A thorough yield
On a farm field of far east
It took me time to realize
How far I am to my far east of coast
Call of my weather
Call of my winds
I sailed further and farther
To my naked coasts
Naive songs, Nimble rains
Nile of rivers, Nascent clouds
Reaching this far
I kissed my earth
Ground of my grief
Glory of my ghosts
Glad is those leaves
However scanty they are
Cast is my shadows
No longer they hide
My colors and my figures
They cast numbers on stars
Measure their light
Scope my winters
Scale my summers
Scanty my rains
Scuttle I wish my springs
Now let me see my greens
Their leveling heights
Their leafy gaze
Their spiderly gesture
Their primordial texture
Now let me be slow
In company of my greens
#Poem by +Gokul Alex
Lazy I lingered on the porch of my terrace
a hummingbird was softly picking on a daisy
this reminded of the time when I lived at the coast
I use to watch seagulls as they dived into the sea
that ancient symbol of the strife to survive
But as I turned my eyes away from the sand
the hummingbird started to sing a melody
my soul surrendered to harmony
gone that old vision of agony
When I returned to the comfort of my lazy couch
in my head the hummingbird's song went on and on
took me back to times of innocences so clear and so pure
it finally won from that old cynic I'd become.
That was the day, I heard a hummingbird sing.
A fragile mind breaks
Wake upon the rock laden shores
A muffled heart begs to echo
Whispers lost among a velvet chamber
Dusk comes premature time and again
Dropping the curtain on an optimistic sunrise
If you never witness dawn
There is no tomorrow
Always the dreamer aches
Never awake to make real what he desires
The restless corpse walks blind
Dead ends seem fitting for one of the kind
Lost in the labyrinth of strangling vines
Love is the motive and the weapon
Taking root in throats dry from weeping
Sprouts of amnesia in place of smiles
A garden called heartbreak holds onlookers captive
The comfort takes hold, sets in the bones weary of searching
A plea for rest lands on deaf ears
The hollow boy tires of himself
The last request he will ever make
Lost and tired
He wishes to be weak no more
Her eyes gaze upward and witness
The bluest sky of some she has seen,
Issuing forth strength to her weakening soul,
Pure, warm - a living sea;
A towering terrain she plants her feet,
A flowing stream to point her toward
Realms beyond her simple child-like dreams.
She captures a glimpse of sunlight’s smile,
She sings a song of happiness,
A faultless peace, a gift of love;
Illumination creates merriment, and
Dominates her soul,
Disquiet and difficulty fade away,
An age of joy will be her harbor,
An age of love will keep her clothed,
An age of rest will be her guest,
Her spirit soars as sunlight washes ashore.
The bay was smooth as glass
The sky was a crisp blue
The snow covered peaks stood
stark, gigantic, bold
My job was to row a boat,
to a raft of logs and tie one on,
and tow it to the pile driver
and dock crew while as yet the ships
The oar was dipped into the dark sea,
and pulled with eddies slowly unfurled,
the log was moving with the steady strokes
of flashing oars in Alaska on top
of the world.
What a joy it was to be paid
to stretch my body at this glorious job,
mastering a row boat in the time of fax
and smart phones grasped somewhere
by a mob.
A rush of wind riffles wavelets upon the bay
the heavy log strains the rope then yields
the unhurried course is plowed to Kenny
on the pile driver, eighty-five years old,
Just in time the cable comes down
I loosen the half hitches and Kenny shouts,
“Keep 'er hot boy, keep 'er hot!”
I snub the cable to the creosote log,
as daylight pouts.
I sit back to the oars for another trip,
but Kenny yells, “oh, it's almost coffee time,
get outta that boat!” The workers drop
PV's , 3X12's, chain saws to stretch
on the company's dime.
We saunter to the chow hall for mug up
in the hush of the bay and its wavelets
nothing but the breeze, peaks and foxes
and us, the poets of Paradise headed
The cook, a union member of the Merchant Marine,
fixed an abundant spread,
fruit juice, milk, hot chocolate, coffee,
cake and pastries baked fresh to
raise the dead.
After forty-five minutes we struggled up
to get back to the tools of our trade,
I climbed back in my row boat,
settled to oars ready to pull
green from jade.
It was a race to finish the dock
for the ships to come and unload
cargoes of salt, food, building supplies,
for the wretched cannery, days went by and
Kenny called us to mug up
and we dropped our tools and swirled
sugar in coffee and wolfed down pastries
slathered with butter in Alaska
on top of the world.
It was late about dinner time
I rowed the last log to cable,
“Keep 'er hot boy, keep 'er hot!”
that the Sea Provider cleared Priest Rock
as if in a fable.
