Dusk across a severed sea
Immortal tones impaling me,
Dulcet grey striated lines
Across horizon’s luscious wines,
Of setting sun in huge refrain
Melting into falling rain.
Exulting in this feel of brine
A-washing curling toes of mine,
This gentle wash on seashell shore
As wavelets surge in even score,
A symphony of tidal sound,
Enveloping in sense-surround.
And chorusing from arrowed flight
Of seabirds, overhead, As night
Advances with a first stars’ hue,
Imbued with velvet dreams of you.

M.
Morocco
May 1967

She had never said it first,
and it is doubtful she ever will.

Maybe it was the first disappointment...
She danced with her Dad,
a four year old toe head
standing on top of his feet,
uncoordinated,
hanging on for dear life!
A simple, child's mind
could never comprehend
why little a  girl
could not marry her Daddy.

Maybe it was The First.
He never said it,
neither did she.
They were never in love,
nor did they pretend to be.

Maybe it was The Taker,
The Worker, or The Money Maker,
on a cold Christmas
or a snowy New Year's Eve.
Maybe it was pieces,
parts of all of these.

Each one who came,
soon went,
another brick in her
tower of solitude.
A fortress built,
no man could penetrate.

You could have her,
sure...
But you could never
have her.
You could take her out
for seafood and wine,
and hold her hair back
when she puked.
You could take her to a Cubs game,
hot dogs, beer, and Harry Caray
in the seventh inning stretch...
But still, you could never
have her.
In the morning,
you, or you, or you
had to go.
You, or you, or you
could never get too close.

All the while
she was waiting,
watching and waiting...
Riding time,
longing for, and craving
the one to  bring the fire,
the one who could wrap
her in his flame.

We become old men
And old women, and

We look back wistfully, and
We look forward hopefully, and

We wonder....