"chesapeake" poems
stayed with a woman
and her sister
for a few weeks
up by the chesapeake
on a little river
with a dock
that audienced
the most beautiful
sunsets
a man could witness
she was a good woman
widowed
quick to think of others
before herself
never got drunk before noon
worked hard and long
for the money she earned
and I appreciated her
and her hospitality
her sister
smoked ****
and drank expensive wine
on that dock
during the earliest hours
of the day
looking upwards
all the way till that
beautiful sunset
I would join her
while her sister was hard
at work
I appreciated my woman
for her work habit
for the *** and the
hospitality she gave so
willingly and passionately
however I also appreciated
her sister
in many of the same ways
which is why I was asked
loudly and violently to
cut my visit short
after only two
quick weeks
I still miss
those sunsets
Aug 6, 2013
Aug 6, 2013 at 2:19 AM 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
having lived in california until i was seven,
and then moving to virginia beach for one year,
and then living in chesapeake for the rest of my life,
my childhood feels scattered.
i don't remember california all that well.
i remember palm trees lining the streets,
and listening to shania twain with my mom.
i remember the ben & jerry's on a corner,
and i remember the two boxers next door.
i remember two people, too. mostly, anyway.
there's you, jacob. and you, kayla.
jacob, you were my first real friend.
our families were inseparable,
we lived right next door to each other.
we were inseparable too.
i remember digging around in the garden,
that we quickly turned into a mud bog.
i remember you having chicken pox,
and our moms letting us play together.
[funny, i didn't get it until i was nine.]
i remember watching you crash,
all the blood on your dirtbike and face.
i remember visiting your school...first grade.
god, two years seemed like such a huge difference.
i remember throwing you a softball,
and you missed it, and got a ****** nose.
i think that was the first time i felt guilt.
but most of all, i remember that game.
with the dinosaurs, and a big field,
and an even bigger maze inside.
and, of course, your room.
your twin sized bed, and the huge bean bag.
even then we couldn't close the door.
we received your pictures for a long time.
so i feel like i might recognize you on the street.
but not for who you are, really. more of a...
deja vu type of thing, if you will.
i miss you, distantly. but deeply.
and kayla, well.
what i remember most of us...
is the purple jewelry box full of notes.
because you were always grounded.
then i think about making mud pies,
as we sat on the fence between us.
and...unfortunately, that one night.
the raid, and not seeing you again.
hiding the notes, until they stopped.
i think you gave me my first broken heart.
but it's okay, i forgive you. it stopped hurting...
oh, about ten years ago. i think of you, though.
i hope your parents cleaned up,
and i like to think you're happy.
you two represent my innocence.
my childhood. thank you.
i miss it so very much.
Apr 7, 2011
Apr 7, 2011 at 5:55 PM UTC
Your home in White Rocks Marina you sat; always there to greet your crew before a voyage. Your red sails standing out among the rest. Silently awaiting your Skipper, our own George Hay Kain, as you rested in your slip, anxious to get underway. You wouldn’t make a sound as you patiently waited for your crew to load their gear down below. After quick yet thorough engine checks your Yanmar engine would roar to life, never failing to put a smile on your Skipper’s face. Your stern lines would come off. Your excitement would rise but you would remain still waiting to be completely free. Your bow lines would come off. You then would gracefully back out of your slip, ready for yet another adventure. Onto the Bay you’d go, wondering where you’d end up next. No matter the challenges you faced, whether in the open ocean, or in the Chesapeake Bay; you always brought your crew home safely; you always prevailed.
My personal experiences aboard never left the Chesapeake Bay, however, the Bay was all I needed. Each moment I spent on board; each trip I attended; will remain with me always: My First Voyage with our Skipper, Branson, DJ, and Sam; Chestertown; simply preparing you for the winter; Long Cruise; Hurricane Irene; Your Final Voyage.
So faithful you would be for your crew, for your Skipper; harsh conditions or not. You may not be resting in your slip in White Rocks Marina, anxious to get underway, but you will always be in the memories, and the hearts, of Skipper George Hay Kain, and the crew of Sea Scout Ship 25.
