Laying here staring out across the ocean,
listening to the sound of waves roaring,
gazing up at all of the glimmering stars,
lighting up the sea like a dance floor.
Counting stars as blessings life has given me,
thanking God for each and everyone of them,
so relaxing just lying next to the shore lines,
trying to draw in the last bits of the night.
The full moon shining ever so brightly now,
and the waves calm down to a gentle splash,
a light breeze pushes softly against my skin,
I grab my sweater and drape it around me,
as I go to leave I stop and turn around,
just to admire the ocean one last time.
Morning breaks in cheerful warm brilliance,
pale sapphire sky pristine.
Grey-white gulls glide vociferously above
in search of firma bound fare.
Reflections of Sol’s arms vault from the sea,
smooth but for zephyr stroked folds;
pure, sugar white sand kissed softly
by persistent waves subtle roll.
Soft ghosts of tepid breeze course random,
sensually caressing what be;
long thin-bladed grasses sway lightly
in synchrony and shameless delight.
With bonnet in hand an aged woman strolls
beside the vast Gulf of blue;
damp, firm sand squeaks soothingly
against the soles of her tired bare feet.
Her large eyes of brown focus ahead,
bear no witness to her days and shine;
fine flowing hair of luminous white
draped over shoulders so slight.
A pause, though brief, in quiet reflection,
her gaze upon the distant view
and mind in stoic reminiscence
of past friends and loves and wonder.
His strong arms hold her close tightly,
warmth of body and soul unite,
while gaiety in unbound laughter
disclose love once again renewed.
A tender brush of hand upon cheek
raises fiery passion in both,
as excited young eyes meet in ardor
essence link in eternal embrace.
One warm briny tear born of these thoughts
streams slowly down her cheek,
she slowly walks on as sand squeaks soothingly
against the soles of her tired bare feet.
Waves crash down on the rocks reducing them to sand
Then sweeps them away to some far off land
The wave roll in covering my feet in sand
In the concept of time I wonder just who I am?
I gaze before me the vastness of the sea
Represents all the possibilities inside of me
I can’t think of any place I would rather be
I have trouble describing there’s so much to see.
I walk out to the rocks to find some treasure
I find many starfish much to my pleasure
It seems that the only way to go is up
So I step up and take a drink from life’s cup.
Peace and tranquility fill me inside
While the waves provide a pretty good ride
The water is cool and so refreshing
All of the pieces seem to be meshing.
A seagull in the water and gets hit by a wave
I dawn a smile and feel I am saved
I like how the sky melts into the sea
Over the horizon sounds like the place to be.
The adventure I’m on may never be through
Sometimes I’m not sure what I should do
I just press on and see what shall become
I like what I see so I try to grab some.
Things seems to be very clear,
When actually felt it is unclear,
What really seems to be clear,
May never ever be clear for ever.
Your help for others,
May be to be appreciated,
Or taken as what is called,
to be uncounted.
My question is clear,
Why the help for others,
Is sometime never appreciated,
However it is always delivered.
In response to ethics,
lingers in my mind the answer,
To help others is not to be recognised,
But it is to be called someone,
Who can be respected.
To all, continue to help,
Not to to be appreciated by others,
But to be respected by yourself.
Dawn’s arms rock us awaken
First light guides our eyes open
A minute or two we bask
Before we rise to the tasks
Buzzing we go, all duty
Not missing the melody
Of plans laid out well in war
When the battle cry did warn
Signs were posted in plenty
In aches of flesh past groaning
Clocks ticked too fast to keep up
We sensed the call to the Sun
Finally armed and fueled
We three and the engine revved
Taking routes always farther
Away from the walled master
Warmer becomes flesh and heart
As we steer like movie stars
Heads high to catch the sun’s drops
Eyes shaded in blissful lost
Soon we are flying through air
Passing green-eyed rooms with cheer
Bucolic scenes blaze colors
How beautifully they merge
Tempo slows as deep blue nears
Silent, the wait comes to bear
Descent is smooth, toes sink in
Digging in grains so golden
It is here we recover
Here, we let go of the war
E-Z Glo Punk, Lightning Flash,
TNT Devices will burst, do crash
Southern Night, Piccolo Petes
are hard to beat...
I like hand held Sparklers, Tanks
flashing fountains, Solar Flare
Six to #20 Gold I have to share,
no incidence, no burns, thanks...
