"brackish" poems
When we were young, all things were new
The rising sun, the morning dew.
Through you I saw the ocean first,
From stormy eyes I saw the surf.
I tasted summer in your lips
The flavor of the brackish mist
That lingered on with days and years
That veil of time was thin and sheer.
When we were young the summer months
Seemed everlasting, endless once.
Heated asphalt, mosquito'ed creeks
We dipped our toes to beat the heat.
When we were young, immortal then
I never thought there'd be an end...
I never thought I'd move away
I never dreamt you wouldn't stay...
I never thought when we were young
Your final song would go unsung,
I never thought there'd come a day
Your final words- you'd never say.
When we were young
When we
Were young
When
We
Were
Young
I never thought
You'd die.
Feb 26, 2016
Feb 26, 2016 at 3:29 PM UTC
Eroding brick wall
all that remains
refracted, fading
fishermen shadow
red dawn’s early light
brackish still water
shocked violent green
seeps from the desert
to be subsumed
by an unrelenting sea
restless dreamers rise
muscle sturdy pangas
into the churning tide
seeking quicksilver
at the continental edges
returning boats ride low
the shrinking horizon
race to safe harbor
cold beer on ice
under palm palapas
in the restaurant
a young man
shows off tuna
half as tall as he is
to admiring tourists
like me, seeking
the deep, slow burn
salt, jalapeno, lime
a fitting end to this
unraveling dream
Pueblo Mágico
of “no bad days”
walls of contention
in a fractured land
will never separate us
one margarita, two
another raised in defiance
of those who would try
to confine and define
free-range spirits
the Pacific touches
this contiguous shore
from equator to pole
we could catch
a clockwise current
follow Polaris up North
arrive transformed
magnetically charged
disparate souls fused
together bound
Mar 17, 2017
Mar 17, 2017 at 8:38 AM UTC
<>
"And then one day you came back home
You were a creature all in rapture
You had the key to your soul
And you did open that day you came back to the garden
The olden summer breeze was blowin' on your face
The light of God was shinin' on your countenance divine
And you were a violet colour as you
Sat beside your father and your mother in the garden
The summer breeze was blowin' on your face
Within your violet you treasure your summery words
And as the shiver from my neck down to my spine
Ignited me in daylight and nature in the garden"
In the Garden,
song by by Van Morrison
<>
***This touches me deep in the chest cavity,
the palpitations of its internalizing echoing cavitations,
a warning, go slow, choose your words wise and
accrue, the mood,
for the ache of creating, hurts, fevers me
for I am but steps away from the garden,
and its violet hues infused with fresh sunrising golden hazes,
with kindly warmth, with warming kindnesses,
touches,
caresses my shoulders, begs me to stop crying,
overcome, for I am overcome, eyes dropping wetting droplets,
for find myself at the intersection,
interlocking crossroads
where perfect perfection
begins and must
meet its natural endings
thoughts of capture, retentions, preservations,
all impossibilities, challenges,
see me, begging itinerant
muses
in the neighborhood
to guide my hand, teach me newsome words,
mine feel so old, so unworthy of this moment,
hearing me solicit their
Treasure of Summery
Words
but they won't,
excusing themselves,
that this in particular human has exercised, exorcised,
all the tools in his ever diminishing capacity,
time insufficient to learn a new calculus of
addition
and bid me calm my heaving chest,
seize my tears, just add them to the brackish salted waters steps
awaiting away
live in this moment
live within this poem,
revisit it frequent,
weep no more,
your stilling heart weakened,
take fast what is given now,
and be contented,
your treasury chest is full,
overflowing with this summary of
summery***
but I am not, cannot…
7:48:am
jul 22
Jul 22, 2025
Jul 22, 2025 at 8:03 AM UTC
You put garbage in you get garbage out
Health food fanatics know what I am talking about
McDonalds, Arby’s and all those Buffets
Sluggish citizens working Twelve to ten
And to cover up their poor nutrition
We soup up the brackish black brew
Killing ourselves with more caffeine till
We collapse
You put garbage in you get garbage out
Good teachers with years of experience
Know what I am talking about
The tweet, the face book
Are superficial connections
Binge watching brain-dead reality show people
Speed reading unverified Articles
Peer reviewed paper by academic writers
Don’t get the press the talking heads
With party lines and hateful sentiments get
You put garbage in you get garbage out
Any poet philosopher knows what I am talking about
Flashing screens switching scenes while twitching teens
Sit texting banal and ephemeral things
No grand dreams but to be normal
No expansion of the human potential
Just block and block of picket fence prisons
Dreams are limited to advertised fantasies
Jul 6, 2015
Jul 6, 2015 at 1:59 PM UTC
*I feel your heart's heavy
and your mind trailing off to places
I'm not allowed to go...*
- Dajena M
My body...
