paper, of photographs

Attaching themselves like parasites to any available branch.

Below them, inching ever closer

With grasping, greedy hands

Lies a pool of quicksand, without depth

Swirling in a rapid and ceaseless vortex.

One by one, each item becomes absorbed by the overbearing sludge.

Every so often, one or two will resurface

Popping up for a moment, before it is jerked back down

To the unfathomable, murky world of Lost and Irretrievable.

Haiku Series

Ciudad is breathing

Music plays, everyone sings.

The air absorbs sound.

 

Old woman dances,

the river of cobblestone

flowing below her.

 

A young girl in bed

tosses and turns in her sleep.

She waits for the morn.

 

Awakes to the sound

Of a bustling calle

Her home never sleeps.

An Exceptional Tree

Shimmering, flowing tinsel heavily drapes the small tree, filling the big holes in the sides where it had been held, or tied down.

Brilliantly colored bulbs give silly, fun-house–mirror reflections of red, yellow, green, and blue.

Little toy soldiers and sugarplum fairies dangle fancifully from green, prickly branches.

It stands as an array of colors.

And atop, a beautiful porcelain angel stares down upon the room, gorgeous and strong.

What a proud sight.

In the Palm of Remembrance

Outside my window of old

wood, and wayward cobwebs

down in deep crevasses, where the poet dwindles

inscriptions of his fading passages

found on white chalk walls

 

I can almost see my childhood slip away

like fragments of a mirror broken

by reflection changed

with time

 

Countless moments become memories

the fantasies, fading into shadows

dancing in tune with sunlight,

forgotten

 

So now I find myself standing alone; the eye of the storm

my roots reaching deep, and holding this land

in the palm of remembrance