You put your face up right next to mine
and scream out a list of rights I don't have:
the right to make tea in the morning
the right to stay up past 9 pm
to carry mouthwash with me
to use my own soap
to hang my coat in my closet
to spend more than eight hours away from home each day
to change plans when away from you without telling you
(no matter how small the change)
to open my windows or back door without permission
to open the back gate at all
to speak when you are not present

I want to write a ******* autobiography someday
and have more than a chapter
and that chapter ain't even here:
If I sit and think about my life,
I have no real memories with you.
The memories that count are the ones spent away from you

Playing on the playground
of the apartments by the mill with two friends
(both of which are now ******* druggies)
or sitting in the back of his aunt's station wagon
when one of em backs into the mailboxes
(at the age of six)

Building forts in the woods at four corners.
Bonfires, frog catching and golf at Anne's.
Wandering trails while camping with them.

Running through the woods with ubie
building forts from old tires, grass clippings and sticks
and playing endless games of fetch with her.
Some days we'd walk the creek back to the fern grove
some days we'd skip rocks by the "waterfall"
and some days we'd slip under the barbed wire to visit the neighbors.

The old **** lab in Carlsborg
which we labeled as "the barn" since it was one-
had plenty of small passageways that we'd play  hide and seek in.
But some days we'd get bored
so we'd go past the church to the rock quarry and climb the hills
or we'd walk the trail as far as we were willing to go
or climb over the abandoned canopy into the neighboring field
and walk over to visit the horses and goats.

Port Angeles was long walks for me,
trails dark and ominous that always led to the park
or roads that always continued on forever,
until I found that one house that I used as an anchor.
Ryland was born there
So was me, not I, but me, the beginning of ME

Then there was Taylor cutoff-
A mile back in the woods
by a junkyard
and a quarter mile from the Dungeness.
I would walk the river most days,
past the farms near the hatchery,
where the power lines always crackled
and the abandoned barns called my name.
some days I'd take the bus to Sequim, others to PA.

Dabob was a trailer that we packed full of memories-
Pulling hoses up long hills to water small trees.
loading up the truck with wood chips for the yard.
rolling boulders into trees with the tractor.
Taking Ryland to the ER for croup.
And fitting three people into a five by ten room to sleep.
not to mention:
bonfires, fireworks, bobcats, mountain lions, 3 cults and *** farmers

This is the ****** though, Edmonds-
city life, and I'm ******* loving it.
I want to write myself a life, father
and I know where to do it
and how
and it ain't here under your oppression.

Three months and the story changes

~ 

i stand before this kneeling bench,
no sanctuary of our making;
its walls here open thrown,
on stained glass windows found
strewn upon the sand,
its tide-washed, polished glass,
my feet find holy ground;
my sandals left at driftwood door.
incense burns upon the wind,
its salty spray is mingled,
with my own upon
these joy-stained cheeks.
the worshippers that went before
have built a temple out of wood,
hewn, untouched by human hand,
a steeple to the sky is lifted,
and within its shelter,
remnants of a ring of fire,
smoke once lifted to the
heavens by believers true;
this church i see through salted eyes,
this scape awash in teeming life,
here i drink this living wine;
its ebb, its rush, its living in
each moment without need,
to connect each dot, or even speak.

i long to live at razor's edge,
where sands and tides collide;
the rocky shoals where dungeness,
find sustenance and shelter;
the coves where seabirds feed their young,
above the sandstone cliffs;
the bar beneath a setting sun,
in flames awash in waves;
find comfort ‘neath
the storm-shaped pine,
feel longing in the stinging air.
these cheeks that weep,
though want of tears,
not in sorrow mind you,
but in joy of freedom,
the lure of siren alter call;
of a close horizon on a misty morn,
the haunting breath of orca,
just beyond my sight;
the bark of ocean’s lion,
the roar of distant waves;
with these my prayers i send,
as i offer this my praise;
this church of no man’s making,
here i come for cleansing,
to breathe the life that i am given!

~

*post script.

by nature we are spiritual creatures;
spiritual... not religious.  reading your
sea-scaped prose inspires me; planning
changes in my own life even more so!!
it is said that we return to what we know
best... the ocean calls...

Your single shingle waysides:
is a  desert's outreach,
tiled orange tin shack,
your spiked garden, prevaricates.

Commercial photos are verboten,
only payment to the estate ensures.
Messrs and co got caught that way

White foam
temperamental tommorows
One more jour
Seagulls cross paths
The warp of sometimes
and the broken rhythm of shingles
till the dusk answers itself

Dungeness landscapes
fear, an abyss blindly swims
(but) in my thoughts you glow

A conflagration
in liquid skies where we bathe
minds, a light to see

As deeply precious
a breath that remembers you
soaring dark chasms

Dread at failing Love,
I give a drop in the pond
my life for Gaia...

A magic nation
love for water will not thirst.
Imagination.


In your thoughts I (will) glow.

I've been to many photography venues,
the equilibrium of exposure
the trade-off between exposed light,
can't say I have made  any friends
just recommended some classic cameras
like the OM1 and Canon EF SLR
with different exposures.

Seen Dungeness twice
the first time was like early  Christmas
with a certain light quality
caressing the wooden huts and boats
but we don't have a Mediterranean climate here

Herbaceous borders way lay me
stopping for a singular rose
in the Weald of Kent
the garden of England
the native bluebells
blend in the palm of my hand

Down the Greensand Way in Surrey Dorking by Juniper house
Field studies council
I solemnly believe the simple things are the best
as is High Beeches Garden  in Sussex
an independent woodland and water garden

All the Dungeness Day our barnacles cling to the hull of a coconut -
with none the wiser. i often worry this spot of bother with penetrating thought
them come about Starboard of True North
with my southerly winds swirling in a giant tub
on a porch… where Once, God Sat -
And Tossed Stars.

We could have met in Croydon
for a coffee,
The 468 bus from Ruskin Park
is still journey apparent
I thought we could have shared our past
Dyslexia 
but like silken ash you proverbially
waved me Adieu
although I tried to explain
Dungeness and its shingles

It almost like you wanted to preserve
confidentiality, despite partially opening-up
about needing teachers' notes.
Nonchalant does not suit you
the past is not a closed shop
its a bridge yet
for peer acceptance