May you now sail freely across the horizon, out on the open ocean,
Kuan Yin.
Dec 10, 2012
Dec 10, 2012 at 2:43 AM UTC
Dusty cobwebs
hang on a boat
and it's not even my
boat, but Mark's
memory.
A parked schooner
on the Chesapeake
Bay is a perfect home
for a spider.
The easy life,
where everything
is either food or
lethal threat.
Now I understand
what Ueshiba says;
there is no sport.
I spin filigree strands
hoping to catch,
fishing or bait
cutting on a *************
boat, a spider
who sometimes mistakes
mate for morsel.
Sep 5, 2013
Sep 5, 2013 at 11:03 PM UTC
Somewhere near the turn of the century, the walk was hot enough to burn your feet.
Sometime after that I was born in Phoenix.
My sister and I threw paint over a cardboard box in the garage and called it a spaceship.
My grandfather was too tall to be an astronaut, but now plastic tubes in his lungs keep him tied to earth while he waits for sixty years of smoke to catch up to him.
When we were younger, he drove us to the beach on the Chesapeake where we’d look for shark teeth.
Before that, A German Shepherd ripped a hole in my cheek.
Sometimes I feel the rough little scar inside my mouth.
But more often I see round little scar on my hand
When I was nine, my father taught me how to climb rocks.
The trick is you don’t worry about the flesh left on the granite.
Then a lake broke my mother’s back after she jumped in from the same height as I did.
We decide to hike from Yosemite to Mt. Whitney, and I walk most of the trail ahead, by myself.
But at night we all play harmonica and yell because we are the only ears around.
On the stage, we yell because our ears are tired of being lonely.
Then we’d stumble drunk and put out cigarettes on each other’s hands.
And later I would pull my brother out of pool of his own *****
And later I would pull my brother out of pool of his own blood.
And later I would let a lover sink into her own mind.
Now my sister sees me through a screen, a brother is all foggy in Seattle, and my mother and father miss the way I’d play music all the time.
The trick is you don’t worry about the flesh you left behind.
Dec 13, 2011
Dec 13, 2011 at 6:36 AM UTC
the maryland girls
sit with half eaten smiles
speak sideways
half truths
casting lines out into the Chesapeake
where men jump
at shiny elusive things
hook in lip
blood in mouth
worms writhing on their tongues
pulled to shore
uncomfortable
choking on oxygen
pretty eyes eclipsing sun
measuring by skeptical scales
a good heart for loving
strong lungs for screaming her name
soft hands to chase her hair from her face
hook from mouth
worm swimming down throat
pulled to feet
she kissed me
[swallowed it]
pressed for just a few seconds
[but shes still kissing me to this very day]
she whispers to go
but i so desperately want to stay
fish out of sea
she'll agree that i taste nice
but through seemingly faked sorrow
she'll admit she has lost her appetite
knife in chest
gutted head to toe
tossed back into
the frozen mouth of the Chesepeake
and i will be swallowed
we'll all be
and when i come floating down to Baltimore
They wont find much of me
like the Tomb i will be found empty
but since there are no places in heaven for fish
i simply will cease to exist
maryland girls
sit with half eaten smiles
waiting to devour
dreaming to digest
stupid
floundering
gullible
fish.
Jun 12, 2010
Jun 12, 2010 at 8:57 PM UTC
THE SEA is large.
The sea hold on a leg of land in the Chesapeake hugs an early sunset and a last morning star over the oyster beds and the late clam boats of lonely men.
Five white houses on a half-mile strip of land ... five white dice rolled from a tube.
Not so long ago ... the sea was large...
And to-day the sea has lost nothing ... it keeps all.
I am a loon about the sea.
I make so many sea songs, I cry so many sea cries, I forget so many sea songs and sea cries.
I am a loon about the sea.
So are five men I had a fish fry with once in a tar-paper shack trembling in a sand storm.
