I've never written so much poetry at once, not even in creative retreat. I'm more-or-less thrilled with the 7 poems I've written so far. All 7 are in various degrees of first-draftness, but some have potential for further development--after this break-neck pace is over.
Ok, week 2. Inhale. Here goes...
DAY 7
turning tide
DAY 6
DAY 5
DAY 4
DAY 3 ~ French Quarter Fest
Sexy, sexy people
and not so sexy people
dancing, nodding,
rocking side-to-side,
snapping, clapping, or doing
the Funky Butt
to a kind of musical hybrid
that can flourish only
in New Orleans:
calliope and the Blues,
Zydeco Bounce,
or the world's premier trio
of steel guitar, sousaphone,
and washboard.
Salt peanuts for sale
or a painted face.
Let's catch that crawfish
eating competition
and then grab a beer~always
a Big Ass beer.
Grateful for sunglasses
dimming the glare
off of the river
but regretting the lack
of sunscreen. Oh well,
you'll look luminous
dancing tonight.
DAY 2
What use are empty hands?
Better for clawing digging up through soil.
No premature graves for me!
Better for cupping water
to my thirsty lips.
Better for reaching out holding hands
with to someone else.
Better for touching,
catching,
pushing, throwing
pulling,
and holding myself together.
Better Good for waving goodbye.
Best for caressing!
DAY 1 ~ Where the Industrial Canal Meets the River
At the point
where waters merge,
green grapples brown,
and breezes buffet my
face and body on all
sides at once.
On the water side, the levee
slopes down to rocks
clashing like Caligula
with the tide.
Foolish kings. Water will
have its way.
But on the levee's
grassy side, the pom-pom heads
of clover, grown high, nod
vigorously with the winds
like a million angels dancing.
And in between both sides,
lies a middle path
paved in broken oyster shells,
bumpy on my bike, and narrow,
though seldom straight.
Thursday, April 8, 2010
Thursday, April 1, 2010
NaPoWriMo ~ Week 1
April is National Poetry Writing Month, and I'm participating in a nationwide group write: a poem a day for the next 30 days. Hmm... Sounds intimidating. But here I am, tossing my hat into the ring. Check this blog now and then, http://kungfuevangelist.blogspot.com
Text color indicates work in progress. White text is the original impulse for a particular day. Gray/black text is a deletion. And green text is new since the original impulse.
DAY 7
Where waters merge
green meets brown,
and the breeze buffets
my face and body
from all sides at once.
Clumps of clover grown high
on the incline of the levee
shudder, but on the water side
are rocks
clashing like Caligula
with the tide.
Foolish king.
Water will have its way.
DAY 6
Whispering begins in the raffia friction
of last year's fronds, stubbornly refusing
to fall from the tallest palms.
Then bamboo rustles her taffeta leaves
as the pipes that dangle from the eaves
begin to chime.
Wind animates them all,
with desire
at the roots of everything.
Why then should I let go of desire, let go
of it all~to crossover into Nirvana
or some other sweet oblivion?
Who would ever want to leave
these trees, this wind, those chimes?
DAY 5 ~ (Unasked-for) Advice for Writers
You are a writer
only when you write.
You are a Writer
only when you revise.
Learn to write
by writing,
then re-writing,
and by reading the Greats.
Listen when writers talk,
especially about writing.
Don't wait for inspiration.
Find inspiration in your writing.
Don't write to earn gain love.
Love what you write.
Don't write to be get published.
Just do your best work.
Have something to say.
Say it well.
But never worry about
Voice. That is a Marketing term.
Write to weave
patterns, to create order,
to construct meaning~
because meaning, like story,
is a constructed thing.
Write because
your days are haunted
by words, images, and emotions~
inside the private theater
of memory.
Write because, like me,
you have no choice
but to unburden yourself heart
of our aching this barely endurable
love for this our phenomenal world.life.
Easter Sunday DAY 4 ~
A Poem by Frederick Mead
cConfessional tone.
sSexual longing.
sSpiritual groping.
