Large boulders piled high
stretch out into the bay
and form a breakwater
that shields the beach
from high waves
and heavy swells rolling in
from southerly gales.
I have stood there
at the end when the sea
was hurling its rage
and all fury exploded
like bomb bursts of watery
shrapnel into the air.
I have seen such power
subside and tamed
to compliant licks
around the feet of rocks.
More than forty years ago
on a deep breath
I snorkeled down its ledges
into the rock strewn and weedy
world that lay at its base,
places where stingrays slept
and where fish glided
effortlessly along crevices
and over sponge
covered outcrops.
I cradled a fragile seahorse
in my trembling hands.
I no longer have
the confidence to rock hop
its length to the end
but stand where it butts
the land, commanding memory
to whip up a wind
and set wave upon wave
to awaken a soul
from its sleep
and make it feel
the sting of a southerly gale,
wet, cold and wonderful,
once again.
The trees lining the streets are filled with cherry blossoms
Mother Nature is letting us know that spring arrival is going to be awesome
Enjoying a walk along the breakwater bustling with people enjoying the new day's sun
After a long winter, it is wonderful to be able to get out and have some fun
Flowers will soon bring a wide variety of colours as they spring up from the ground
A tour of our dressers for shorts and tee shirts that need to be found
Lawnmowers are about to rise from their winter hibernation
Hair cuts for our lawns are soon to be our new form of recreation
Even our timepieces will be busy springing ahead
Let's get off our social devices and spend more of our day outdoors instead
Gather up the family and go enjoy some ice cream
Bid farewell to winter and go blow off some steam
At the end of the breakwater
I stand between two extremes.
On one side, the bay's agitations
and hurl of water smashing
against boulders, on the other,
the calm lick of waves
barely rising above a ripple.
Such division throws the mind
out of balance as if it seeks
an equilibrium, a point where
opposites are reconciled in a bland
soup of sameness. A hurried
scramble to find the predictable
in the messy tangles of chance.
The world is not like this.
Creation is born
out of the spewing throats
of volcanoes, earth upheavals
and flooding rains then given
time in a pause to rest and put
together its masterpiece.
For us, storms, earthquakes,
raging fires are seen as arrows
of misfortune flung by nature
or vengeful gods. For creation
they are tools wielded out
of a primary need, something
beyond the grasp of mere earthly
calibration. Praise be
for chaos and calm,
the hammer and polish
of creation.
Technically, not a sea at all,
Lake Superior churns up its share of sea storms.
There is not a lot to do in Marquette, Michigan:
Except for high school drivers to "buzz the gut",
Or cruise past a courthouse where "Anatomy" was filmed.
You could smoke dope or drink underage
Under a disused, fourteen story ore pocket dock.
Rusted off shards of flat black paint
Fall on the gently sloshing waves.
There is a breakwater of dumped cement blocks
That has a chain-linked fence and sign that says,
DANGER! NO TRESPASSING!
But of course, the young ones do.
And better yet if a sea storm comes.
Maritime law forbids including those who drown
As sailors lost at sea.
....................Slumber
Some big seas roll in
the breakwater is pounded
fishing boats at rest
GINSU-KNIFE EASTPORT, MAINE USA
B,
As I lay still in the darkness
before dawn shakes off her sleep,
my fingers excitingly caress
the beauty of your cheeks
it's morning that lies and listens
as I kiss you another good day
each passage yet to be written
in a sweet impassioned way
touches burning deeply
on worthiness they do graze
awaiting undue attention
in this Labyrinth of a maze
beheld my chest to wander
and wonder what it may
cutting through the cinders
where hearts have come to stay
the fires in the distance
and those held fast inside
burning brightly with surveillance
with the secrets I shall confide
whispers of the damning
mysteries lighting up our sky
your hand homing for protection
naked our babes no longer cry
through the wetness that fills the breakwater
comfort resides in simplistic tones
no pretension in the parables
the beats felt all the way to Rome
I see the eclipse in the shadow of your moon
The breakwater of youth dims again
As I recall that fateful evening
Every gushing tide moaned
Revising the secrecy of a time
When drunken trawlers held me
In my contorted form, lightly assailed
A skirt in tatters, my locks disheveled
Where a girl's yell found no choice
But to camouflage it in the dark
And voices flinched in waves
' Shh, nothing ever happened,'
While I raced out of the bleak shoreline.
What Was Left Unsaid Contest
Sponsored by Line Gauthier
Fiction April 19,2019
Waves leap over his roof again.
Coconut sentinels lose their heads.
His breakwater breaks, but he won’t
flee to the monsoon refugee camp.
People and the press stand amid
the lightning from cameras. Their
rapture is with the waves rising
high to touch the rain clouds.
They’re on a spree in the sea spray.
They’re far-sighted, for they can’t
see this fisherman sitting like a crow-
pheasant in the remains of his yard.
He’s no pension, but only tension.
Yet he’ll neither mutter nor murmur.
