I love when colored salmon spawn And leap with ease over towns on high With rippling waves and glistening sheen How they bound between these rocky outcrop clouds And spread their whispy tendril fins Across the cascading pinkish sky I love the night just before it breathes Quiet as waivering gills unseen When the salmon color seeps into the sky
A dawning of Spring, The tree’s pollen eye-dust spreads free. White paint-stroke wind swirls and sways through the plains, the grass kindly greets in sighing retreat.
Blue skies softly shelter, filling the days with their comforting hues. Sparsely dotted roaming cotton clouds dance as the yellow Sun yawns and spreads its rays, rousing the slumbering bear from his winter den.
Sounds of the hen’s call awaken, a signaling for paper to meet pen. The heart swells and empties just as the flower’s buds lazily fall open at the bidding of the Sun’s young light.
An open world, the never ending wood, A night river flows just beyond the bend, full of salmon fighting upstream from the wrong end. A tender letter penned but not sent. A winged man smiles and whispers visions, guiding my ascent.
Unfortunately, a penned letter is not always sent, just as all the hopeful salmon do not make it back to their springing den. Some sneak by and continue their uphill fight but others are clawed and left stuck within the bear’s teeth, writhing in defeat.
On rainy days I look up poems set in Seattle, then look back at the rain set against the window
I imagine the water was carried here from the shores of their bay across Pike Place, through Belltown, in buckets they use to carry Pacific salmon off fishing boats, or in lidded Styrofoam bowls used to take out clam chowder
I practice walking from parking lot to book store without the aid of an umbrella like how their locals do, somehow cool with getting wet, unhurried as they sip their coffees black
I renounce sugar packets and follow suit: bitter coffee, rain, toasting to this combination forged on their puddled streets that see more poets per square mile than anywhere else in the country
Magicians can have Vegas, its illusions Asians, San Francisco and its gold bridge
I think I should just have this coffee, and this rainy day as the poem it is.
midnight, floodlights purse seiners packed in tight anchored on the fragile shoal shadows play on the white wall dune grass, needle, leaf of tree gallows rising from the sea back and forth the tenders run salmon gathered one by one