DAY 3
I awake every morning
longing
for an angel's burning kiss
or a poem on my lips~
aching to feel Chosen.
And so I start my day
constructing my voice
from all the available accents~
stout-hearted, yet guarded lest
my fragility show, armored
by personality.
DAY 2
I speak
iron, plainly,
volcanic sounds
erupting
from deep within my
lungs of fire,
words hammer-forged
inside the cavern
of my mouth.
I make seek
pattern,
expressing meaning
through rhythm
or repetition,
near rhyme, or
the telling silence,
in structures meant to
guide,
clarify,
and delight
You my
reader,
first Muse top banana
of in my Pantheon cosmology, world order,
even though you might
never grasp my meaning
across the our gap
of language.
DAY 1
Fluttering hummingbird
heartbeats pulse felt
where skin presses
skin, bodies together
in pleasure, beating out the
syncopated measures of
desire: Want, want, I want!
Text color indicates work in progress. White text is the original impulse for a particular day. Gray/black text is a deletion. And green text is new since the original impulse.
DAY 7
Where waters merge
green meets brown,
and the breeze buffets
my face and body
from all sides at once.
Clumps of clover grown high
on the incline of the levee
shudder, but on the water side
are rocks
clashing like Caligula
with the tide.
Foolish king.
Water will have its way.
DAY 6
Whispering begins in the raffia friction
of last year's fronds, stubbornly refusing
to fall from the tallest palms.
Then bamboo rustles her taffeta leaves
as the pipes that dangle from the eaves
begin to chime.
Wind animates them all,
with desire
at the roots of everything.
Why then should I let go of desire, let go
of it all~to crossover into Nirvana
or some other sweet oblivion?
Who would ever want to leave
these trees, this wind, those chimes?
DAY 5 ~ (Unasked-for) Advice for Writers
You are a writer
only when you write.
You are a Writer
only when you revise.
Learn to write
by writing,
then re-writing,
and by reading the Greats.
Listen when writers talk,
especially about writing.
Don't wait for inspiration.
Find inspiration in your writing.
Don't write to earn gain love.
Love what you write.
Don't write to be get published.
Just do your best work.
Have something to say.
Say it well.
But never worry about
Voice. That is a Marketing term.
Write to weave
patterns, to create order,
to construct meaning~
because meaning, like story,
is a constructed thing.
Write because
your days are haunted
by words, images, and emotions~
inside the private theater
of memory.
Write because, like me,
you have no choice
but to unburden yourself heart
of our aching this barely endurable
love for this our phenomenal world.life.
Easter Sunday DAY 4 ~
A Poem by Frederick Mead
cConfessional tone.
sSexual longing.
sSpiritual groping.
DAY 3
I awake every morning
longing
for an angel's burning kiss
or a poem on my lips~
aching to feel Chosen.
And so I start my day
constructing my voice
from all the available accents~
stout-hearted, yet guarded lest
my fragility show, armored
by personality.
DAY 2
I speak
iron, plainly,
volcanic sounds
erupting
from deep within my
lungs of fire,
words hammer-forged
inside the cavern
of my mouth.
I make seek
pattern,
expressing meaning
through rhythm
or repetition,
near rhyme, or
the telling silence,
in structures meant to
guide,
clarify,
and delight
You my
reader,
first Muse top banana
of in my Pantheon cosmology, world order,
even though you might
never grasp my meaning
across the our gap
of language.
DAY 1
Fluttering hummingbird
heartbeats pulse felt
where skin presses
skin, bodies together
in pleasure, beating out the
syncopated measures of
desire: Want, want, I want!
Saturday, February 20, 2010
Word Temples
Recently I learned that the Chinese symbol for "poem" is comprised of 2 characters that mean "word" and "temple". A poem is a word temple.