Whistles blow, fountains glow,
pop'n sounds, entire sky all aglow
I love those colors, high an low
trails eched onto my retina
inspired me to let ya know
Now you close both eyes
in pitch dark, what a surprise
for you to see, right there
darkness, absolutely anywhere
beautiful trails of lights in motion
"Always read a label of caution"
The rush of swish against the shoreline
The wind blowing swift by is a sign
A storm a brewing, clattering, and shattering
The thunder clapping a great sky battering
The waves swoosh higher up
As you can get this sound like in a cup
But more so just cover your hand
Now the feeling of grit giving sound to sand
Whoosh! the wind takes your hair
It is fear-est when water spit as it declare
War on your skin, with vibration that pings
And the silence of slow blowing wind sings
It was a warm summer night
In a glowing neon dream
When I walked under palms
By the ultra-violet sea
Where Soft light rained down
Gently spread upon the beach
Hazy sky and oceans blurred
Aqua, orange, purples, pink
In the atmospheric twilight
I strolled the endless avenue
Mixing with the bar lights
Entranced by the sea view
Reflecting on the waters
Were flickering yellow strokes
Where freight ships turned to fairylights
Like a painting on the Rhone
Along the lamplit concourse
Ambient and watercolour washed
A stream of strollers poured
Soaking up the dusk
And With the flow of a ghostly breeze
I brushed by lovers and loners
Slender exotic joggers
And the Sunset bathing homeless
To this day it burns inside
My first night in Limassol
She left colours in my eyes
It was Easter day in nineteen sixty one;
we lived right on the coast of the Pacific Ocean.
After church, along the beach we did run,
two sisters older and one so very young.
Oh, yes, we were really quite the sight,
in our matching yellow polka-a-dot dresses,
hats, gloves and handbags
so nice and clean and white.
It was a bright, sunny day
and getting bored, I wanted to play,
so I snatched my sister's purse
and took off down the shore.
My mother didn't seem to mind
so I ran hard, laughing galore.
But there's something about the sea
that I learned abruptly that day
the sea is mightier than a five year old girl
and it's tide was carrying me away.
My Mom began screaming,
"Swim! Swim!" she called,
as if it was an instinct,
that I had never been taught at all.
I was battling the sea
but it was bigger than me.
I began bobbing, going under, then back up,
my little body was so tired
it could not help but give up.
I went under with my eyes open wide
and there he was to rescue me,
and held me close to his side.
He secured me to those rocks
that jut up out of the sea,
certain that he held me there,
because I passed out,
the sea had overcome me.
My mother said that she swam out
and rescued me
but hundreds of feet from shore
she was still standing there yelling
"Swim! Swim! Swim some more!"
I could not swim,
I could not even laugh anymore,
I don't think I could breathe.
Next thing I knew, I am on the sand
and my mother is breathing air into my lungs,
I was coughing up water and gasping for air,
but the man who had held me to the rocks
he was not to be found, he was nowhere.
My mother told me, several years later
that there was no man there that day,
so I am sure he must have been an Angel,
who saved my life that day.
LE TRE SORELLE
My favorite spot in Italy, and perhaps anywhere, was Ristorante Le Tre Sorelle
in Positano. It was at the bottom of at least a hundred stone steps, just on
the right, and right on the beach. A hundred steps seemed like ten, with
delights for the senses on every step. Chic bikini shops with tan young clients,
tiny pastry shops, ice cream vendors, mini-galleries, and lone musicians, all
bathed in the soft bright sunlight of the Amalfi Coast.
Le Tre Sorelle had affordable pasta and a priceless view. Between
checkered tables and cobalt sea marched the ancient beauty of humanity in
every form and state.
Over espresso, we created names for people in this parade, to suit our
fancy. “There is Mr. and Mrs. Cold Obtrusive boring Mr. and Mrs. Kind
Receptive.”, we might say, or, “There is Mr. Old Fat Rich failing to interest
Miss poor Young Georgeous.” Sometimes we would separate our unwitting
victims into “should wear bikini”, “maybe should”, and “never should”
classes. We made up other rude categories depending on how much wine
we could afford with the affordable pasta.
The challenge of youth in Positano was to find a place to sleep for free.
Step one in this quest was to find a pretty girl who also had a hotel room. Step
two was to persuade her to share it. Step three was to sleep on the beach.
But the beach was duly patrolled by the Beach Patrol. So the trick was
to dance in the last-open disco until everyone, including the Beach Patrol,
were too tired to care. Then with luck, we could borrow some fisherman’s
boat cover for the night, until the fisherman went fishing. Still, this meant
one or two good hours of sleep.
Besides, at sunrise, we could swim in the sea and chill ourselves awake, just
long enough for the first espresso of another beautiful day, at Le Tre Sorelle.
In spite of youthful nonsense, the crushing beauty of Amalfi, both human
and stone, pressed it’s lovely wisdom deep inside our souls.
Prone,lying side by side
Lapped by an ebbing tide,
Together upon passion's ride-
In love's embrace enlocked
This watershed,no longer shocks.