The sea knows more about them than they know themselves.
They know only how the sea hugs and will not let go.
The sea is large.
The sea must know more than any of us.
1.8k
We met at noon between picnic tables and humid Maryland heat.
Either you or the sun made me dizzy, as I talked and you nodded.
We were both distracted by the thought of air-conditioning.
We parted in August among mini-vans and goodbye kisses.
My eyes followed the license plate as you drove away, we agreed to sail catamarans the next chance we had.
We had both noted there was something in the water that summer, something purer than the water from the Chesapeake.
We rejoined in December under a Caribbean sun, not as humid as Maryland’s, surrounded by water purer than the Chesapeake.
There was still a buzz around us, like the air before a Maryland heat storm, to convince us the year of letters was not for naught.
We fell back to old habits on the Dutch side of Saint Martin.
We talked like the future was a choice and we had opted out.
We avoided words like regret and yesterday and repeated words like now, now, now and we spoke in hypotheticals.
We planned our house, or what it would be if we ever got boring enough to say words like tomorrow.
We stopped speaking in July after one thousand four hundred days of avoiding the next.
We should have known we were doomed to fail when “our song” was by Old ***** ******* and “our house” didn’t include a family room.
We should have known when our plans never involved the word tomorrow.
Jul 12, 2012
Jul 12, 2012 at 10:22 PM UTC
This day holds humidity in my heart.
The temporary return of familiar love
left my broken outlook painted in contentment
and pushed healing hope into my lips,
yet you,
who refuses to give romance,
who tramples my confidence in mud,
who haunts my midnight chorus,
you return to my heart in the overcast cold of the salty Chesapeake.
and I cry and I cry and I cry
hating you for making me reread old moleskins
to realize that perhaps it was never me you loved,
to realize that perhaps my body was destroyed in folly,
to realize perhaps you just played a game with us all,
and I simply claimed you with the loudest song.
**** you for pumping in my veins.
let me completely love another
or come find me.
the insanity you commit
pushes me into the midnight abyss
and my pieces began to fall between the cracks
and the hopeful glue melts into the inky black.
this ghost hasn't left my unconscious lungs.
I know I am almost done,
but the rhythm of your death is the worst part to feel.
Nov 13, 2011
Nov 13, 2011 at 8:40 PM UTC
From the 15th floor snow flurries
seem like static on an epic TV screen.
Flakes flutter and collide,
fighting for their perfect flight
to earth. Some are blown onto
the window sill, slowly sizzle into
nothing but a temporary dark spot,
others are carried up into the sky by
gusts of Chesapeake wind.
Some land on cold car tops
and Canton roof decks,
others bring color to chilly cheeks.
Soon the entire Baltimore landscape
is lightly sprinkled white.
Coworkers smile and watch our
first winter scene. I roll my eyes
and curse the creeping cars
I will encounter on the drive home.
Jul 13, 2010
Jul 13, 2010 at 9:36 AM UTC
i drove into one of those famous tunnels beneath the Chesapeake
under a freighter that lumbered in its foggy distance,
still off about half a mile
i thought the kids might get a kick out of this experience
but they were busy in the rear view mirror,
snared in silent worlds of mini screen devices i bought to see them smile
there's only static on the radio now, like no more bourbon left in the bottle
and you're so quiet
this is my life - the thrumming dented van within a sterile white tile fortress,
ears on verge of popping
i hear humming tires, the thumps of each heart beat
trapped inside, heterodyned
Dec 3, 2013
Dec 3, 2013 at 11:35 PM UTC
Dark winter presses its cheek
against her window spying
with closed eyes
into a room that
no one would know
is night-time
the white walls and white lights
lie the cold away.
every part of her believes it
but her feet.
pressing the cold calloused soles
of her feet together
No, they are lost Colonies
In a flat world
Trying to make
Sustenance from sawdust.
With no savages on the shore.
