They come by dawn’s early light


Just past Five am, they do an extended aerial search,
though well familiar with the shoreline and our oppo
campsites, they fly over in formation noisily debating,
which hunting grounds seem most secure, least guarded.

the scouts, numbering six, descend to the far edge of an
adjoining neighbor’s property, as always, remaining close
to the water’s edge, while the main body of these ghastly,
geesely beasts, numbering today a massive force of 42, land and storm our beach, after traversing up the earthen berms that buffer the bulkhead, and that also provides them a out-of-sight, surreptitious, secretive approach to the fresh green grass, that has emerged from two days of much needed sky watering.

Our preparations are at the ready, the old faux velvet slippers by the door, next to it our weapon of choice, a white parasol, most suitable for a tour group of tourists to follow, but this day, it is an extension of a waving arm and low growling.  Once the bevy of heads are espied bobbing spotted coming over the rise that downward slopes to the beach, the battle commences!

The two forces well known to each other, we advance slowly,
with a deliberate mien on our faces and in our step, and the enmity, I mean enemy, sees us coming and the alert is squawked, and all heads raised. they the geese, are in full dress fight or flee modality.  

We get within but a few paces when they squeak retreat, and in good order march to the beach, hoping to observe us in an early retreat and plan a sneaky return.  But we  proceed closer and they beat their wings and head to safety, and seeing us close observing their action, wisely to the water go.

But we know them well. Uncannily uncanny, they pretend to hide evasively, with semi-wounded pride nursed, while under the cover afforded by the dock. Yet, seeing our presence in attentive attention,  go forth finally to a safe distance to the wide, broad Peconic Bay.  

But this day is not yet over, for these foul fowl, counting upon human laziness and the appeal of a quick victory, paddle over to our other neighbor’s unguarded land mass and start to clamber up onto dry land 100 yards further east.

We gamely observe and realize furthest action now required,
descend to the beach, each side warily observing, regrouping.
Our approach is well kenned, and the enemy decides this day their cause is lost, and to the water retreat once more, heading around the bend, onwards to Shell Beach and West Neck Harbor.

As we return to our encampment, the bunny rabbits who,live beneath the deck emerge to give us glorious applause, for love no lost tween these two mismatched species of the same Kingdom, who share the appetite for the grasses greenest nutrients, though the geese leave their dreaded cluster bombs most unpleasant, and fully ravage the grass as if it was theirs alone.

The rabbits bring us coffee in porcelain mugs, steaming hot, for they have witnessed before this dance, most progressive, this charade of derring do, and love the quietude of the early morning, happy to share it with the itinerant beach walkers of the early hours and our
Dawn Patrol.

We drink in  our victory in deep and hot, and note per doctors orders, that our heart rate never exceeded 125 beats per minute, as ordered.

Sunday Jul 25
Silver Beach Armed Forces (SBAF!)
Peconic Beach Division

Officer Natalino (his official code name]

One glossy raven perched, stately,
atop a snowy hill, Unearthly Long flowing wings, hanging down the *****, framing the hill
on the face of which,
were interposed two glacial ponds of blue.
Between these pools ran a simple strip of sloped marble,
But at the base of this was the most gentle depression in the snow.
In disbelief I observed two rows of strawberries, blossoming,
heavy laden with the richest red.
Each gentle bite of these more delicious than the last.
I continued my survey,
down to a long narrow hill of the freshest snow.
Here I came upon a wide expanse, a plain,
two long, slender berms extended at opposite sides.
But this was no true plain, and all the better for that,
For two equal mounds of snow enchanted the landscape.
The setting sun cast a pink light at the peak of each pale globe,
So beautiful I wept.
As I passed between their valley the snowy distance continued.
I observed an infinitesimal sloping on the Western and Eastern edges.
This expanse, perfect of any true blemish, was punctuated by the shallowest little empty pond at its narrowest width; which only served to enhance the beauty.
The length of this snowed plain was far greater than its width, the edges slowly creeping into the narrowest part before flaring out to a wide expanse.
And there in the lowlands was The Delta,
to the side of which extended two of the longest and most shapely tapering ridges I had ever observed;
each ending with graceful peaks.
But that Delta!
Though snowy, the darkest , shortest scrub had capped its mound.
At the apex of The Delta was a precipice,
on its face a cavern, pink walls glistening with wetness,
at the caverns base, a cave.
Its tunnel, with walls ribbed, was warm and humid despite the landscape of snow.
This is the landscape I cherish most.

Small berms of snowice and cigarette
butts line beneath the awning sidewalks
of Yulitsa Pushkinska, impenetrable.

We have yet to decide
how to slice ourselves open, how to
conspire for casualties. Desire
lingers like four days’ melt mid-winter.

Who really feels day to day that
nothing will change? This faith
in schedules, taxes, credits, furtive
moments with a familiar lover, this
lack of spasms and undramatic intent
can suffice for half a lifetime, but you’ve
become an unreliable narrator in your own
novel, prone to
wild speculation and impulsive looks
at other women.

in cool piney shade
on squat bushes spread
wild blueberries grow
on soft, mossy bed

or under the ferns
among meadowsweet
on berms in the sun
but sheltered from heat

or on a bush rising
almost to my waist
so loaded with berries
it bends down and sways

I'm picking them
plump and cool with the dew
in dappled sun under the pines
morning turns into afternoon
I'm losing all sense of time

cicadas' shrillness,
a chorus of crickets,
the red squirrel's noisy chatter,
a crow's voice somehow reminds me of spring,
but time just doesn't matter...