Even as thunder boomed mighty overhead
and power lines on San Domingo Avenue outside
faltered and succumbed to the tempest
the Ortegas stood breathless in the family room, gaze transfixed
upon the television screen like so many deer in the headlights of a truck.
Finally a flash from without, and a snap
extinguished all light within the household. Ten seconds passed
without a sound. Then the father uttered something and
the family members scattered, each returning a moment later
bearing possessions of infinite value. Within a minute,
all had crammed into the station wagon, evacuation route ingrained
within their minds like a seed of hope.
All but one. Manuelito had been lost.
The mother howled and flied back into the house,
tears streaming down her face hard as the rain.
She reached the back porch, and to her eternal shock
found Manuelito standing alone on the beach like a mannequin
eyes locked upon the Cyclops-eye of the storm.
The mother cried out through anguished sobs
in vain, for the howling drone of the wind overpowered all
and when Manuelito turned around to face all that he loved
he did so with all the finality of a grown man
resolved upon his course of action.
The mother abruptly ceased her crying, and
her countenance briefly matched that of her son
as she, too, turned her gaze upon the jewel center of the storm
and was hypnotized by the awesome power of the divine.
At length she regained self-consciousness, and her eyes
darted back to that segment of the beach where her son had been standing
but his figure, like a stream of sand on the dunes of time,
had been replaced by nothingness,
the allure of the unknown and
Poseidon’s call of wild fury
too strong to resist.
I was in-processing my Army unit in Germany when the fortieth anniversary of D-Day happened; but, alas, I couldn't leave. I wanted so much to be there to meet the old surviving veterans, to shake their hands and hear their stories. I had read accounts of D-Day-- June 6th, 1944. I had already seen several times the film The Longest Day, based on the book by Cornelius Ryan.
Eventually my family followed me back to Germany, and we later took a vacation that included Normandy.
We visited Sainte-Mere-Eglise, and I pointed out the manekin of Private john Steele--the paratrooper that had gotten stuck on the church's steeple.
We visited the upper German fortifications of Point Du Hoc, where Army Rangers fought their way up impossible cliffs.
We paid our respects at the US war cemetery on Omaha Beach, and my sons and I walked where so many Americans had died to free Europe.
My wife was very somber and respectful at these sites; she is French, and grew up hearing stories of the German occupation.
I often still watch on June 6th either The Longest Day, or Saving Private Ryan, and try to imagine my forebears on those beaches.
Never thought I could enjoy being this cold
The sand is firm beneath my bare wet feet
The sun hides behind clouds that threaten rain
Wind finds holes to shiver in my hasty thrown on jacket
And yet the aloneness of this wade into the wind
Is a satisfaction in itself as gulls group huddle ahead
Stress is long away from this brisk feeling
Glasses fogged and filled with salt mist brushwork
Change the distant view to Van Gogh swirls
A tern dives into rolling water to rise again in triumph with a fish
The sand between my aching toes is driving me to wetness
Soon I'll turn around
Halfway taps my shoulder insisting
The tide turns as the jetty rocks appear
What other fool would call this walk enjoyment
I see a figure sitting there content
Turning with the cold wind on my back
I leave her there alone with running tide
Put my useless glasses in my pocket
I feel like dancing in the runback water
The cold has gone I'm filled with joy instead
Salty mistiness enters my head.
Nostrils take in. Waves crash!
Sting rays sting! Crabs scatter!
Sandcastles, built wet on dry sand.
Walking miles on water-lapped shore.
Caesar remains, constant companion.
Then man politely asked for my hand.
Next year, for my hand in matrimony.
Ah. Salty, misty, water-waves pull.
Floating out to horizon, swim back.
Suck in the sweet, ocean air retreat.
Summertime vacations, every August.
Gray, weathered house, long ago gone.
It provided shelter, bed to lay head.
Shish kabobs! Stone crabs from fishy,
Dead heads on string. Left turn, bay.
With the closing of the day,
I sit and watch another ship slowly sail away.
I run my fingers gently thru the sand.
And watch its warm wet substance softly flow thru my hand.
I see nature and all its wonders and the heavens up above.
The sights that I am seeing, had to have been a special gift, a gift of Gods’ love.
Something like this just didn’t happen, someone had a plan.
The creator who made it was no mortal man.
It’s almost like the earth lives and breathes given a mind of its own.
When it gets mad and angry its awesome force we are shown.
Come spring it’s like a lady all ready for the dance.
Filled with awesome springtime flowers that weren’t put here just by chance
Each new season we see it put on a different hat.
Each and every season gives us something spectacular for us to marvel at.
It was Gods on hand that sat on this land.
And God is the one who has total and full command.