She came up the channel blasting her horn
as the pile driver gave a final hiss
the last plank was laid as she came along side
and threw bow line, stern line, spring line to collective
I do not know?
I part my days:
One half for daughters not able yet
To count by hand
Or walk with open heart,
And a half for the man huddling upon the age
As heavy as the war
Or, like a palm with no breath of odour.
What left I turn to birds
Replete with white…
Fleeting sea gulls,
Butterflies lisping with magic,
Signs of Surprise,
Tales about elves,
And the carol
Living deep in the dream
Narrated by the grandma
As she was warning me
To run away
So that the core of the sea would cool off.
But, I forget her warning,
Wandering far out in my head,
But .. the clock calls to my dreams
So I come back…
To part my days:
One half for daughters not able yet
To jump as high as the wash rope
Burdened with woolen clothes,
For the man sitting in silence
Sipping the nectar of the present
And cursing upon the future sorrow.
The Good Age and Sea
Like the wind flapping against the water
leaving you breathless, hoping for another day
say time has no moment for me and that is good,
the way it should be, doors closing behind you in
the rush of tragic human events undoing you and
these motionless patterns of thought transcending
now, what you have been, what you have become,
these blues bargaining you beyond the windows of
your own imagination towards a closer place of
fear, winding you up, like silly string at the parade
as they walk by laughing and you have to love the
riots and marketplace crowding with strangers, here
The ancient Seer sees seas, well beyond the seas the Seer sees. The Highlander Seer sees the seas that traveled did he, to see what the Highlander Seer wanted to see. Upon seeing where the Seer seen, the scene, he'd seen, had been seen, so serene was this scene the Highlander Seer over the seas scene in his dreams!
Run to the seashore
build sand castles
Sand in your toes
deep in the sand
Run in the waves
Poke dead jellyfish
pick up tiny crabs
feel slippery seaweed
in between your fingers
frown at the kids
relax in the sunshine
tan in your swimsuit
lie on the towel
under an umbrella
Brings her own
with their father
to the beach
and watches her kids,
watches her babies,
Imagine ships glissading into harbour,
their masts scraping the sky, sails aloft,
billowy, like great bird wings fluttering.
Captains navigate their ships into port,
return voyages that crossed the seven seas,
riding the waves, north and south, east and west
from Jamaica to London to Timbuktu,
ship holds filled with bananas, sugar, rum
and molasses from sunny far-off lands.
Wives awaiting husbands’ safe return home,
pacing the widows walk, reading letters
sent months ago, hint of hardships and
menaces at sea that fuels anxiety:
imaginations run wild, spiralling –
fierce brigands besieging vessels at sea;
sudden squalls threaten ships, tossed to and fro,
waves like a leviathan, thrashes and roils,
wrecks run aground, pummelled by pounding surf.
Chipmunks, squirrels collecting
bitternut hickory, chirping
against a small owl cruising
low beneath the trees.
Everyone has gone this morning
to school or work. Laundry rolling,
carpets vacuumed, cleaning
in the bathroom on my knees.
I'd like to be Whitman, praising
the pure contralto, Wynton practicing
all day. But like my father dying
I cannot hear what I cannot see.
Locally there's politics, processing
points of view. Eventually coming
to a decision, building or not building
windmills on the sky, bridges in the sea.
Insignificant and mighty happenings
seem the same from my vantage ageing
gratefully, inexorably, planning
how to die in my own damn way.
I do not know?
All that is living,
What once was strong
Has now all faded
Their days come and gone
The trees that once stood proud
Now appear so weak
The crystal clear waters,
Now so dingy and meek
An eagle soars by
Through the icy wind
Letting out a mighty cry
As if time has passed again
The sound gives to some
Hope and purpose
For the dawn of a new age
Has now begun
Kissed his student.
Punched his friend.
Accused her lover.
What if China's navy asserts control where our navy also patrols?
Should we concede the South China Sea? Not on your life! Or maybe.
Lives may be lost but so what. There's so much biomass in the
Lord have mercy on my soul
Which means bring my confusion into an expressible state before it's too
Sal went to jail. I belong to the loved ones. Never may the anarchic
man's thoughts be my thoughts. Not one.
It could be cancer or just a cyst
That killed Frost's considerable speck
Instead of considering its considerable intelligence.
Although bottomless ancient night stretches
From your short life forward, remember
It also stretches backward without measure.
There are few straight lines in nature and only one alternative to ageing,
so suck it up.
Suppose everything's fine and you've wasted your time wearing
sackcloth over your soul?
Start now knowing joy.