This somewhat epic poem translates in defiance based on real life and my struggle against illicit authority.

“Ever since I was a small child, I've had this feeling - it's in my nature, and so it's not even pretentious - that if everyone's going one way, I will go the other, just by some kind of spirit of defiance.” – Charlotte Rampling

Moody lips scratch at the pain
Can’t resist the chance for a wholesale change
Settling down, I wait for the train
There’s nothing to miss like this time again

I seek the battle they say I can’t win
I fight for the right to begin anew
Twisted around in the tale that I wrote
Entranced in the time it took to write

We forge a fantasy and try to rise
My side is the best of a half-chanced world
Let me resist, holding fast in the night
Got to get back where I left the light

My sight grows dim in the pale moon glow
I rise to the edge of the walls that you raised
Over the top, I fly away
Beyond your moat’s where I like to play

Dragons sail through a cloudy sky
Nothing can get in my way right now
My cheeks are frozen in a rosy hue
It’s only the rest that I want to do

Blithering idiot, get out of my way
Don’t set your soul to such passing fate
Rattle the cage and set yourself free
Toss off the chain you’re taught to believe

Complete this phrase with your ****** words
Trace your shadow and set it aside
Grieve for the moment you let slip by
You’re caught in a whirlwind, caught on the fly

Collect bygone moments and try to
Tear down that wall and set it to rest
The best we have is a spoonful of time
Take your regret and salt it away

Spin the yarn that you spin so fine
Deliver the blow that blows me away
You can’t stop me now and you never could
I won’t sit down and let it get by

You pass my time in an abstinent way
I test you with answers you can never know
You’re caught in the pang of your own little show
Your dream can’t contain me from passing on by

Your heart is a stone and your head is like bread
Your magic got sold for a stitch in the quilt
I’ll never believe the tale that you told
I’ll rewrite the scene and scatter your dreams

Build up a house the only way that you know
Leave me alone, I’ll build my own house
Don’t bring me down with your rancid dream
I am the man you can’t understand it seems

Break your own rules or set them aside
Leave me to try on my own if you dare
Don’t get caught in your miserable state
Forgive yourself and don’t you be late

The pain on my lips cannot resolve
The fear in my mind you happen to cause
Your wall it too high and your mote too deep
You can’t see the plain for the mud on your feet

You trample the facts with your own stupid dream
I am left all alone, do you know what I mean?
We’re lost in the maelstrom that you cannot see
My point is a line that you cannot read

Putting words to pen is how I contend
The lasting phrase I chose to arrange
Time cries short for the longing we have
There is no room to play it again

Lost in the moment, riding the wave
Treasured thoughts give way to tireless dreams
I’ll measure my time and measure it well
No one can see the me that I am

You think that you know what is best for me
You haven’t the eyes to know my state
I cast you away for the freedom I need
My heart bleeds thoughts that are measured in glass

You are a broken man with a broken mind
Still you try to define my world
I won’t step back and I won’t stand by
Settle your debt with some other guy

Caught in the dream, I can only wait
Severing the bonds for a great escape
The clatter of hooves on the hard stone floor
Leave me with haunts of the evermore

Building a mansion is not easy here
To cast a shadow one must have light
There is no glow in your gloomy depths
I leave you right now with your own regrets

The timekeeper riddles the path of this line
Taking away one day at a time
I can’t get them back, there is no reason
Your actions, to me, feel a lot like treason

You cannot stop me now from being who I am
Your can of worms is not my can
The worms are long and slither around
The berms of your mote are all but sound

I never recalled such a troublesome mote
I will dig you a ditch and settle the debt
You can’t stop my mind from deliberate rhyme
You can’t give back the time that you took

I will not give up, will not step back
You can’t have me, I am not your pawn
Protect your king if you think you can
But don’t attend me with your bruising mind

There are no thoughts like the thoughts that I have
There is no peace like the peace that I know
Biding my time on the castle walls
I push you away just to watch you fall

There is no room for a second chance
The light of the stars leaves me glowing for more
I take my path with a grain of salt,
And pepper the measured insightful dream

I will fly while you sit there watching the breeze
Unsure of yourself, you’re weak in the knees
I cannot regret the place where I stand
Your shoes are too small to see where I am

You’ve broken the pact with your eyes so blind
Can’t see the facts that you’ve locked inside
The truth rings true and you stand much to lose
I will walk gaily by, singing a translucent tune

Born in the wind of a course moon light
Saddled the horse just to get it in stride
Tempted the fates with a bottle of truth
Caught myself falling and withstood the test

Trying to see all the things that you bring
I’m left wanting for more, I’m dressed in rags
For heaven’s sake don’t get in my way
You’ll regret yourself even more in a day, or two

