dizzied waves calm the haze
count the ways of perfect blue
hurried trees catch salty breeze
besting winded walkers by
sand surrenders to barefoot folly
warming and forming prints
a scattered sky drips a drop or two
nothing stays like perfect blue

see the sea shake
feel the heat ache
smell the sun bake
taste the cloud shapes

horizons breathe
shorelines walk
water talks

cream-filled crests crown the abyss
distant ships tilt and lilt
slippery wakes surfers skate
children trench
tanners twist
lovers tryst

caught by chance in ocean's glance
impelled to do this human dance
nature's floor a ballroom
its rhythm a rapacious hue
life cascades in perfect blue

©Jason Cole

I've been at hundreds of funerals
Standing beside Fathers
Soon to be posted to Peru
Or to missions for black African babies.
They'd sprinkle caskets like Spring rains,
Burn incense to smudge the dead
With rising smoke signals.
Sounding the advance.
I witnessed pain in the front pews,
The kneelers with thin cushioning.
I prayed fervently for a whosh of wind
To sweep behind me,
Billow my soutane,
  And lift the lid;
Prayed for the candle flame to flare,
For the body to rise
As Rathgar did.
He was a faker.
Not like what I saw.
Up close.
On Friday mornings.

the sky leans into me,
wild-flower and moss hide
in small crevices.

i feel all the freedom of a
woodland flower,
every bright inch of my being

blossoming from the stem.

the clouds rush in little rivers
their whites billowing like shirts on a
washing line, small temples of god.

i think of you, and every
muscle remembers my love
while you dream of the sea.