I know

We could sit here on this branch
and watch the World go by

Night at the Beach


That night I wrestle with
my brother. He has me by
the throat, I bolt up gasping
for breath and consciousness,
heart flailing like a flag
in the wind, in panic I explode
from the tent, the sheet
twists around my legs, I crash
into the sand, overmatched lungs
sucking at the thick night air.
The orange half-moon
sinks into a shimmering
haze behind the island's hulk,
and along the shoreline
cane burns itself into a midnight
sunrise as the plantation, stubborn
and relentless, does what it's done
for one hundred forty years.

Or he chooses to tell me
a wretched truth - his voice
rings like a brass horn before
my walls, stones of words
shudder through me, an avalanche
of crucial answers echoing with
nightmarish clarity. I convulse
in remorseful surrender, retreat
into the fetus's curl, wail
into the pillow, wake myself -
but that satori cruelly eludes,
as dream-gained comprehension
always does, the insubstantial grasp
of foggy awareness, so I've
learned nothing from the terror.
Loss is the only clue, and
it's all I have left.
The Navy chopper on
night patrol thuds by
over the ocean,
searchlight dancing
on impassive water.

It's his blood and bone
on that Idaho motel room
wall, his surprisingly heavy
grey grit and the old photo -
us two at five and three,
smiling towhead buddies
holding hands for the camera -
in the converted humidor
on my bookcase. My whole
sleeping body becomes
my eyes, from every pore
a hot salty tide floods
the sand, and I
wake, drenched,
to the rhythmic thump
of waves, liquid tympani,
drumming the beach.

Again in nightmare, I fight
back, swing for the moon,
crack my wrist on the table,
tumble away from sleep,
the Tao Te Ching flops
onto the sand, its vaunted
path a parody. I know
the salvation of waking life
is fleeting, and I breathe
deeply, as if I could
draw forgiveness from
the cool morning air.
The sun rises over
the five-million-year-old
shield of the long-dead
volcano, spinner dolphins
soar and twist above
a heavy, glassy sea.

My shadow takes shape
on the sand; it is black,
and without burden.

No longer needing to lean against the wind
As the icy grip of winter rescinds
Take off that heavy winter coat, of snow
The snowdrops they have dared to grow
Take a sneaky peek outside your door
Imagine april may blossom once more

bjbdbest

Yesterday it was like living inside a vigorously shaken snow globe on this side of the pond - despite the poem.

Tempered by the Atlantic, we have your weather with a 2 week delay.

this is the finest poem of yours I've seen, bjbd - the words write themselves - let it snow let it snow let it snow...