WORD TEMPLE
In the beginning is
the deed. For compassion is
is more than a noun, more than
emotion, a brief distress
for the Other's distress
that yet
slyly eludes escapes the ache of insistent ache of
Bodhichitta ~ the that spirit of compassion,
that which yearns only to cherish Other ~
but rather, escapes eludes through the loophole
of misdirected
non-attachment.
Instead, lLet compassion become
a verb, a clarifying bell
calling the mind to action, or a gaze
penetrating through to a more pure land,
a New Jerusalem
where compassion and sympathetic actions are the
are the true measures
of righteousness.
For faith without works
is dead faith, a life-less statue
erected in the posture of faith
but worshiped inside
a temple
made of words.
Let compassion fly!
Let compassion be the winged horse
that carries us forward, all of us,
towards our mutual salvation.
All of us,
co-arising!
WORD TEMPLE
In the beginning is
the deed. For compassion is
is more than a noun, more than
emotion, a brief distress
for the Other's distress
that yet
slyly eludes escapes the ache of insistent ache of
Bodhichitta ~ the that spirit of compassion,
that which yearns only to cherish Other ~
but rather, escapes eludes through the loophole
of misdirected
non-attachment.
Instead, lLet compassion become
a verb, a clarifying bell
calling the mind to action, or a gaze
penetrating through to a more pure land,
a New Jerusalem
where compassion and sympathetic actions are the
are the true measures
of righteousness.
For faith without works
is dead faith, a life-less statue
erected in the posture of faith
but worshiped inside
a temple
made of words.
Let compassion fly!
Let compassion be the winged horse
that carries us forward, all of us,
towards our mutual salvation.
All of us,
co-arising!
_______________________________________
Word Temple
In the beginning, is
the deed.
For compassion is
more than a feeling,
more than emotion,
a brief distress
for the Other's distress
that yet eludes the aching call
of aching bodhichitta
through the choice of misguided misdirected
non-attachment.
Instead, let compassion be
a verb, the clarifying bell that calls
the mind to action,
or the penetrating gaze into
a more pure land, a New Jerusalem
where sympathetic action
is the true measure
of righteousness.
For faith without works
is dead faith, a life-less statue
erected in the posture of faith
but worshipped inside a temples
made of words.
Oh let compassion fly!
Let compassion be the winged horse
that carries us forward, all of us,
toward our mutual salvation.
All of us
co-arising.
In the beginning, is
the deed.
For compassion is
more than a feeling,
more than emotion,
a brief distress
for the Other's distress
that yet eludes the aching call
of aching bodhichitta
through the choice of misguided misdirected
non-attachment.
Instead, let compassion be
a verb, the clarifying bell that calls
the mind to action,
or the penetrating gaze into
a more pure land, a New Jerusalem
where sympathetic action
is the true measure
of righteousness.
For faith without works
is dead faith, a life-less statue
erected in the posture of faith
but worshipped inside a temples
made of words.
Oh let compassion fly!
Let compassion be the winged horse
that carries us forward, all of us,
toward our mutual salvation.
All of us
co-arising.
___________________________________________________
In the beginning, is
the deed.
For compassion is
more than a feeling we feel,
more than an emotional state,
a brief distress over for another's distress,
but inhabiting word temples,
confusing evading but eluding the ache of achy
that yet eludes the aching call of bodhichitta
for non-involvement misplaced misguided non-attachment.
Instead, cCLInstead, let compassion be should be
a verb, a the clarifying bell
that calls our minds the mind to action,
a the burning glimpse
into a more pure land,
a the New Jerusalem
where sympathy sympathetic action
is the true measure
of righteousness.
For faith without works
is dead faith, a life-less statue
erected in the posture
of spirituality,
inside a temple
made of words.
Oh let compassion free!
Let compassion it be
a the winged horse
that carries us all forward, all of us,
towards our mutual salvation.
All of us
co-arising.
Wednesday, December 9, 2009
Hard October Blackberries
Post-season, I picked hard October blackberries
that a scoffing older man predicted would be sour.