Lays battered under unforgiving weather
I amble forth with unsure
In search of pastures much greener
My face...
Wears my despair
Mirrors wouldn't recognise
Reflecting back a faceless stare
My eyes...
Stung red with tears
Conveying the murmurs from my soul
Clouded by despondence that never clears
My limbs...
Bent awkward with time
Arms hang lifeless; legs sore from bearing
Load of my past of crime
My mind...
Trails in the wake of fallen dreams
Searching for an oasis
Instead finding only brackish streams
My soul...
Holds the weight of an anvil
Still I trudge to the farthest reaches
Through barren lands where all is still
My heart...
Yet beats with rhythm so true
It keeps me alive
It gifts to me...
you...
Jan 8, 2015
Jan 8, 2015 at 9:59 AM UTC
I have nothing better to do
when it rains so I go to the pier
on vacation with my pole and chicken necks
and rusted traps, drive down
to where the kayaks wait
in the mud, stop to smell
where fresh fish float through
brackish waters and tie a knot
at the end of my string, attach a bob
and minnow and cast
out towards the bay spotting
dead skates and hope
for mackerel and striper,
how my father taught me be gentle
I tie the necks to string and let the meat sink
below the surface and wait to be caught
up with delicious ****** poultry
to feed on and get trapped behind
the jailed walls. I hope the blue
crab knows I had to drive over
the county line in my shoddy white
pickup to the quiet co-op
when she bites into the chicken
for our dinner.
Nov 30, 2014
Nov 30, 2014 at 11:06 PM UTC
The river is polluted
The skies are grey in falling night
The stars are hidden from our sight
Constellations convoluted
Bilge water and bile
Corrupted hearts so vile
Defile of a sacred form
This is not divine
Only desecration
The river is polluted
The seeds we plant do not survive
And even life is doomed to die
The trees are all uprooted
We want the leaves
We want the flowers
We want the scent of the forest
The river is polluted
Our dismay is all man-made
Unwholesome branch that holds no shade
Our hope for shelter all eluted
Brackish is the water
Swim if you care to drown
We take giant gulps
Deluded with hope
And still we die of thirst
Jul 8, 2016
Jul 8, 2016 at 5:09 AM UTC
unsure, uncertain,
of the laws invested
in the realms and reams
of poetry ingested,
am i addict,
or supplier,
retail consumer
or
wholesale supplier,
a mom & pop candy store,
or a metastasizing intelligence
that takes any thing, and all,
a solitary letter,
an instance of a sighting,
a gasping palpitation
and reformats it into
a hehe literary madhatter^ piece
you supply, I demand,
I supply, boy oh boy,
do I ever, but you never,
come to me directly asking,
write me a poem, thick or thin,
witty fitty or an overly looooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooong
e~pistle (a/k/a e~pistol)
yet the trade goes on and om,
the marketplace never closes,
except when periodically the
gatewaykeeper is slow to pay his bills,
and the trading centres are global scattered,
young entrepreneurs try to sell a single
piece, as if it was breaking news history,
and tired old men, review their lived,
eager to memorialize, so it's ok to forget,
in retro!spect perspective,
the mirror who cannot lie,
states affirmatively, you are
both ****** and dealer,
a corporation scientific
of ancient biblical origins,
a psalmist, a deacon,
a lyricist, but thankfully
not a singer,
an essayist who writes best
when ****** by tawny port wine,
who snatches inspiration with
equality of equity,
(wait! that's wrong,
the equity of equality,)
where he can
find, ***** city streets, the deaths
of heroes, the sunrise calm miracle
he drinks in daily, by rivers, by seas,
by estuaries brackish, and streams
of watered purity, the riveting bays,
the individualized glisten deflected
into my eyes, that each
contains one pure blessing within…. nml
Sep 27, 2025
Sep 27, 2025 at 9:24 AM UTC
sometimes i feel like i’m two creatures caught
b
e
n
e
a
t
h
skin
sharing one body.
