at the end of the pier
no one is fishing

a couple from Jersey
leans out over the
rail looking down into
the brown swill
rolling under the
weathered boards

The wife remarked
“Belmar's water
is much nicer.”

on the Gulf’s edge
unhappy gulls convene,
plaintively gazing
over gray waves
ebbing at their feet

Brown Pelican crews
fly in long
ordered formations
incessantly circling
in widening rounds
seemingly reluctant to
plunge into the
endless depletion
of this aquatic
dead zone

I speak with a
Jefferson Parish employee
working a shovel
to regrade disturbed sand
boasting a consistency
of moist drying cement

“How did the Gulf oil spill
affect this place?” I ask

“It took evarding.” she said
With a slight Cajun accent,
“dig down a foot or two in da sand
you hit earl. It nevar goes away. Nevar.

“I live down bay side
near forty years.
Had’nt been in de water fer
twenty five.  The ******
******* took evarding.
They should go back
to Englund”

She went back to
tilling the sand.

Deepwater Horizon
yet festers a short
forty miles out to sea
is now covered by
an advancing storm
swelling in the Gulf

standing at the end
of the long pier
my hands  grasp the
sun bleached lumber
straining my eyes
peering into a
dark avalanche

the serenade
of bird songs
have been replaced
by the motorized drone
of tenders servicing
offshore rigs
sounding
a constant refrain
filling my ears
with a disquieting  
seaside symphony

the taste of
light sweet crude
dances on my tongue
the pungent sting
of disbursements
climbs into nostrils
rends my face
prickles my eyes

grandeur is a
conditional state
never permanent
forever temporary

Music Selection:
Cajun Music:
Hippy To-Yo

Grand Isle
2/20/17
jbm

(Love poem # 1)
::::::::::::::::::::::::


I speak of them in hushed tones,
my feelings...my written thoughts....
they ought to resemble, exactly describe
what i've seen, or felt, and stored in my brain...
i draw lines, define the contours of your shadow
but, it's not easy to sketch a landscape
of your whole being.....
most times...words are not enough...

with eyes closed...i run my finger
on a blank sheet of paper,
outlining the shape of your face,
down to your neck, far as i remember...
.......................................i get lost,
distracted by your sweet, gentle imperfections...
i may tell of moles, birthmarks, or wrinkles
big or small scars...but, all these don't matter,
you might sing some songs off key, it's okay
for, i'd surely tremble , on hearing again
the high and low of your voice,
.........................God, there's music!
i hear tunes...as soon as you speak
your heart, must be beating with a lilt...

my muse waves at me, as
bolts of inspiration gracefully ebb and flow,
hand and pen quiver a bit, while writing
giving birth to emotions that, rise....and race,
one after the other....while moon, sun and rain,
provide phrases...to express my soul's delight...

on a high point,
i pirouette,
but, i am  careful,
not to lose
..........balance........
  ....or myself...



Sally

Copyright October 17, 2016
Rosalia Rosario A. Bayan