Pushing I pushed, urgent and deep inside the bush, I heldholding aside a branch prickly vine like a lover's leg
to pick reach the sweet, long-neglected interior clusters.
Until impatient with the pace,
and hectored by the thorns, I grabbed
indiscriminate handfuls, sacrificing sweetness
for a fuller basket, tart green bites for my breakfast flakes,
green bitter berries that also bite back. oblivious(?)
oOnly too late, typing at a desk in the South, I grieve at the loss of
for to the choicest, tender few dropping that fell through my grasp,
to bounce possibly tender, bouncing onto the mossy soil on the spingy moss.ground.
that a scoffing older man predicted would be sour.
Pushing I pushed, urgent and deep inside the bush, I heldholding aside a branch prickly vine like a lover's leg
to pick reach the sweet, long-neglected interior clusters.
Until impatient with the pace,
and hectored by the thorns, I grabbed
indiscriminate handfuls, sacrificing sweetness
for a fuller basket, tart green bites for my breakfast flakes,
green bitter berries that also bite back. oblivious(?)
oOnly too late, typing at a desk in the South, I grieve at the loss of
for to the choicest, tender few dropping that fell through my grasp,
to bounce possibly tender, bouncing onto the mossy soil on the spingy moss.ground.
Saturday, August 8, 2009
More Before and After Poems
Worst Love Poem Ever
We blasphemed with our bodies, two boys
play-acting epic love scenes inspired by the Bible:
Jonathan and David, Jesus and His beloved John.
My favorites were Ruth and Naomi. Whither thou goest...
But I shall abide by things that I know how to hold onto:
like the certainty of outrage, the moral stamina to write
the worst love poem ever, to say "fuck you" while smiling,
but all my ink pens keep exploding from the heat.
Write a poem for me instead. Tell me something sideways again.
Hint at need in the oblique manner that you and I communicate.
Write my fate in the margins, leaving volumes unsaid
in the white spaces between the lines.
Or perhaps we have a longer story yet to tell, an epic.
Something we cannot compress into a lyric poem.
And the original:
Untitled
We've been sloppy with our bodies,
boys playing scandalous games inspired
by the Bible,:
Jonathan and David,
Ruth and Naomi,
Jesus and hHis beloved,
John. My favorites were Ruth and Naomi.
Whither thou goest.
But me, I should stick with abide by things
I know how to hold onto:
the certainty of outrage,
the moral stamina to write the worst
love poem ever, to say “fuck you”
with a smile on my face. Damn!
The craziness of the flesh!
It stops me. So beautiful. I mark it.
Alright, you have my attention.
Tell me something sideways again, hint at need
in the oblique ways that you and I communicate.
Or wWrite my fate in the margins,
leaving volumes unsaid between the lines.
It's August in New Orleans,
a hard time to write a love poem. anyway
when all mMy ink pens keep exploding from the heat.
But our story epic
cannot end, not here.
No cinematic walk-offs, please.
(Yes, I am listening to myself.)
We have a longer story yet to tell,
something I can't compress into a poem.
And wWhy would I try?Awhy would I try?
_______________________________
Confession of Faith
Purple-black crows have pecked these bones,
these carcasses of coastal pine polished white
by the persistent apetite of the shore.
But this poem is merely metaphor.
Imaginative reasoning, at best. At worst,
a newsflash from the interior.
Farther up the beach, a bullwhip
of sea carrot lassoes back around
itself, encircling an unlikely pile of quartz.
Suggestive accident of Nature?
Or the ghost of another soul
who has hovered here before?
Clouds dart, and a sudden sunbridge
throws out an invitation: Crossover the ocean
to a farther, unseen shore.
Metaphor upon metaphor!
And too great a leap of faith.
Onto a tenuous surface of sunflakes,
glimmers on water that offer
no sure foundation? I am Christ-like
only in my reluctance.
Nearby from a descending hill, where a drain pipe
juts, I hear singing, an unexpected polyphonic
chorus of monks intoning Om.