my tongue rough- sandpaper, broken glass, too many curses
while the lips around it burn with apologies
fleshy brooms sweeping up the messes
of another woman.
i feel like there are two animals
each fighting for their right to shine through
they’re voracious in this battle— it surprises me that their clawstalonssteeth don’t break through the thin expanse of flesh to the outside.
i have two women living within my skull
one wildroughfighting— slinging glasses and insults.
face paint, bones and bottle trees, fire and ash
wet pine needles under bleeding feet.
the biting creature who leaves bruises on the lips of men.
the warrior, Artemis. laughdancing through flames.
a bear, a wolf, a cat, a bird.
animal in nature.
the other fights with words.
elegant, gentle, soft, break able-- everything the other
cannot afford to be.
goddess of the hearth, she feeds her comrades like children
keeps fires stocked with woods
and binds bleeding arms.
this woman carries pitchers of water
writes sweet letters to missing friends
and opens her soul to many lovers.
am I some crude splice of these creatures?
am I a ******* of these mothers— each passionate
one biting, brackish tides, slow moving rivers, still ponds
the other a warm, clean bath?
am I both simultaneously, or am I wearing one face while the other
watches behind mine eyes?
I am the moon—
full and loving, dark and hiding
and something in between.
yeah, that sounds about right.
something in between.
Nov 12, 2012
Nov 12, 2012 at 5:07 PM UTC
Today I went kayaking
I glided across the cool waters
Brackish and so devoid of life
This time of year
As I drifted underneath the bridge
I imagined it painted like the Sistine chapel
A choir of angels hidden beneath the barnacle encrusted concrete
For only the fish to see
I had almost forgotten that the river existed
Five minutes away
And all I wanted to do was paddle
Out into the ocean
Feb 9, 2015
Feb 9, 2015 at 12:33 AM UTC
Gathered pieces of a great puzzle ;
refreshed perspective like ocean riptides
foment at the confluence collecting dark rivers’ flow
Repurposing back-eddies ,
rejuvenation of stagnant brackish waters ,
inherent buried soul-shine purging
from the ancient core of earth mother
Light arising from the hidden depths
of inner stillness as if a refilling wellspring
burst forth , reawakening muted sighs unspoken
Forming poetic constellations of black and bright
to lighten afar the nebulous darkness ,
a sea of swirling ink transformed into poetry
A sage opus renewed
by the muse of a migrating flock ,
striving to discover new sacred grounds ;
yet there is an undeniable song sung
in the howling winds of change
An incitement from a higher dialect
that empowers a restoration of spirit
Oeuvre uplifted by rogue waves
of summoning winds ,
arousing that which time erases
A manifest renaissance
among the rousing nuances
of poetic continuum ,
judicious to rediscover
the enthralling vastitude
of every breaking wave
in a boundless sea of poesy
Where prevailing currents
stir oceans of verse eternal ;
provoking a verve revival ,
the magnitude of an unbroken circle ,
ocean swells merging singularity
with the omnipresent colour
of uncharted depths
As if thoughts are assuaged
by a union of intimately touching souls
with words of intangible spheres ,
sparking subtle shades of meaning
spanning poetic immortality
Transcending barriers of unexplored lexicon
to manifest the immensity,
enkindling rhapsody of hearts and minds
Deeply rooted soul replenishment
harvested from the tree of humankind ,
willingly sharing without regret nor intention ,
with deference to the soul of one-blood,
one-love enabling an enlightening
metamorphosis of the human journey ...