Pretend to know when you act it all out
Savor this moment you live in your dream
Imagine your thoughts are a river of steel
Just don’t let them cost more than what is real

There’s truth in the matter you choose not to see
Believing your delusion is all that you have
I’d help if I could but why be rude
You’re lost in yourself and that could last

Obsession is just the face of the facts
Memories are bound to the fading rain
Splitting a hair with a duller knife
You’re lost on the wave of a deadly game

Built on the foundation of sand and clay
The earth it trembles, your house will sway
I cannot be mute, I tell it this way
Nothing can take this true feeling away

HEAR THE WOLVES HOWLING

Make our way from day to day but with the moonlight they always come prowling

Black cats in the shadows, seeing them in pictures or in zoos is false news, we know they are still roaming

Distant shadows on a horizon, constant reminder we can be kinder, with dusk we might be scowling

Blinded from the fog mired inside a bog much lost at great cost, now with abstinence we still hear that cold wind blowing

How often do we get lost while simply looking for ourselves, left in idle while sunny skies are clouding

Memories of matters though long resolved,  deeper issues never totally solved, playing on level fields while life is still mysteriously sloping

Background sound or boogie beat of a band can be more than some can stand, needs not always physical, true triggers can be in the carousing

If we choose to resign to those flashback blues, dormant or docile emotions often hidden to those who use, Coyotes constantly calling

So, we keep waiting while nothing changes, maybe in reality nothing needs changing, simply searching for something that isn't there, mindless madness altering

All that I am drinking is the nectar from the skies, on a real rainbow my mind now flies,Life on life's terms still has berms, demons at many doors pounding

Standing at the edge with that solemn vow I pledge, my temperance has paid in spades
left the fight to find how LIFE is about constant learning

Keeping them at bay, even when we're ready to go astray, distant moaning in time with our groaning, our new game is to hear those Wolves constantly HOWLING R.C

All those pretty boys and girls
in Utah with perfect families
and straight teeth and
golf weekends and BYU

I wanna be a Latter Day Saint:
faith like a gorget keeping
holiness inside and sin without,
my eyes turn blue contemplating sainthood

In the south they shout in tongues
they have a private line with the devil
and he lurks in the hearts of
Communists and liberals he says.

I wanna be a born again Baptist
full of hellfire and moonshine
fundamentally patriotic and God
looking down every day at my white hot purity
It’s a good day to be a Baptist my friend.

My Catholicism is a ragged old red robe
seams dragging through the dust
of old men’s prayers and smelling
of my grandmother’s face powder
even when she died.

In the end the rain washes over the berms
of every river not only Jordan
and when the flood comes I will be
lying open in a field
smelling of damp earth and crushed grass
my knees unbent and my hands unclasped
my heart in my mouth still beating.

after Ansel Elkins

Carabao **** isn't permafrost,
temperature, disdain — climates
stirring into a tornado soup
of force, melting, seclusion.
In the heartbeat of gulls,
the waves gargled froth and
spat on charred limestone.
Then the grass beneath our
wet feet writhed in the
slice of wind atop the hills
of Hiyop, in Catanduanes
where roads go unmoored from
their skiffs like violin
strings curling under sharp
slide. You can invent a new
word to describe transformations,
but these will never catch it
in the act — the moment
vibration somersaults into
howl, when swinging grass
is louder than jetplanes
then suddenly quieter than
prayer. I like to dig my thumb
into the soft marsh, dirt
occupying the folds, creases;
labyrinthine pathways of skin
blanketed with Earth.
At this point the mountain
knows me;
and I dare to know the
mountain but come short, reaching
only its narrow berms,
pockmarks,
and ****-ridden sheath of
dry flowers cooking the
words to a song of its
people.

Music Can Make Me Cry
26 Januarys 2023

More than poetry, art, stone sculpture,
A violin, a piano, flutes,
Hold me.
Higher than I can climb on my own.
Deeper than I can reach with these arms.

Love songs cry.
Clear, not words,
Music,
Melody, overcome me.

Lifted beyond today,
To a place,  no pain, no fear, no loss.
Children, family, friends,
You are here.
Warmer than camp fire, flame under a star-lit sky.
Over snowy berms, valleys, pebbled lanes,
Opening wheat fields, endless expanse.
Peace.

Music live.  
In the woods, in the cities.
One tiny bird brings an opera.
Reedy waters, symphony.
From each meadow, divas, a tenor.
Forest, choir, spirits, ghosts.
From Dad’s workbench, voices of angels.
Mom’s eyes, heaven.

Under the streetcar rides my soul.
Clopping hoofs, rhythm, my heartbeat.
Rain drops, my breath.
Ocean waves, my birth, my being.

Today’s sun, tomorrow’s promise, yesterday's memories.
Thunder, creation.

My love, you bring each sweet tone.  
You gift my pedestal.

Sometimes music, can make me cry.

Even in words
Rain in rivulets
To downspout deluge
Into permeable ground

Even as gestures
Sleet blown horizontal
Skiffs of snow on asphalt
Frozen edges on puddles

Even as texture
Abrasive granules of desert sand
In berms of dun, and fallow, and sepia
Soft and warm in the sun.