Oct 24, 2012
Oct 24, 2012 at 8:33 PM UTC
I declare my home to be tucked within the wreathed *****
of the Blue Ridge Mountains,
where I know them as my silent guardians
watching over me;
til I taste saltwater on my tongue,
and find my taste buds alight
with the spread of steaming Blue *****
doused aplenty in Old Bay--
spread atop disheveled newspaper on the kitchen table.
Suddenly, water becomes "wooter,"
and wash becomes "warsh,"
and I laugh and skip rocks along the waters
that baptized me in my infancy.
That is, until the Old North State
wraps me in her misty shawl,
where I find myself barefoot on grassy acres--
wild dogs running in packs amiably--
and I race makeshift boats of sticks and water bottles
down the ole crik.
I close my eyes and feel faint and brisk breezes
caress my face like a mother's hand,
gently guiding me through dense woods
where imagination and reality forged an alliance.
So where do I call home?
Well that's entirely up to you,
whether you send my head into an ear-popping,
mind-whirling dizzy spell--
euphoric in higher elevations and getting lost in the foliage;
or you put a plate of steaming ***** before me with saltwater kisses on your lips.
I am the Oriole of the Blue Ridge,
and the Cardinal of the Chesapeake:
The White Oak and the Longleaf Pine.
Mar 4, 2016
Mar 4, 2016 at 6:38 PM UTC
.
i had begun this story a millenia ago.
the novels so defined that even diamonds could not shape its edges any further.
mindset of winders worries,
and a heart that builds monuments upon itself.
to the ages of timber i have rested,
within the cinder of burial grounds we have fallen before.
to see the sight of death and life in so many contorting angles is to breathe the cornel from beneath the husk.
we all love,
though to love the way that we have been gifted may also become our curse.
to house the hearts of thousands within your own may prove to become infertile with each task you have peered upon.
the turmoils of hidden dreams and lusts of past lovers proves to be less than static.
white noise of saphire breezes brings forth the shadows of time.
to here i rest my soul,
to these blades i lay my being.
the smell of memories can hinder the scent of the now.
appreciate those futile moments,
the frivelous bounty of desire.
love the sound of her voice as it carries through the sails of premonition,
steer the vessel of the body within the revines of her eyes.
to you i share the utmost calibration of this life,
and the life you lead will be in the steps i have previously taken.
i have sprinkled you across the ripples of the Chesapeake,
and whispered the hynm we both hummed on those streets.
your sun shone upon me this day,
and now, my sun shall shine on me in the morrow.
Oct 6, 2011
Oct 6, 2011 at 3:49 PM UTC
I always like summer
best
you can run
endlessly through trails
in the primordial woods
jumping copperheads
and water moccasins
threading through creeks
slimed green with algae
slipping, giggling, racing
and resting panting
against an oak trunk
with the reflection of
the Chesapeake Bay stinging
your eyes
and slip the bounds of land
on a small sailboat
feet hanging into the wake
and be free and free and free
all the time
and not only when you open a book
and read.
Dec 5, 2014
Dec 5, 2014 at 12:16 PM UTC
At 16 I met a Man who owned
A sailing Craft a 24 foot Yawl
A Polished Captains Wheel to Steer
Two Main sails a Jib and two Fore Sails
He had an Affair with a girl 18.....
And I was the Beard
He taught me to sail the craft,
Follow the wind with the Tell Tale
Fair Taught, you Kept the sail
Follow the wind till the End,
Swing the sail boom, to tack back again
He always bought Hot Peppered Crab
And a 12 pack of National Beer
Once he took it out the Middle River
He would take her below for whispers
With me at the wheel, I sailed the Bay
My Love of the Boat and he for her,
Were both, Same in a way
The Ship she was my lover
And to him I was his Cover
For a 30 Year old Husband
And an 18 Year old Girl
Sailing in the Summer Sun
I watched the sails a Furl
Taught with wind, she veered to Lee
Sailing till waves rolled up from the Sea
And that's when she Picked up Speed
I would tighten up the boom line.