© harlon rivers ... all rights reserved
Jan 20, 2017
Jan 20, 2017 at 11:48 AM UTC
We walk upon the dock,
skinny dipping swimming in our Moonrise Kingdom,
in the sea we swim with saline skin,
as the Moon rise ascends with Mars patiently waiting,
where are we,
we are in a place many call paradise,
suppose that’s as good of a word for it as anything,
raw rock lobster ceviche no married time just maritime,
mirrored minds,
looking through the Looking Glass,
brewing brines,
the home brewed stew is cooking fast,
there are plenty of fish in the sea,
it’s just up to you to cast,
the only problem with magical moments,
is they are always gone to fast,
basking,
in her stare,
brackish
taste in the air,
Her eyes reflect the light of the Moonrise,
the shine reflects from moon to hair,
and we are both grateful for each other,
because we could be anywhere in the world but we are here,
her eyes reflect the light of the Moonrise,
she is as soft as white sand beaches,
but her shell,
her shell is as hard as stone crab no ceviche,
teach us,
teacher,
show me the Love,
class is always in session,
show me the Light,
show me the truth in your lessons,
blessing,
this world with her touch,
she commands where she goes,
she stands steady when she walks,
which is quite a contrast,
to this sea which sways below this dock,
we dive in,
alive when,
we swim,
within the waters with our bare skin,
bare skin,
under the light of our Moonrise Kingdom,
no where else to be but where we are,
so we’ll be here until Kingdom come…
∆ Aaron La Lux ∆
from Hollywood's Heartbeat
available worldwide 7/7/16
Jun 11, 2016
Jun 11, 2016 at 6:42 PM UTC
complexity
is your beauty
simplicity
your mystery
interdependence
sustains you
once upon a time
we dipped bowls
into your waters
and brought up
draughts of life
now
Skipjacks go
fathoms deep
into endless
depletion
charting
entangled
dead zones
broadening
into a sea of
inertness
your delicate
eco-essence tips
toward oblivion
effluvia farmers
layer mechanized
blankets of
nitrates on your
sunset shores
weaving
green tendrils
of algae blooms
strangling the
entanglements
of all links in
your miraculous
food chain
the EPA
proscribes
a Jenny Craig
pollution diet
to halt the
slaughter in
oxygen
challenged
dead zones
where rockfish
are garroted,
oysters get drilled
by screwworms
and azure tinted
soft shell *****
dance soft
shoe taps
lifting a tinny
chorus of sad
Piedmont Blues
the flat-lining
watersheds
voiceless
warnings
tremble
rocking the
purged nests of
screaming ospreys
in vocal protest
of a sinking
Tangier Isle
anointing it’s
tombstones
of unvisited
cemeteries with
multicolored
guano
fitting
alkaline
tributes
to the lost
inhabitants
and forgotten
languages
sinking into the
brine of gray
brackish tides
Delmarva’s fine
intra-continental
balance skewed
by the oozing
industrial swill
of Frank Perdue
chicken farms
ruling the roost of
sanctioned sustainability
tinging clear watersheds
of finger lakes
set in splints to
repair dislocations
and complex
compound fractures
that may never heal
again
Music Selection:
Taj Mahal: Fishin Blues
jbm
Oakland
6/7/12
Feb 19, 2013
Feb 19, 2013 at 8:36 AM UTC
What are these bands around your wrists
These frayed stories that barely cling?
And what are these enchantments held
That cradle your touch between each ring?
And what is this ancient writing here
That’s inked from shops of yester-year?
Is there a relic about you yet
That makes your brackish past run clear?
What is that place your eye seeks out
When your steady gaze is aether-bound?
And what steep truths have you traversed
To gather poise as you have found?
What shadows passing now have stayed
And fears upon tanned shoulder weighed?
Can mysteries be unraveled here
That in your piercing focus played?
Oh wandering mystery mountain man,
Oh sweet conundrum of my dreams,
Oh distant altruistic love,
Oh ponderer of whispering streams,
Wherefore do the stars yet speak
So I can hear their secret calls,
But ever in their praises keep
Your hidden name in cosmic halls?
Yes, to my ears they murmur deep
The stain-ed truths of earth and sky
But never leaks that hopeful peep;
Verisimilitude is shy.
Forever my enigma: you.
The heavens sagely made it so.
For I have solved the their secrets through,
But so much in you left to know.
Sep 10, 2012
Sep 10, 2012 at 6:56 PM UTC
My younger brother still fishes
when he can, when the weather
is agreeable, when he can afford
some tackle and beer for the cooler.
He sits alone on the river bank
and smokes and drinks and waits
in the shifting shade of cottonwoods
for the unmistakable pull on the line.
He fishes whether
the fish are biting
or not. He is intimate with
psychology and the placid
deceit of undisturbed water.
My brother is an angry man.
As kids, we fished
together on the dock
and killed them
with our hands.
Careful not to kneel
on scattered hooks,
we baited the lines
on our knees a foot
above brackish water.
We dropped fish heads
off the edge of the dock
and watched them float
down, almost out of sight,
settling into final stillness
only to snap back to life
(or the false throes of death)
by the white claws of *****
picking them into oblivion—
goodbye eyes,
goodbye gills,
goodbye teeth,
goodbye scales.