Shifting timbres, layers of wind echoing through
an open pipe, a kind of Genius rising
then fading to a whispered mantra, Om.
Kneeling down, I reposition
an oyster shell to its best advantage,
reflective side up.
And the original:
Why dDo bBeaches iInspire pPoets?
Can I see only p Purple-black crows pecking at bones,
at carcasses of coastal pine polished white
by the shore's persistent appetite of the shore.?.
But this is only the opening metaphor, of course.
Imaginative reasoning, at best.
Or Aat worst, a newsflash from the interior.
Farther up the beach, I find a bullwhip of sea carrot
lassoeds back around itself, encircling
an unlikely pile a pyramid
of rose quartz. A An unlikely
miracle of nature? Or merely the yet
another ghost
of human thought
hovering in the landscape?
Clouds dart, and a sudden sunbridge
throws offers an invitation to crossover the ocean
to explore a farther, unseen shore.
But that is tT Is that alsoT But that is too great a leap
of faith?. AOnto a tenuous layer of sunflakes?
Glimmersings on a watery surface, golden ephemera
that offer no sure foundation?
Only more metaphor?.
No human ever walks on water.
Where a drainage pipe juts
from a descending hill
I hear singing, an unexpected
polyphonic chorus of
monks intoning OM, shifting, layered timbres
of wind echoing through an open pipe,
a kind of Genius that fades
to a whisper and then silence, almost telling me:
Time does not start here.
Kneeling down, Awed Inspired, nonetheless, I kneel down
I to reposition a clam shell
to its best advantage.
We blasphemed with our bodies, two boys
play-acting epic love scenes inspired by the Bible:
Jonathan and David, Jesus and His beloved John.
My favorites were Ruth and Naomi. Whither thou goest...
But I shall abide by things that I know how to hold onto:
like the certainty of outrage, the moral stamina to write
the worst love poem ever, to say "fuck you" while smiling,
but all my ink pens keep exploding from the heat.
Write a poem for me instead. Tell me something sideways again.
Hint at need in the oblique manner that you and I communicate.
Write my fate in the margins, leaving volumes unsaid
in the white spaces between the lines.
Or perhaps we have a longer story yet to tell, an epic.
Something we cannot compress into a lyric poem.
And the original:
Untitled
We've been sloppy with our bodies,
boys playing scandalous games inspired
by the Bible,:
Jonathan and David,
Ruth and Naomi,
Jesus and hHis beloved,
John. My favorites were Ruth and Naomi.
Whither thou goest.
But me, I should stick with abide by things
I know how to hold onto:
the certainty of outrage,
the moral stamina to write the worst
love poem ever, to say “fuck you”
with a smile on my face. Damn!
The craziness of the flesh!
It stops me. So beautiful. I mark it.
Alright, you have my attention.
Tell me something sideways again, hint at need
in the oblique ways that you and I communicate.
Or wWrite my fate in the margins,
leaving volumes unsaid between the lines.
It's August in New Orleans,
a hard time to write a love poem. anyway
when all mMy ink pens keep exploding from the heat.
But our story epic
cannot end, not here.
No cinematic walk-offs, please.
(Yes, I am listening to myself.)
We have a longer story yet to tell,
something I can't compress into a poem.
And wWhy would I try?Awhy would I try?
_______________________________
Confession of Faith
Purple-black crows have pecked these bones,
these carcasses of coastal pine polished white
by the persistent apetite of the shore.
But this poem is merely metaphor.
Imaginative reasoning, at best. At worst,
a newsflash from the interior.
Farther up the beach, a bullwhip
of sea carrot lassoes back around
itself, encircling an unlikely pile of quartz.
Suggestive accident of Nature?
Or the ghost of another soul
who has hovered here before?
Clouds dart, and a sudden sunbridge
throws out an invitation: Crossover the ocean
to a farther, unseen shore.
Metaphor upon metaphor!
And too great a leap of faith.
