I watch my feet
It moves discreet
Flowing sand
I stand

It ebbs and flows
Comes and goes
movements twinned
enacted by wind

Mesmerised
Caught by the tides
The sea has come in
The moment... fin

The Divide
by Michael R. Burch

The sea was not salt the first tide ...
was man born to sorrow that first day,
the moon a pale beacon across the Divide,
the brighter for longing, an object denied,
the tug at his heart's pink, bourgeoning clay?

The sea was not salt the first tide ...
but grew bitter, bitter ... man's torrents supplied.
The bride of their longing forever astray,
her shield a cold beacon across the Divide,
flashing pale signals: "Decide. Decide.
Choose me, or His Brightness, I will not stay."

The sea was not salt the first tide ...
imploring her, ebbing: "Abide, abide."

The silver fish flash there, the manatees gray.

The moon, a pale beacon across the Divide,
has taught us to seek Love's concealed side:
the dark face of longing, the poets say.

The sea was not salt the first tide ...
the moon a pale beacon across the Divide.

NOTE: "The Divide" is essentially a villanelle despite the non-formal line breaks.

Published by Neovictorian/Cochlea, The Eclectic Muse, Freshet, Better Than Starbucks, Sonnetto Poesia, The New Formalist and Pennsylvania Review

Keywords/Tags: Villanelle, sea, salt, first, tide, moon, pale, beacon, Divide, love, concealed side, dark side of the moon, longing, passion, desire, lust

Massive, gray, these leaden waves
bear their unchanging burden—
the sameness of each day to day

while the wind seems to struggle to say
something half-submerged planks at the mouth of the bay
might nuzzle limp seaweed to understand.

Now collapsing dull waves drain away
from the unenticing land;
shrieking gulls shadow fish through salt spray—
whitish streaks on a fogged silver mirror.

Sizzling lightning impresses its brand.
Unseen fingers scribble something in the wet sand.

Originally published by Southwest Review

A baby eagle
flies
in wake
of the sun
A quiet sea lies
in wait
I write letters
to my friends
and
slip them under the rug
For,Love cannot be expressed
A sentient truth
moves through
the crevices
of somewhere
Winter has almost died
‘it’s all fading’,
they tell me
‘Even if
you tried’
I sit and watch
as times passes
a baby eagle’s flight

I can view the places of rain memory..
Where the puddles gather ready to be taken by to the sky..
The sun calls to the waters...
And slowly takes it back to the clouds..
You had to kiss the earth before you become and Ocean..
And soon you will become a tide to greet the Earth again..
Only this time the moon will call to you to do so..

Fingers numb with cold
the stars winking above
I kissed you
and tasted juicy Georgia peaches,
flushed pink like your cheeks
and sweet as anything.
The succulent taste coated my tongue
and I wanted more.
I felt you hesitate when I pulled you closer
but I kept my lips soft and exploring
so as to not scare you away.
My fingers wound into the curls
against your warm scalp.
They moved along
grasping at the little ringlets at the nape
of your neck
and you shivered.
You pulled away,
and buried your face into my neck.
Your breath against my skin
reminded me of
the warm Florida coast,
the sun radiant and bright
and the breezes humid.
I felt your heart beat
against me as the lull of the tide,
and as you blinked
your eyelashes
fluttered on my skin
like wind-kicked sand.

This could be the moment,
I thought.
This could be the moment
I fall in love.

The erectional tide
That crosses my mind
From time to time
You are