Brother, I don’t remember anymore:
was it triumph or merely shame
that left us shivering in the sun?
Mar 31, 2017
Mar 31, 2017 at 1:03 PM UTC
Swallowed the sun
in attempts to
feel the fire,
dimly lit universe
eclipsed neath
inescapable moons,
horizons were hued of
brackish tea's
indifferent sympathy,
as solar systems' fate
lost in darkly orbits,
relinquished their balance
Jul 13, 2015
Jul 13, 2015 at 8:54 AM UTC
Walk through my soul forest
and sense
Anciently evergreen and wise
Fresh dampness deep with life
Rocket through my mind galaxy
and know
Burning nebulas of inspiration
Infinite dustings of thought constellations
Fall into my heart ocean
and taste
Tides brackish with emotional brine
Love foaming on shells and shorelines
Breathing life into my body
Blooming peace into my life
Take a moment to see me
And these natural forces of mine
Jan 21, 2017
Jan 21, 2017 at 3:26 AM UTC
The air is slow and still
faint puttering of the last barge
shunting coal downstream
city on the edge of sleep, settles
city on the edge of night, darkens
stretched steel and stone relax
cooling to a grey relief
reeds and sedges ripple
under bridges
and on the edges of the river
city in the gaze of moonlight, sighs
city in the haze of moonlight, slips
in the steady wash of tidal waters
and the brackish water of the estuary
come the bodies from the shore.
© M.L. Emmett
Mar 18, 2016
Mar 18, 2016 at 5:51 AM UTC
i hope, i try to hope
--to believe--
believe me, i try
to trust in trust i think i feel, or think or know
there isn't any code that satisfies
though maybe there's an uber-uber-ultra-meta code beyond what even codes can mean?
meh.
i enjoy the hypothetical,
Paris in a bottle, fairness for all sentient beings, faith in nothing comprehensible,
an English teapot circles Jove from afar
or all that's uncontrollable, for some all-purpose good to decorate the brackish, ocean truth.
and uncertain science is another case,
mistrusting all, testing daring thoughts with razor sight,
to sharpen speech and challenge all
to flex the truth into a fitness ground on which to stand, objective stern
and method doubt to peer and scan the detail bare, denude minutiae
into ever smaller parts, expanse of raw and empty space attuned,
to vibrant nothingness rebound
muons, gluons, tauons, quarks and bosons --Higgs the boon for popular appeal,
to bridge or monumentalize the science-mystic gap
appall the ghosts that Galileo keeps for company
i enjoy the fantasy,
dragons in a flask, perfect love for all, dancing in the dark in joy regardless of the shutter thicken dust
Feb 26, 2013
Feb 26, 2013 at 12:39 AM UTC
Silver Beach: Always the Sole First
familiar white fishing boat, up with early light,
seeking sustenance and pleasure in = measure,
anchored ‘bout quarter mile east of my under-the-coverlet,
(of course! as the crow, raven or scavenging osprey flies),
it’s precise location amazingly exact, but alas, soon daily
familiarity breeds no secrecy, and now joined by a
farther out, smaller version, a compatriot in spotitude,
of the best spots for harvesting the early running
brackish bay water favorites, striped or black sea bass
what persistent fortitude these fisher-peoples display,
early to rise, first to depart, when others crowd its “spot,”
(amazed by its knowing precision the exactitude of “spot”)
this ship, always the sole-first, invokes a first poem of the day,
always a soul-first, an unburdening of deepest gratitude that
one more day granted me to imbibe this vista, awake to its
soothing silent heavenly serenity, absent machine or
electronic interference with my delicate sleepy wakefulness,
when newly minted words come into my mind, my
secret spot
Sat AM June 3
Jun 3, 2023
Jun 3, 2023 at 8:46 AM UTC
In a shrill corner
with overcast clouds dully wasting the day
for contemplation washes in brackish waves
flood mouth and eyes
I tell you but
no better words hover lazily
like dust caught in light
In the shrill corner
held with fierce intensity,
the best way small palms can clench.
you were some treasure I'd finally found
which might slip
from my pockets, of threadbare fabric
burying between the thistle and trash
by the sidewalks' path
by my own oversight
you make a promise
I can’t swim to the bottom
for fear of what truth might look like.