Onto a tenuous surface of sunflakes,
glimmers on water that offer
no sure foundation? I am Christ-like
only in my reluctance.
Nearby from a descending hill, where a drain pipe
juts, I hear singing, an unexpected polyphonic
chorus of monks intoning Om.
Shifting timbres, layers of wind echoing through
an open pipe, a kind of Genius rising
then fading to a whispered mantra, Om.
Kneeling down, I reposition
an oyster shell to its best advantage,
reflective side up.
And the original:
Why dDo bBeaches iInspire pPoets?
Can I see only p Purple-black crows pecking at bones,
at carcasses of coastal pine polished white
by the shore's persistent appetite of the shore.?.
But this is only the opening metaphor, of course.
Imaginative reasoning, at best.
Or Aat worst, a newsflash from the interior.
Farther up the beach, I find a bullwhip of sea carrot
lassoeds back around itself, encircling
an unlikely pile a pyramid
of rose quartz. A An unlikely
miracle of nature? Or merely the yet
another ghost
of human thought
hovering in the landscape?
Clouds dart, and a sudden sunbridge
throws offers an invitation to crossover the ocean
to explore a farther, unseen shore.
But that is tT Is that alsoT But that is too great a leap
of faith?. AOnto a tenuous layer of sunflakes?
Glimmersings on a watery surface, golden ephemera
that offer no sure foundation?
Only more metaphor?.
No human ever walks on water.
Where a drainage pipe juts
from a descending hill
I hear singing, an unexpected
polyphonic chorus of
monks intoning OM, shifting, layered timbres
of wind echoing through an open pipe,
a kind of Genius that fades
to a whisper and then silence, almost telling me:
Time does not start here.
Kneeling down, Awed Inspired, nonetheless, I kneel down
I to reposition a clam shell
to its best advantage.
And a Short One
I honed this haiku-like short poem while walking the woods of Washington state, daily for 2 weeks. A year later, the words are very much like the original, but with key changes in where lines return, a changed or repositioned word here or there.
Madrona
Yearning, twisting Madrona tree
peels back his crimson foreskin, exposing
the raw desire of the Earth
and a sleek skin of green beneath.
Here is the original version:
Madrona
Twisting, yearning Madrona peels
back his own red foreskin, exposing
the raw need of the Earth and a sleek
skin of green beneath.
Madrona
Yearning, twisting Madrona tree
peels back his crimson foreskin, exposing
the raw desire of the Earth
and a sleek skin of green beneath.
Here is the original version:
Madrona
Twisting, yearning Madrona peels
back his own red foreskin, exposing
the raw need of the Earth and a sleek
skin of green beneath.
Monday, July 20, 2009
Poem's Progress
I began this poem around my 40th birthday, 2 years ago, while visiting Seattle. The imagery and theme of this poem, Crossover, come from that area, that mind-set.
Since I began, I've also been studying prosody, the structure of poetry. In particular, trying to answer the question: Why structure?
My own answer: Because a poem has a structure whether we intend it or not. To ignore structure is to ignore half the tools in our kit. Structure, well-done, is a pleasure of the poem, especially when it serves the purpose of meaning.
This later version of the poem is an attempt at more formal structure, with special attention to line-endings and stanza endings. Also, line lengths that support the "mood" of each of the poem's 3 sections.
I've included the first version below it for comparison.
Crossover
by Frederick Mead
It takes a heretical, decisive step
to become a man, to crossover water
without caveats, insecurities, failed courage,
mad infatuations, or need weighing heavily
upon the iron horizon.
Without desire pulling up coastal pine
by the roots, unquenchable desire
discarding tree trunks like flotsam to the shore,
constructing a haphazard barricade of driftwood
that fog washes over.
Yet through dense fog,
our ferryboat bravely
navigates the chain
of channel islands,
green quartz emerging
then receding, jagged-
edged in the fog.
We can see no stars
or sun to guide us.
Is it heresy to trust
an unseen Captain?
Whose permission
do we need
to take command?
