Solitary Trek

She makes her solitary trek
to the ocean
like she always has

She no longer
conjures miracles
recites complicated
incantations
prays
for another

She merely watches
begins to count
wave after wave
until the numbers blur
and she forgets
how to count
higher than one

She lets the crazy wind
and turbulent sea
wash over her
again and again
knowing one day
one day soon
she will become one
with all that is
for the last time

Today
she lets it whisper
seduce
cajole
while she pretends
to listen

7 May 2018
Sussex Coast, England

image

the waiting

and when I reach out
to touch something
that is not me

I feel a kind of
numbness
hear a kind of
dull static

that’s how I know
I’m still waiting

for you

5 May 2018
Sussex Coast, England

003BD0E4-ADAA-41C3-8515-E421445A9F5B

He Breathes

He breathes
and she smells
smoke

Dead man
walking

It happens
too much
now

These
vignettes
from
another time

A word
a passing comment

It’s going to be a scorcher today

And she’s off

lost to her
imagination
in all its surreal
darkness
and sometimes
light

Yesterday
the sun
was shining

She wasted
that day
in sickness

Today was
gray
lost
in time

Too much
time
searching
for blue skies

Blue sky thinking?

And she’s off

Like stepping
off a cliff
and landing
in the deep
blue sea

She knows
the sea
moves in waves
takes in water
until she is full
again

And walking

and listening

for his breathing
again

15 April 2018
Sussex Coast, England

IMG_5906

Zen and the Art of Breast Cancer

Mostly, I’ve found a kind of calmness. I’ve been reading the Tao. Still, the cruelty of the current geopolitical climate can still send me reeling and I forget who I am for a bit. I forget to give Love because it’s all Love.

My surgery to remove the cancerous growths in my breast is on Tuesday. On Monday I have to go into the hospital briefly to be injected with isotopes for the sentinel lymph node removal. And then at the hospital at 7:30 am the next day.

I’m signing off social networking and the inter webs now so I can find my Zen and breathe it, be it.

Catch you on the flip side.

Blessings.

In the meantime, here’s a pretty photograph of the Pacific on the Mendocino Coast of California from 2012.

image

The Girl Bound by the Sea

She was always easy to locate. Her movements were too regular. It put her in danger.

Coffee from the tiny coffee shop on the corner every morning, a block from the sea where she spent hours staring into the waves. She always had a camera with her but she had stopped taking photographs several weeks ago. She just held it in her cold hands while she stared at nothing but the huge expanse of water in front of her.

The sea was wild today and the wind cold and brutal but she stood still as a statue except for her hair. Curls as wild as the sea were whipped around her head by the wind. At times the wind would slow, like it was taking a deep breath before another onslaught, and her hair would fall slowly back onto her shoulders, as if by magic.

Some days she wore a long dress and her skirts would get entangled in her legs, revealing short black boots with tiny laces. On those days he wondered if she was even real, or merely a forgotten shade from another era.

Sometimes her lips moved, spoke words without sound, magical incantations, he imagined, but they never smiled, not even when a friendly passerby murmured a good morning. She would stop to study their face, trying to gauge whether they were a threat or not, sometimes return their good morning in a voice so low, it could barely be heard but mostly she just nodded her head politely and looked away.

He heard her voice once when she didn’t know he was there behind her. She was reciting an unfamiliar poem to a Raven who stood nearby watching her. He was surprised by the soft melodic sound, almost like birdsong, he thought. The memory still haunted him.

He tried to talk to her once, just casual inane chatter, too inane for someone like him with a reputation as a heartless charmer and a reprobate with a gift for words. She watched his face while he spoke. Her eyes were huge but the light had gone out of them a long time ago. He thought she must have been beautiful once. When he stopped talking, she turned, clutching her camera tightly to her chest and walked away with sure, even steps. He didn’t try to talk to her again.

He watched her though, everyday. On his more fanciful days he thought she was the kind of woman he could love, would want to protect from the evils of the world except he was sure the evils of the world had already visited her and took her heart with them when they left.

When he was honest with himself, he knew he was merely another one of those evils. When he was honest with himself he knew if he had half a chance he would capture this sad little bird and keep her for himself, bound to his need just as surely as she was bound to this sea, just as he had done with all his women.

However, he had turned them lose when he became bored and he knew he had left them broken, seeking something they didn’t have a name for, ghosts of their former selves.

He didn’t want that for this one. If she had any heart left to break, he didn’t want to be the one to break it.

But he wanted her. Oh, God, how he wanted her.

She would be easy to abduct.

Unfortunately something about her awakened his conscience. He could abduct her, would abduct her, but only once he was sure he could love her forever, keep her forever, and make her love him, at least a little.

But that time was not now.

So he watched his little bird from the shadows, slowly losing his heart to her and that wild sea which kept her bound and enthralled and heartbroken.

image.jpeg

March days return with their covert light

Climping Beach, Sussex

March days return with their covert light

LXXXVIII From: ‘Cien sonetos de amor’


March days return with their covert light

and huge fish swim through the sky,

vague earthly vapours progress in secret,

things slip to silence one by one.

Through fortuity, at this crisis of errant skies,

you reunite the lives of the sea to that of fire,

grey lurchings of the ship of winter

to the form that love carved in the guitar.

O love, O rose soaked by mermaids and spume,

dancing flame that climbs the invisible stairway,

to waken the blood in insomnia’s labyrinth,

so that the waves can complete themselves in the sky,

the sea forget its cargoes and rages,

and the world fall into darkness’s nets.

~Pablo Neruda