I found him in a box of dust-soft relics,
a face blurred by time yet bright with family and memory.
From brittle scrapbook pages, his life unfolded-piece by piece,
his story rose—a German farm boy who fled Dorn,
the sailor who leapt into Gulf-dark waters, swimming
toward Galveston Bay and the faint glow of a future he hoped to claim.
Texas shaped him with love, labor, and loss,
eight children rooting his family deep into new soil.
Dusk pooled in the attic around me, his courage moved
through our family line into my own bones~a quiet inheritance.
*You may find the accompanying memoir vignette at poetrysoup.com/short_stories/the_stranger_in_the_box_13607
Galveston beach and its gentle mornings
glimmered through my girlhood,
warm waves wrapping my ankles
as I searched the sand for treasures~
smooth shells and shy sand dollars,
.
In the distance, my parents’ voice drifted~
the sea breeze carrying them
easy and unhurried,
as if time itself was
softened by the sea.
the salt-sweet air carried a type of comfort,
the quiet kind that
settled softly into my childhood bones~
a warmth brushed with sea-spray
and sun-soaked breezes,
the kind that tasted of tide-mist
and felt like home on my skin.
in a way, Galveston is home~
its tide once touching
my great-grandfather’s boots
as he arrived in America,
hopeful and unanchored
fresh from the old world,
finding his first foothold
in the new world.
and I carry him with me still~
his courage like a quiet current
beneath my days,
his journey echoing
in every shoreline breath,
reminding me that I, too,
am shaped by the sea
that welcomed him.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The neon hums like a dying wasp~
flickers Roy Orbison in wounded pink,
while the gulf wind tongues
the screen door’s loose hinge.
A quarter rolls from my palm,
kisses the chrome throat
of a machine that remembers
Patsy Cline, but not my name.
Some nights, the bartender lets it play
the same cracked track~
Crazy—on loop till dawn,
while shrimp boats cough diesel
into the salt-thick dark.
I press B-17. The gears grind,
spit out a melody warped
by hurricane sweat,
by the weight of all the songs
it swallowed and never digested.
When the power fails,
the jukebox still glows~
a ghost lit by its own stubborn heat,
singing to the empty stools,
to the tide’s slow retreat.
Licky butt, oh, licky butt
Lick your bum my lovely puppy
Gonna feed you a dead guppy
It's belly up
So feed it to the pup.
As I walk along the beach
over head the grey gulls screech
Lapping waves upon the shore,
who could ever ask for more.
Ocean breeze upon my face;
palm trees flutter on the lawn.
Galveston’s a lovely place,
walking on the shore at dawn.
May 31, 2018
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