Breathless on the farther shore, surprised
at the brevity of the journey, we disembark
safely at the terminal.
We trace our fingers over contours of
the relief map, and apprehend in retrospect
the winding, circuitous path
we have traveled. What guidance do the stars
and sun provide? Stars are wishes and dreams
achieved through possibility.
The sun? Merely an egg yolk
melting through our fingers--food
for the next voyage.
________________________________________________
Crossover
by Frederick Mead
It takes a heretical, decisive step
to become a man, to crossover water
without caveats, insecurities, failed courage,
our need weighing heavily on the iron horizon,
or mad infatuations. Without desire
pulling up coastal pine by the roots,
unquenchable desire discarding trunks
like flotsam to the shore, constructing a barricade
of driftwood, which only fog can wash over.
Yet through this dense fog, our ferryboat
bravely navigates the chain
of San Juan islands, green quartz
emerging then receding, jagged-edged
in the fog. We can see no stars or sun
to guide us. Is it heresy to trust
an unseen Captain? Whose permission do we
need to take command?
Breathless on the farther shore, surprised
by the brevity of the journey, we disembark safely
at the terminal. We trace a finger over contours
of the relief map, apprehending in retrospect
the winding, circuitous path we have traveled.
What guidance do the stars and sun provide?
Stars are wishes and dreams achieved
through possibility. The sun? Merely an egg yolk
melting through our fingers. Food for the next voyage.
Since I began, I've also been studying prosody, the structure of poetry. In particular, trying to answer the question: Why structure?
My own answer: Because a poem has a structure whether we intend it or not. To ignore structure is to ignore half the tools in our kit. Structure, well-done, is a pleasure of the poem, especially when it serves the purpose of meaning.
This later version of the poem is an attempt at more formal structure, with special attention to line-endings and stanza endings. Also, line lengths that support the "mood" of each of the poem's 3 sections.
I've included the first version below it for comparison.
Crossover
by Frederick Mead
It takes a heretical, decisive step
to become a man, to crossover water
without caveats, insecurities, failed courage,
mad infatuations, or need weighing heavily
upon the iron horizon.
Without desire pulling up coastal pine
by the roots, unquenchable desire
discarding tree trunks like flotsam to the shore,
constructing a haphazard barricade of driftwood
that fog washes over.
Yet through dense fog,
our ferryboat bravely
navigates the chain
of channel islands,
green quartz emerging
then receding, jagged-
edged in the fog.
We can see no stars
or sun to guide us.
Is it heresy to trust
an unseen Captain?
Whose permission
do we need
to take command?
Breathless on the farther shore, surprised
at the brevity of the journey, we disembark
safely at the terminal.
We trace our fingers over contours of
the relief map, and apprehend in retrospect
the winding, circuitous path
we have traveled. What guidance do the stars
and sun provide? Stars are wishes and dreams
achieved through possibility.
The sun? Merely an egg yolk
melting through our fingers--food
for the next voyage.
________________________________________________
Crossover
by Frederick Mead
It takes a heretical, decisive step
to become a man, to crossover water
without caveats, insecurities, failed courage,
our need weighing heavily on the iron horizon,
or mad infatuations. Without desire
pulling up coastal pine by the roots,
unquenchable desire discarding trunks
like flotsam to the shore, constructing a barricade
of driftwood, which only fog can wash over.
Yet through this dense fog, our ferryboat
bravely navigates the chain
of San Juan islands, green quartz
emerging then receding, jagged-edged
in the fog. We can see no stars or sun
to guide us. Is it heresy to trust
an unseen Captain? Whose permission do we
need to take command?
Breathless on the farther shore, surprised
by the brevity of the journey, we disembark safely
at the terminal. We trace a finger over contours
of the relief map, apprehending in retrospect
the winding, circuitous path we have traveled.
What guidance do the stars and sun provide?
Stars are wishes and dreams achieved
through possibility. The sun? Merely an egg yolk
melting through our fingers. Food for the next voyage.
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