The only sounds flap of the Sails
And The creak of the Rope
Beneath the Moon so Pale
On a Warm Summers night sail
A summer I'll Never Forget
And the Tragedy of her Death
As she Drove for home her car crashed
Her hopes for her life Dashed
And that I lost my friend I regret....
Feb 19, 2015
Feb 19, 2015 at 10:29 AM UTC
The medals from Vietnam only saw light
when it fanned beneath the bed
so that when you removed them
the black velvet had grown forty years
of grey moss
it wasn’t that you wanted to forget them
but that they couldn’t stack up against
the black and white time lines
the photographs of your children
my mother, aunt and uncle
that grew into color by the top of the stairs
it wasn’t a matter of forgetting
it was a matter of choice
and the shark teeth and crab jackets
that all the cousins pulled out of the Chesapeake
stayed on the shelf because
that was what you were fighting for
the only relic you decided
to keep in plain view
laid right next to the crab jackets
a little vial wrapped around
a little metal tooth
because when the mortar flashed like a stroke
inches from your head
your thoughts went to home
and that fragment of near death
you keep in the glass vial
looking out over the living room
to tease it, to torture it, to say
Not even you could make me forget
Last time I saw you was a year ago
and you were dying
bruises bubbled anywhere a corner touched your flesh
and oily scales peeled from the shell of skin
stretched over your forehead
last year you told us everything about your medals
they were all just throwaways
though your wife and daughter pried,
you knew that remembering them was a waste of dying time
now two more strokes since that mortar flash
have left you in the ward
people have stopped visiting
because visitors like to be recognized
and when Marmee sits and watches football with you
she hates football
she asks you what teams are playing
you sob
I used to know.
Dec 13, 2011
Dec 13, 2011 at 6:43 AM UTC
(Land that doth marry mother lode
of sublime earthen land and sea).
Age of exploration
ushered cruel fate
against “red” men living
in bliss by agents
patch of eden north
o Mason Dixon line
latitude: 39.64839
longitude: -75.95591 alee
perchance designed
by divine providence
with dyslexic humorous bents
Cecil county Maryland
lies like plump backward letter “e”
witnessed topographic erosion
pocked imprimatur marked
meteorological dents
thru inundation of
oceanographic propensities
melding coastline like Galilee
in particular by Chesapeake Bay,
that body of water
abutting like natural fence
first witnessed by captain
John Smith in 1608
mistaking himself tong tied
in sole of Italy
learned faux pas, when crossing paths
with Susquehannas hence,
offered tobacco sticks to natives
while recovering
from injured wounded knee
said other sundry tribes curiously eyed
then (I utilized poetic license)
took smoke from packet of Kents
which twist on actual
historical facts manipulated by me
but more truthful account awash
and replete with more
than interspersed nonsense
and incorporates tract situated
in so called Fertile Crescent – see
settled by Europeans of English stock,
who emigrated with nary a pence
“taming” shrew like “noble savages”
plied Leviathan sized ukuleles
whose might exploited for felling forests,
which timber built cabins with vents.
Jun 5, 2018
Jun 5, 2018 at 7:17 PM UTC
Long ago
Long before the dawn of his youth
Lived a boy, a young boy
A boy who had a dream
A childhood dream.
He would lay at the forest glade
And gaze, gaze in wonder
At the peculiar workings of the earth.
He would count all the birds of the sky
Wander into the dark forest deep
Stroll by the humming river
And paint with all the colors of the earth.
The night's inner glow,
The wild's cheerful tune;
All of earth's splashy marvel
Would prompt his thoughts
To travel the world
In search of a secret.
The blue waters of the Pacific seemed a decent start, he thought
Perhaps a swim in the depths of Waikiki Beach
Or a hike up Mt. Rainier
A stroll in the scenic wonderlands of Northern Idaho
Maybe a nice dinner in Broadmoor Hotel at Colorado Springs
Or build a cabin in Minnesota's lake country
A day picnic at Mt. Chocorua
A quick walk down Boston Common
Or a Tulip time at Bronx,
Drifted his mind.
