Palms and Wings

Could
Tiny white wings
E’er be held
By more
Protective
Palms?

Could
Little palms e’er
Be anointed
By wings
With a lighter
Balm?

Could
More innocent
Palms e’er
Keep white
Wings safe from
Harm?

Could
More attentive
Wings e’er
Cherish
A small child’s
Psalm?

Poems from Plum Island

Preface
(In the Beginning)

“Brrr!” says my
Soul, “This place reeks of cold
Not poetry …”

“No!” chides the
Marsh, “The ice, fog, and clouds
Offer immunity.”

Reprieve

All I saw was the boardwalk, its slats
Grey winding their way through ice, snow,
Memories, and past winter storms,
Showing me the path towards a beach where all
I hoped to do on its sands was to bask
Like a seashell and to be washed smooth
Like a cradled sea stone …

View from the Boardwalk

As if a cold compress had come down
And flattened the sea like a hot steam iron once did on
My mother’s ironing board on a long ago, frigid
Winter’s night, thus before me stood the
Gateway to the Atlantic with its cobalt-blue color —
And it seemed spent, or was it just simply sated? It was as if the
Waves had neither the strength nor the will to lift their
Heads for one more tide, as if an exhausted,
Hunched woman with an iron had creased flat
Their mood, taming them despite how hard they tried.
And so it stretched before me without ripple –
Having clearly surrendered to a February freeze —
This on a sunny Saturday which was otherwise
Grand and glorious, and snow on the
Sand was setting a white tablecloth to
Showcase the finest shells and stones and
Seaweed I had ever seen …

Beyond the Boardwalk

… And so, bobbing, about a quarter-mile
Offshore, I see the shape of a seagull, and it is
Observing me as I sit this snow-covered
Sand — and both of us marveling at how the sea was so flat
And cobalt-blue cold, and how nobody else
Was on the beach to see it, because
February was deigned only in quiet solitude
To be shared and known…

Ode to Cold Beach

I knew your waters would be flat and calm.
I knew in color your waves would be coldest, cobalt-blue.
I even knew winter’s windswept
Sands would run across your boardwalk …
But I absolutely did not know that snowdrifts
Would conceal my footprints,
From where they stood in praise
To you this past June …

Merest Flesh

Why should I be any
Different than all else that waits to be
Swept off of this winter strand!?
I am made of only the merest, weakest flesh and
Blood, while even gets shoved aside
By every tide and storm this faithful and
Snow-laden, February sand!

Winter Beach

Down to the very shore’s edge runs a
Six-inch layer of snow, and from there extends out to the
Horizon the coldest cobalt-blue I ever saw …
The sun peeks over my right shoulder while a mighty
Sand dune behind me stands disheveled in awe …
And in approval from a quarter-mile out,
A seagull rides each light swell, and points at me
Its beak, because in solitude we are
Brothers, and that is our unbreakable,
February bond.

Postscript
(Ode to Seashore)

I would lie down with
You gladly and close gently my eyes.
I would weep knowing that my
Tears would be accepted by
The lows and highs of your tides.
I would even scream if I thought my
Voice would reach your ears —
But alas you await far deeper
Calls than mine from all your
Canyons of fathomless fears —
So all I can do is sit here
On your snow-covered sands,
And marvel at how cold is your
Cobalt-blue hue, and how
Empty is the sea of any daring
Small boats, and how I
Can only see a lone,
Bobbing seagull, and how
The sand dune to my back
Thankfully blocks me from the
Winter wind, and how the
Sun bleaches yet another inscrutable
Puzzle of jumbled pieces of
Seaweed and shells and
Stones left by the last rush of
High tide … all placed in a
Mysterious pattern to proclaim
God’s message in primordial parable –
And writ solemnly on this
Strand of a February paradise.

Storm at Dawn

First the wind I hear, and
Then starts the driving rain in sheets against the
Siding of this sturdy, island home, and
So out to sea I cast my eyes, and
There the primordial story of a November
Storm unfolds…and it is of a high
Tide being whipped into a lather
Against the flank of a black, gray dawn.
All this is soon displayed as an
Endless stream of white-capped waves
Beating against the bulwark of
What man has made, and
Naught is to be done to
Calm and hold it all back,
Except, that is, to pray and
Wait and see, because the hounds
This morning have been
Loosed, and the
Master-of-the-Morning
Has set in motion a
Mariner’s klaxon, and two
Neighboring American flags are
Pointed straight-out
By a monster wind
From out of the south, and
Their tattered threads hurtle towards
Wherever people go when left
With only faith or hope
As their last redoubt.

“For When I Am Weak, Then I Am Strong”

(2 Corinthians 12: 9-10)

To me appear two
Leaves in surprise and peace,
To safeguard me as if
God’s angelic couriers
When all else is
Wind and awe and
Trembling…
“Two brown leaves,”
I exclaim, “the
Most ordinary
Of all that is weak!?”
“Yes,” replies
Their oak tree, “they
Are the fruit of my
Timber, and
Represent in this
Wild wood all that
You need…”

Oracle

So many tides
And tugs, my heartstrings
Run wild and
Endlessly amok…
Which tide, be it
Low or high,
Which surf,
Which crest of
Foam to me
Carries the reply?
All I hear is
Roar in my ears,
And all I see is
One wave after
The other — with its
Message writ
In a strange script, not
Discernable to
E’en a seer.