Now he curls as a prawn on a wet
sack inside his half-eaten hut.
If the sea doesn’t swallow him tonight,
he’ll wake up early, pick up his net,
and set out to catch sardine, mackerel,
pink perch, tuna and the like, for them.
Winning of Poetry Nook Weekly Contest
First published in The Literary Hatchet
I wanted to write a poem
with such music and guitars, strumming.
I tried at the teeth of the sound
to draw up legions of noise.
I tried at the breakwater
to catch the star off each ship,
and at the closing of my hands
I looked for their homes;
I looked for their silences.
I found just one.
I look for uncomplicated hymns, now,
but love has none.
The Life of a Breakwater
A walk on the sharp shingle led to where
The dry, smooth surface felt warm to our feet,
The pale grey stonework embedded in the beach.
Those steps so broad and long led down into
The calm sea. We paused, luxuriating
Where the Summer sun caressed the concrete
And the water washed languidly over
The next step, a shallow paddling pool
Of sun-warmed water. But then, the cold sea
Brought a shiver as the sun hid its face
With dark clouds predicting a future state.
After long years, seen only at low tide,
There are jagged teeth covered in green slime;
This monument, discarded by progress
When the old beach was sculpted and renewed,
Lies hidden under the restless waves.
High tide splashes along the shoreline and
The smell of the sea air never changes.
Mango
It’d a bitter childhood like a girl
in penury.
It could defend itself against the molestation
by pests.
It didn’t succumb to the
hot rays.
Now it’s ripe, and its chubby cheeks
are so charming.
It’s a forbidden fruit, but Chami’s impulse
is vehement
as the monsoon waves leaping over
the breakwater.
His teeth wound its soft skin. He sucks its
sweet syrup
from its soul, and rises up to the heaven.
Slowly he
falls down into the hell of fatigue
and drowsiness.
Again, he repents of disobeying his
diabetologist’s advice.
First published in Scarlet Leaf Review, Canada, and then reprinted in my book, Kanoli Kaleidoscope, by PunksWritePoemsPress,US.
today too, I visited again that empty bench by the lake
alongside on the pathway where billows hit the breakwater
in the autumn’s chilling air a spray of water I become
When you are watching the surging water
rushing to a breakwater by Lake Michigan
under the dusk gathering reddened sky,
and the water flies in the air for a moment
to form the spray and hits the lake’s surface,
it returns to the depth of the water where it came from
then, the passing time that is drifting on the water
pushed by the heartless surges turns its back to see
the trails left behind, the life somewhat lacking something,
and as time swells to yearn for its past
the oncoming time draws nearer to swallow the past
with the waves of oblivion
and when past time sinks into the water
you’ll hear the singing dirge followed by
a procession of wordless spirits and the blindfolded future
carried on a funeral bier.
While watching the sunset glow
I was thinking with a thousand thoughts crowded in my mind
and to my surprise, with my waning shadow
I can still recognize myself through my eyes.
Although I was always victimized because I am
such an insignificant being to others’ eyes. How should
I accept the fact that I am still allowed to face the days.
—A certain weather forecast—
for he has no home to return
a pierrot painted with snow-white make-up
walks under the moonlight up and down restlessly
under the sky, the pierrot
sleeps all curled up because of the nightly chilling air,
now stands with both arms stretched out to the air;
the moonlight streams in through the openings between
the pierrot’s spread fingers dyes his face to pale blue
a leaf that was blown off by the passing wind is
being shoved and tumbled all about the lakeside
like the pierrot on the stage,
now returns to the tree where the leaf was conceived
and clings on the tip of a broken branch, and asks
tomorrow’s weather condition for his bygone days
were the series of miseries
on tomorrow,
the rain that is heavier than the moonlight
comes through pierrot’s spread fingers
may fall and hit his face pitilessly
on tomorrow,
the rain that is colder than the spray of a breaker
hits the lakeside breakwater
may bring a wild wind
to push the poor pierrot’s back
and shove around here and there cold-heartedly
Shuffling this scope of limited perceptions; their visions..
Crossing her celestial, scintilating skies; deep inside tubular
Chimes lifting amid the breeze to these, tranquil orisons ? Subliminally
Marked emotions rising in state; bay windows dismissing chains; silvertone's rustic tides
Receding, from time's shores before my eyes; portent clarities bearing a Spirits wings
To fly beyound their breakwater whirlpools, vortex designs ? Breathtaking
Inversions encapulating this heart as solipsism flees and the eclipse of but once
Paradoxic's moon, now utters her revelations touchstone moments ? Beckoning myself
Aneath certitudes apex in parallel's reasons; these, realms about love's cloistered heavens
Wherein beauty does, so reside ? Tubular chimes lifting amid the breeze; subliminally marked
Emotions afore bay windows and her silvertones, scintilating skies; bearing, wings to fly....
Beyound His colour splashed canvas of pastels, immortal stardust ? A twenty-first century love song.
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