Consumed without discretion.
without abatement.
smoke and ashes will settle
into bloodstream and bone
leaving fossil traces
If one day you want to slip between the fibers
to be among something new
I will understand
let you pass
with fists clenched.
around their flesh
I will make a promise.
Mar 16, 2013
Mar 16, 2013 at 4:27 PM UTC
Fog Happens
Yup. Not profound, even Jung, Kant and Freud,
wouldn’t deny their eyes, would no doubt disagree
with symbolic, philosophical implications, and the
head banging ramifications for the immediacy of
the spiritual impact while driving in this grey ****
Fog differs every time, and on an island, that’s for
**** sure. Today’s incarnation, the fog comes over
the water, but respects the man-made, timbered,
bulkhead, so the yard, with its circus of ravens, crows,
and other invisible birds, insects, rabbits, is visible,
but absent the inhabitants who are smarter-than-humans,
they remain aboded thinking, only stupid humans believe
they can navigate and forage, in a fog penetrating in air
that is 97% humidity and 100% peas soup thick skinned.
The time? Of course.
It’s 7:36 AM on the East Coast, and beyond the lawn lies a brackish bay that will lead you to the Atlantic and north to the Titanic, direction Newfoundland. Not enough info to geo tag me, but those who know me, knowledgeable in my early mornings scribblings, know my whereabouts, my telephone number. Do you?
Fog Happens to everyone and at random intervals, Nope. Not thinking of the brain clouds of ordinary Lethologica and Lethonomia. (Sunday lazy so just look it up and say out loud, gotta remember them words and laugh out loud cause you ain’t gotta a prayer.)
Fog Happens
in the heart, spreading north to the consciousness, and the lethargy of movement impeded by the lighthouse bells tolling “danger is about,” our light stolen, but you need to know, you’re perilously close to danger. Any action taken when heart-fogged can have awful consequences so stick close to bed, yank out your tablet, write a poem, listen to sad love songs on that Pandora Station, or send GIPHYs and emojis to your six year old granddaughter who is 108 miles to the west of where you both hide beneath coverlets, and laugh out loud with her like the bells chiming outside, and that helps move that heart~fog hanging low, out to sea.
YUP.
Fog Happens
Fog Passes
Jun 25, 2023
Jun 25, 2023 at 8:00 AM UTC
Unfathomable Sea! whose waves are years,
Ocean of Time, whose waters of deep woe
Are brackish with the salt of human tears!
Thou shoreless flood, which in thy ebb and flow
Claspest the limits of mortality,
And sick of prey, yet howling on for more,
Vomitest thy wrecks on its inhospitable shore;
Treacherous in calm, and terrible in storm,
Who shall put forth on thee,
Unfathomable Sea?
2k
A trilogy of love: bared, shared, pared
Lust's shallow wave: crests, cascades, crashes
Deeper, emotive swells: rise, rumble, release
Conflicting currents form rip tide: tugging, tossing, tearing
Amor's undulating rhythms pulsate
Low tide, latent fantasies surface ego to ingratiate
High tide, a endless churning of desires our longing cannot satiate
Libidinous breakers scour lecherous bottom; a brackish foam doth emanate
In the deeper recesses of our minds, a rational connection percolates
From the depths, a heart-felt ****** rises; a growing bond initiates
Two, constant minds mutually sharing space; each hope, dream resonates
Surface tension increases; two hearts mount each obstacle, common course navigates
Nearing balmy shore, strong winds of indifference blow
Into eroding channels untested lovers unwittingly row
Selfish goals drag the unstable pair into the undertow
Corrosive fears, unmitigated doubts sever trust placing love in escrow
Sep 16, 2011
Sep 16, 2011 at 4:58 AM UTC
I had heard long, long ago
Of the language of the Eskimo,
Where cars and drywall lack a name,
But snow and snow are not the same.
For, you see, in Eskimo,
There are a thousand words for snow.
By the shore I'm wont to roam,
I see the water as my snow.
From crystal clear to stormy blue,
The ocean holds a thousand hues.
Brackish green and sunset red,
The whitecap thunderous demons bred,
Seductive black on moonless nights
And wind-whipped tops plateau with white.
So maybe I'm an Eskimo,
But too warm-blooded for the snow.
May 6, 2016
May 6, 2016 at 7:38 PM UTC