Long Wades Poems
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In dreams I see them:
Men and women, in Renaissance attire,
Moving about in silence in some fabulous cathedral
Full of silent Coptics and other sombre monks,
Their faces, all but one of them,
Obscured to uniformity by cloth
Silent themselves, they move about with aimless grace
Within the vast chamber that echoes my every footfall,
Drifting in trance like leaves carried past on invisible waters,
Performing miracles casually, as though to do so
Were as natural as breathing.
I watch them pass, bringing forth their miracles
Like magicians cause cards to appear in their hands;
Somehow I know they know themselves
To be The Fools of God.
The one whose face is unmasked is a woman,
A stocky beauty of radiant expression,
Whose miracle is astonishing:
She wades through the polished marble floor
As though it were bathwater, up to her shoulders,
Her ecstasy rendering her incorporeal
Yet supremely present,
Smiling in glory, God's Chief and Happiest Fool.
Who these mystics are I cannot say,
Nor why they consider themselves Celestial Jesters;
Though my guess is that the lesson here
Is that perfect faith births perfect joy,
As in the end, the Fool has the ear of the King.
Flock Plus One
Crouching among a gaggle of
dabbling Canadian geese,
a brown skinned child pushes back
long black hair,
intent on building a tidal pool
of which he can be King.
Extending a ridiculously long neck,
a goose wades gingerly into the water,
snapping his wings forward in a fluster,
indignant with the cold.
Another approaches the boy curiously,
black eyes assessing the construction;
haughtily disinterested, it continues ambling
along the inlet.
The sporadic hiss and honking of a gander
whose life mate is being wooed by another
doesn’t faze the child,
methodically tapping his palms
along the outskirts of his pond.
Another goose watches him,
unconcerned,
from her nest on a muskrat mound,
tiny hatchlings in yellow down
chirp soundlessly.
Spittles of rain dust the child’s
ebony hair
and the gaggle’s black feathers.
The cluster huddles around the boy,
having seemingly accepted him
as one of their own.
On the moonlight night in the water,
She seems to be...
This maiden of my dreams
Makes ripples as she wades into my life’s streams.
her skirt billows about her
as her sun and moon my ogling sights conquer
The sweet breezethat will blow
will smell even sweeter after brushing her cheeks that glow
Her spring smells strangely but fresh
fill up my lungs and nostrils up to its thresh
Sands in my heart… you are gone
but ripples in my thoughts vibrate into dawn
and ripples they linger on
as if another thought like a pebble has slipped at of its yawn
Pretty spirits in my life
like raindrops on a window sill… they are adrift
The curtains of her hair
Part ways to reveal her face for me to look at with care
…….a diamond in my eyes…………
Comfort my yearning sighs………
LIFE OF AVIAN DECEPTION
Serrated wings spread wide on wandering wind,
it glides smooth in sly trail of swerving sinister way
in timid sky eyeing the vibrant landscape to find
through the focused hawkeye the unwary prey.
Slim ballerina legs leap in stride of rhythmic style,
in avian grace it wades in the rippling algal water,
supple nape swivels in ballet, poised to beguile.
Sunburst brush paints pink the flowery feather.
In maze of convoluted life’s delusive deception
the mind may swoon, hunt like a wily buzzard,
concealed beneath garb of flemingo’s attraction
till the bird reaches the edge of its flight blurred.
January 25, 2019
As gently, she drifts through the darkness
Waiflike, she flows on the breeze
Her eyes never resting on anyones
Appearing to all Ill at ease
She wades in the depths of her carnage
Pressed by the weight of her sins
The humans, mere collateral damage
Ever conscious the thirst always wins
Her games will be played in the darkness
She's queen of the damned, you're her pawn
And the best, of the worse, you can hope for
Is to last 'til the break of the dawn
Lost in the wonder of bloodlust
A little too long in the tooth
She's witnessed her friends turn to dust
While she Lives on, enchained by her youth
The curse of the love of a demon
Taints the flow of the blood in her veins
It has ended her innocent dreaming
Now none but her nightmare remains
As she calls to the night, ever knowing
Her hunger can never be filled
An insatiable thirst, ever flowing
Through rivers of blood that she's spilled
As Black as the night that enfolds her
As dark as the road that she travels
She moves with the grace of an angel
Whilst waiting for time to unravel
Written: December 19, 2025, for contest: Sponsored by: Hilo Poet
******************
The mist paints a nascent landscape tonight,
I stand aboard, ready for yet another flight.
Today, as the sun wades to its final breath,
I watch the year exhaling up to its death.
I recall the tears and laughter on the way,
The memories drift somewhere farther away.
I remember the light, I remember the starkness,
And the days I was left alone in the darkness.
I have found my freedom, my wings are free,
Yet I feel uncertain, lonesome still to be.
As mist departs and clears my view,
I wish upon the last star true.
For a less chaotic world, that is my dream.
A wandering brook whispers gently, stream.
A hearty ovation for a task well done.
A year ahead, full of options, not guns.
I welcome dawn’s first tender hue,
A year reborn, with hope to renew,
A brighter path for me and you to pursue.
This twenty-six may have an unbiased worldview.
Together we're strong with each day unfolds
at dark night while stars fill or daydreams love.
Zeal blooms each joyous touch full of warm gold,
managed under gust wind from up above.
We continue loving after decades
being together. Wiping weeping tears,
a healing within fragile body wades,
for a night chasing away pain and fears.
His illness has been a struggle; once brave
filled with fulfillment embracing whole life,
now being swallowed by a tidal wave
he is simply letting it cease his strife.
If you touch one with love, ne'er drift apart
feeling no regrets could you heal a heart.
3/13/2018
Her breath catches with each infliction. Her pain their addiction. She wades water in a sea of strife. Her day, her tomorrow, her animosity toward life. She allows them passage only to feel their sharp talons once again grab hold. Softly she cries love can not be bought bartered or sold. Bleeding from their pain she limps onward. Her heart broken down yet her gaze upward. Hope remaining intact for you still hear her heart beat. Her destiny her future her fate has never been exact surely one day they shall all meet. So broken down, bleeding, and crying. Oh their stubborn blindness. Quietly you can hear her praying Father please save us.
March wades in
ankle deep in the melt.
The edges of iron nights rust
turn into pyrite dawns.
Pewter rivers shimmer into silver
fish-tailed coats
as the sunlight rolls down main street
window-shopping.
Of a sudden
nail-bound ribcages loosen,
worn down faces
surface once more like lost coins,
polished a little now and spending smiles.
March is a slow jazz melody
played through a fuzzy neck scarf.
Hands appear shaking fingers
encouraging the early flights
of expansive gestures.
On the roofs of many mouths
voices stretch out
to taste the sweetness of a dripping sky.
The city sweeps itself, in the early light,
puts on a left over makeup,
begins to spackle over
the ice cracked stains of winter.
We quietly celebrate and calculate,
dividing warm days from the chill,
fold away fat reserves
begin to wander into grocery stores
just to marvel at the early ripeness
of greenhouse fruits,
the bright display of plenty to come.
Our lives were of this moment…
the wave made sure of that
Winter nineteen sixty-nine
Waimea’s fury spat
Thirty feet and building
the giants all had come
Their lips four stories high above
too late to cut and run
The paddle out a nightmare
the ride a waiting terror
The drop in looming zero-sum
the wall the devils mirror
We made it down and set our fins
to climb the face again
Our ears were deaf, eyes frozen wide
once more to climb the mountain
On top we leaned and split the crest
last turn to surf the violence
The beach in sight, through foams delight
—death wading through the silence
(Villanova Pennsylvania: January, 2019)
‘Memories Of Waimea’