there in plymouth, where the land kisses the ocean,
there is a sun, a sun that never sets, a sun called Cass.
a sun that shines on the free spirits of the Waterfronts,
in thousands of meetings between two worlds,
where the sea and the sun fall in love,
under the rain of stars that fall from the sky for people like us,
for the ships that with sailing wounds find rest in your rays,
there under the Smeaton Tower,
you are the light of hope
for the promised land,
for the stairways to heaven,
towards dreams and stars,
to touch the sun that never sets.
in the small port of Barbican,
you are the spirit of the night
after every drink,
after every dance,
after every smile of people,
Shine your rays,
the real treasury of the Treasury Bar,
the sleeping beauty of a city,
without sunrise and sunset,
under a sun that never sets
a sun named Cass.
"Softly Whispering I Love You"
---English Congregation--1972
It was a kind of rife
tactically attempting
doggy on a waterbed
Or contemplating True
Inseam in the clang of bells
and platforms.
The 50th ponders
perspective that I have,
and knees that I don’t.
My wife wants to
scout out an old
flame of mine
and I want to
avoid the palpable
mysteries of antiquity
and such like
boats disappearing
from the waterfronts
this fall in Maine
The deciduous marina
softly whispering
I love you.
Gray are the lives that matter,
departed poems in a gray post-dated heaven;
‘silvery-gray,’ as the dead are said to say.
Paris was built gray; in summer,
the trees and the umbrellas upload color.
Yet only a few poems surfaced
they were too young to survive for long.
Edinburgh is gray, gray are the plastic rainhats.
Damp kilts gamely fly a little color
beneath a waterlogged pewter.
Words once penned
had to be tied together
so they would not sink.
Shanghai flakes its red and gold,
rises into cloud-scraping silver
that gilts the gray Huangpu river.
The girls are silk flowers
in designer Nike’s.
Gray are the wharfs and waterfronts.
Young silvery laughter turns poems
into porcelain teacups.
It is good to write
for the dead
(the dying have their own poets).
The deceased travel no more
but reside in a living-space
in God’s backlot, where all those
who do not fit into extant poetry
spin a grey alchemy
into a colorful language
which they then send
to places
no one ever writes about.
To see a city, you must walk,
Each neighborhood inviting
And areas, like waterfronts,
Give reasons for delighting.
To stroll the streets, check out the stores
And people watch, together
With sampling the local wares
Works well in any weather.
But when the sun is shining and
It's not too hot or cold,
It's great to be a tourist
With reality on hold.
We wore our soles out and for sure,
Tomorrow we will suffer
But motivation in a place
Like this just makes us tougher.