Bend of Susquehanna, Cayuga Lake, Chesapeake Bay, Rehoboth Beach
Flashed upon his sight.
Then one day, not long ago
To his surprise
He found the secret
Veiled in one who owns his heart.
Sep 30, 2016
Sep 30, 2016 at 12:05 PM UTC
We walk in tandem well past midnight
Summer tempest mad and young
The air charged thick with salt and clouds
And cherry ice still on our tongues;
Sandals dangling off hooked fingers
Remnant sand between our toes, with
Soles pressed lightly to the pavement
Slicked with rain and indigo;
A quiet laughter seals in spaces
Left unfilled by ocean roars, and
Ancient street lamps flicker hazy
As we pass by corner stores;
Joined together hand in hand,
Two bodies wading through the gale
While lightning bounces off the coast
And off your painted fingernails;
Over Seaford on a bridge with
Wind-swept hair and noses red
As leering thoughts about September
Hover over both our heads;
Porch lights crest around the turnpike
We go in through your back door
I plant myself into your sofa
Like the countless times before;
Stories travel back and forth
As storms wage war upon the beach,
Your lips and teeth move like you have
A homily you need to preach;
The talking turns to my departure
As we dry our soaking clothes
Against the glow of TV screens
With hearts and bodies left exposed;
Staring future in the eye
And met with nothing but abyss
I say with all my confidence
That I know this and only this;
It must have been an intervention
Of some Godly, cosmic breed
That gave me August in Delmarva
And a chance for us to meet;
When I’m settled back at home,
Your cadence just a reverie,
The transience of our acquaintance
Will have no effect on me;
Of all the talks we did exchange,
Not one has ever carved so deep
As when you told me everything
Upon the briny Chesapeake.
Jun 20, 2016
Jun 20, 2016 at 1:06 AM UTC
Survival is imbedded in instinct.
What I know to be right
Tears me apart at every crossroads.
Today, like all days, I am sick.
Outside my childhood home,
Spring brings with it an air of change.
Tulips burst from the earth,
Freed from their bulbs and stretching
Every petal and leaf skyward.
They lean towards the sun.
Reminded of the Chesapeake with each brackish breeze,
Birds warble a welcome to warmer weather.
Harvest is upon us, and most will eat their fill.
Sayers and doers move about the world
Saying. Doing.
Perhaps one day I will go outside.
One day I may be able to say and do –
It doesn’t hurt to dream –
Maybe I’ll even rule the world outside my childhood home.
Inside, everything is the same.
My voice is a passive one.
It screams from the bottom of an ever-expanding hole
No one listens because a birdsong is prettier.
No one taught me how to live on the surface
So I adapted.
No one taught me.
I dug myself a hole away from liability
Inside my childhood home.
I lied, cheated, and sacrificed my freedom
just to remain comfortable.
My dark, cold hole knows no tulips.
The spring breeze doesn’t bother
to wake me in the mornings.
Perhaps one day I will know what to say –
It doesn’t hurt to dream –
What I know to be right tears me apart at every crossroads.
This is my survival story.
Apr 8, 2014
Apr 8, 2014 at 2:28 PM UTC
People tell me that two years
is equivalent to the speed of a bullet train.
But I think they just say that
because they don't bleed when you're gone.
And 'cause they don't hear your name
when the wind whispers through the quakies.
To them, September is when
the leaves change
and the sun dims,
but when you hold me,
September is still too hot and should never be lonely.
People tell me I'll blink and twenty-four months will have
danced before my eyelids,
But they're just saying that
so I don't have to cry oceans at their doorstep
at one o'clock in the morning
because you were busy watching metal come alive.
And letters are good,
even though handwriting is bad,
but pen isn't the same as
hearing your voice breathe
'I love you'
or
feeling it in your arms.
Two years is a lot longer than twelve days,
and because of this
I know they are wrong,
And I have every right to feel like
I am drowning.
Jun 28, 2014
Jun 28, 2014 at 6:23 PM UTC