He has a pencil and imagination.
He sits above a marble tabletop
a commanding plateau aloft -
shadow-shades of wintery geese.
A sea swept fable
overlooked by a high stool
and a six-year-old Zeus.
Eggshells grain and creamy caps,
a crystalline surf slaps swirly shores,
blue veins score billowing stone
deep unto watery bone.
Contours of light
shelf, trench and darkling nights
there jabberwocky did roam.
A vast wave engraved realm
where pencil-thin old salts
jig, and swing
upon deck or land.
Grand fleets stand
flogging savage coasts.
Guns hammer truculent hosts
with smokey enfilades
and thick odors of bacon.
Odyssean voyages are lost
in greasy spots,
while an embattled buccaneer
spreads his buttery art across
a voluminous chart.
Then he, the breakfast boy
bends above the roving,
the erstwhile and damned,
sketches a gull or three
with a sailor's hand.
With a god-like paw
the child draws shallows, sandbars
reefs and more
swallow or befog a seascape,
while great ships converge to rescue
a bold seaman
and his bandy-legged dog.
I like to think that you were there
when muezzin trills called to prayer.
Calm stillness drifted in au clair,
my thoughts were pining on the air.
I like to think that you were there
as pastel-colored skies so rare
unfolded day's soft morning glare.
A comfort holding no compare.
I like to think that you were there
in uniform, so debonaire!
A dream of mine and yours to share.
We two were one, a single pair.
Desert winds shifted sandbars bare
with hateful, boastful, intense flare.
As I stand in hypnotic stare,
I like to think that you were there.
A running sea
chokes the throat of a cave
then runs away
letting it breathe again.
Starfish light-up
under a luminescent
and radioactive surf,
then are pushed into sandbars
to dry-up and die.
Beach balls are swept ashore,
bleached fingerbones
lift them over the surf,
plastic bottles pile up
with ghost lips
still attached to them.
Soothsayers think we don't know
what's coming,
but we do.
windswept clumps of grass
beach scattered with broken shells~
gulls lift on currents
sandpipers feed along
beach scattered with broken shells~
tiny legs twinkle
shorebirds feeding on
the tides endless offerings~
tiny legs twinkling
each day it changes
the tides endless offerings~
waves wash shifting sand
changing on each day
seabirds gather on sandbars~
waves wash shifting sand
ocean reflects sky
on sandbars seabirds gather ~
sleeping in warm sun
ocean reflects sky
people under umbrellas~
sleeping in warm sun
windswept clumps of grass
people under umbrellas~
gulls lift on currents
A running sea
chokes the throat of a cave
then runs away
letting it breathe again.
Starfish light up
under a luminescent surf
then are pushed into sandbars
to dry-up and die.
Beach balls are swept ashore
severed hands still gripping tightly.
The image is ghastly
and mainly untrue
unless the hands
are a warning for you.
Everything is crowding the dead
into shallow living places
and vice versa.
Prophets walk barefoot
predicting the endless tumbling nature
of wave-burnished pebbles;
soothsayers think we don't know
what's coming
but we do.
Between the lily pads and soft sandbars
Lay the saturated words of idle time
Among bloated carp and feisty sunfish
They linger in a sunny dampened rhyme.
Fleet Dragonflies of thought dodge darting Terns
The silent lure adrift, a bobber’s hope
A crusted turtle suns itself alone
Atop the edge of river’s muddy slope.
The river paints its beauty on my mind
Dares me to recreate it with my pen.
I fail, my words like Egrets, standing still
My vision trapped between the now and then.
Is there no hope, no freedom from this curse
To capture nature’s beauty in pure verse.
©10/7/2022
Salt water taffy orchestrated,
pouring grain and sweating.
Spinning my silhouette,
as the dog failed his frisbees.
It doesn' let the sun’s rays wash over me,
replicate large wooden planks,
for heart boardwalking day by day.
Sandbars can sometimes be paramour,
idyllic feeding high memories.
So blue as seashells with a spiral pattern.
Averse to an occasional dalliance,
enthralling you, God.
Sometimes life can be like the sea when winds are calm, and the tide is right
we sail across the water of life.
But when the winds increase our sails become torn and tattered.
The problems and worries of life threaten to run us aground to become
shipwrecked.
As each Captain is the master of his own vessel.
Following the charts to avoid reefs and sandbars.
We too must follow our hearts and minds.
Reaching out to family and friends.
They are our charts in the sea of life.
Let them guide you like the North Star to open water.
Until the storm is past, and the winds of life are clam once more.
J. Sergi
Are you digging a hole
you will never crawl out of,
a prison self-made by your hand
The metaphors mix
as you lie there betwixt
—the bars sinking into the sand
(Dreamsleep: April, 2021)
// Note - this was the graduation poem I wrote for my daughter,
a landscape architecture major who is also a lovely poetess //
You've blessed us as you've grown from bud to blossom;
Bright sunflower and signet marigold.
A miracle of God, sacred and awesome -
A masterpiece we joyfully behold.
Now pillars of your life are rearranging,
Yet sing this constant chorus, gifted gifter:
Through rise and fall of tides with sandbars changing,
One rock remains: God is your spirit lifter.
Your life a poem of blue-eyed, sun-drenched words
With meter of precise deliberation;
Rich metaphors of love and singing birds -
The soul-soaked sounds of sweet alliteration.
Gentle of heart and generous of mien,
Sing to the tempo of your heartbeat drumming.
Pursue your lush landscapes and walls of green
As who you are and who you are becoming.
written May 2016
To succumb to one's own pride,
Or to the ferrying tides?
To hold on, you must decide,
That this journey's worth the ride.
Often times I see these boats
Stuck on sandbars, sometimes moats,
They can hardly stay afloat,
Yet somehow, onward they go.
Dusty roads and fresh grass
summertime rodeos approaching fast
riding with a friend down on sandbars
A piece of hay hanging out of his mouth
though some trapped water, out the other side
I had forgotten this wonderful life
I still see some twenty year old boy helping me up
now a sixty year old man rides in front
pointing all the changes in the last five years
I could not believe what time I lost
4 am to a cowboy is not early enough
my pants soaking wet my boots fixed
We rode on down to his dads favorite spot
to meet God when the sun comes up
we turned to face it and did not say a word
God's spirit was the only thing we heard
as earth to air, and water to fire, met in the sky
right there two old friends prayed to God
deep circular scars…
cold dark troughs between sandbars
sharks larger than cars
I'm one of many people with shovels in the sand.
Some even go digging the crude way by hand.
In the estuaries, it is now low tide.
There are sandbars that the waters hide.
Buried in the sand are those round white shells.
Hunters are hoping that the number swells.
How many recipes for clams do you know?
There is chowder, steamed, fried, and Casino.
Those bivalve mollusks can be served many ways.
Folks go hunting for them during these days.
Many people like them raw out of the shell.
This way, they think clams taste so well.
A seagull alights on the broken dock,
dull grey feathers floating
in the thick Florida summer.
It cracks its beak, shrieks to the sun,
barely risen over the bayou.
Light glitters over sandbars, silty waters,
silver fish; light reflects
sky into sea, sea into sky.
A boat rocks on slight waves;
thick, strained rope anchors it to a sodden post.
Its deck is littered with soda cans,
empty sunscreen tubes, torn fishing line.
A door slams from the house by the road;
the seagull flaps away, startled,
leaves wisps of fuzz dancing in the air.
It disappears behind the dunes, a retreating ‘m’
on the horizon. Footsteps approach,
footsteps accompanied by soft giggles
and a pair of hands reaching
for the falling feathers.
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