Upon one summer's full moon,
I walked pass the banks of Dún Laoghaire
where I stumbled upon a maiden fair
and blessed the harvest month of June

Pearls fell from her big eyes - blue with grey
In pain and sorrow she did complain
for her deceased lover who once sailed
the wild ocean, boldly and gay

With tender steps I approached her shyly,
and bestowed a single rose picked before,
Alas she threw it in the water,
where it serenely floated on the sea

She then knelt down to me and prayed :
,, Only faithful to my poor William I was
and faithful to the end I shall remain ,,
then upon the starry sky she faithfully gazed

I gently leaned and kissed her jeweled forehead,
but the truth to her I  simply could not tell
For I was the same poor sailor William
whom everyone carelessly took  for dead

Suddenly she rose up, looking as pail as a ghost,
Petrified, I ran away, as dandelions swayed behind.
Never glancing back at her, I only wished to
disappear under the light of the candle lamp post.

And on the following grim  morning,
I , from my old mother, harshly  learned
the horrendous news why the golden bells of our church
mercilessly woke me up by their lamenting ring

For a shivering white hand has taken  
the whaler's rusty harpoon, my bewitched Mirabelle,
A pierced heart in her watery body
lying down in the peaceful marine lagoon

So, every night I cannot bear to rest nor sleep,
Her maroon blood now sheds upon the sky at dusk
leaving me in oblivion of a sailors repose,
and lamenting memories bound forever to keep ...

This week,
I trudged along the cold, salty
waters of the rocking ocean,

I swung my feet gracefully
and walked along the sandy shore,
a ballerina, stretching her feet
to form light, bittersweet
curse words in the sand,

I tilted my head back
to drink in all of the sky,
the stars twinkled
and swallowed me whole,

I scanned the rising horizon
for miles, reached out to abandoned shells
placed at my feet,
quietly listened to the sad, melodic
voices, of gleaming sirens
in the ocean's heart

But despite my breathlessness
in the crisp air, of the gray ocean
I still could not
find you,
the one I so yearn to meet,
the one who could
make me forget the sorrows,
the delicate, hidden pain,

the one who I deserve
to love,
because now, everything else
is no longer worth a thing,

and everyday,
is still like

the stars
going out
in my empty soul.

In silence I loved him,
And in silence I have lost him.
In silence I've longed for his hand,
And in silence I've met emptiness.
In silence I fell,
And in silence I heard my own heart breaking...

It tastes like blue raspberry cool-aid,
After a summer day full of fun,
And smells like freshly cut grass
Or sunscreen before a day in the sun.

It feels like the cold air in your lungs
As you play in freshly fallen snow
And sounds like Christmas caroling,
In case you didn't know.

It's the smell of the air before it rains
Or the calm before the storm.
It's the thunder in the distance
Or a cool breeze after it's been so warm.

It's pumpkin scented candles,
And brightly colored leaves
Its football on thanksgiving
And apples picked right from the trees

It's the taste of the salt in the air
And the cool of the mist from the sea
In case you ever had to ask
That's what nostalgia is to me

5/19/17

.
Grasping to the sky
With ever reaching
Branches, leaves spirit
Themselves to sacred
Airs.  
           Old tree, a star set
Truncated with sprite earth,
Stolid, touchstone spark,
Place, feeling all waves
Dripping by like clouds.

In some underworld,
Bathing with Gods,
Are immortal roots
Divining water, laid
In ceremonious soil,
Digging out golden,
Unfallowed tombs.

Old tree in the sun,
Great soul barking
Skywards each day,
Joyous arms clench,
Lansing, higher out,
Embracing heavens.

its funny
how we take refuge at night
stuck between
lingering and lurking
when everything and nothing
is wrong and right
all at once

thoughts deep enough
to drown us
drip dry overhead
staining our bodies black
as the sky outside our lazily cracked windows

every sound is amplified
limited eyesight
heightening our sense of hearing
encouraging us to remain
quiet
dark
calm
but never asleep

The field
of olive trees
opens and closes
like a fan.
Above the olive grove
there is a sunken sky
and a dark shower
of cold stars.
Bulrush and twilight tremble
at the edge of the river.
The grey air ripples.
The olive trees
are charged
with cries.
A flock
of captive birds,
shaking their very long
tail feathers in the gloom.