Southeast, and storm, and every weathervane
shivers and moans upon its dripping pin,
ragged on chimneys the cloud whips, the rain
howls at the flues and windows to get in,
the golden rooster claps his golden wings
and from the Baptist Chapel shrieks no more,
the golden arrow in the southeast sings
and hears on the roof the Atlantic Ocean roar.
Waves among wires, sea scudding over poles,
down every alley the magnificence of rain,
dead gutters live once more, the deep manholes
hollow in triumph a passage to the main.
Umbrellas, and in the Gardens one old man
hurries away along a dancing path,
listens to music on a watering-can,
observes among the tulips the sudden wrath,
pale willows thrashing to the needled lake,
and dinghies filled with water; while the sky
smashes the lilacs, swoops to shake and break,
till shattered branches shriek and railings cry.
Speak, Hatteras, your language of the sea:
scour with kelp and spindrift the stale street:
that man in terror may learn once more to be
child of that hour when rock and ocean meet.

From Hatteras south to Ocracoke
The Queen Anne she did soak
A'bar at Springer's Point
Where kin of Teach
Take pride in speech
And with pirate's blood anoint

On down coast by Emerald Isle
Eighteen sailor  miles
Till  sail through Tops'l Spit
Beneath the waves
Lie many graves
Of fools whose widows knit

r ~ 11Feb14

four bodies lay
here in this small, square piece of ground
made especially for you gents
they dragged your bodies from the shore
the morning after your ship was torpedoed
while protecting the North Carolina coastline
many remain forever in the Graveyard of the Atlantic
brave souls you were
giving your very lives
in defense of an ally
and seventy-five years later I take a few moments
to acknowledge your bravery and your sacrifice

upon returning home I replay moments from my trip
to Ocracoke and Hatteras Island
and during my short stay at the British Cemetary
when I felt honored
to be standing in the presence of the lost souls
of the Bedfordshire
a voice whispers...'We are at Peace'

You loved going to your uncle house on the Outer Banks.
I'm Cape Hatteras, standing in the same spot in black and white.
Through the rain and the wave, seeing if I heard you quite right.
I've become a fading light .

it is nearly December
and here I sit
alone
on the beach of Buxton
just in front of the immaculate Hatteras Lighthouse
only a few surf fisherman
are within eyeshot
maybe half a mile towards Frisco
and one obvious resident of the area
bronze skinned and soaking in more
of the late season Sun
walks her Lab along the shoreline
it is every bit 72 degrees
and the light breeze is only perfect
the terns float in the hundreds
a few hundred yards offshore
as I admire them
I spot several dolphins on the move nearby
one jumps like a kid showing off
this is followed by a dozen or so pelicans
playing follow the leader a foot above the ocean
then dive bombing for fish

I come alive when I step from the concrete to the sand
when I hear the beautiful music of the waves pounding the shore
in perfect, slow rhythm
this is where I find myself
where my worries drift slowly out to Sea
with every precious moment I have
in these
Outer Banks

Winter Storm Warning
For tonight, chance of snow:
Chance of conditions you do not know.
"Friday night, snowy, windy,
May last ‘til Sunday,"
Maybe one day,
You’ll be laid low.

Pack all the supplies you can,
Into a bunker or four-wheel drive van,
Throw in some extras, like a tire that's bare
And tell your kids, “Let’s go.”
But where? You pretend to know.

"Anywhere, anywhere I don't care!"
Away from the house with the giant tree,
That might fall and crush you, mother and me.
Away from power lines crackling on ice,
They’re explosive and electrocution's not very nice!

Up from Cape Hatteras,
Barrels the storm,
Where we’ve heard horror tales
Of strong gales and anxious watch,
Do we trust our lazy guts or the isobars?

On to New York,
Where they never quail
In the face of danger
Though the winds might wail,
Past Block Island with towering waves
To the Sound and the fury and gale.

We grit our teeth and batten the hatches,
Tell stories of worse weather watch to soothe,
Keeping voices low and emotions smooth.
Yet weather folks, hysterical, predict our fate,
Willing the worst, making us wait.

This time the flickering power stays on,
Our street isn't flooded
And the roof's not gone.
"All that fuss for nothing!" say the young and brave,
While you have that same dream of an old, rogue wave.

Time Traveler

on my wall is a calendar.
this month it is an october scene
with a new england village tucked in a
brilliant gold, crimson, and russet autumn
interspersed with white pines and a white church
among tranquil houses.
the village is silent from this distance,
but it is not a far walk.

when we descend the hills
these kind folk tell about the joys and struggles
of their lives.
close up
i have been coveting the dodge pickup truck
parked off the corner from the bookstore.
i can hear mrs. emmons in the red house with the tin roof
tell me of her husband’s hard drinking habits.
her neighbor, mrs. parker,  in the white 18th century home
will complain that her son eloped with the minister’s daughter,
and the couple that live on bennington steet
are celebrating their 50th wedding anniversary on the day
i turn the calendar to november 1st.
unfortunately, i will miss the occasion.
the people of the village do not seem to take notice of me,
I am just another traveler passing through
like so many others.
the woodcutters are laying up their store for winter,
carefree children are preparing for halloween,
the teenage boys and girls are busy with homecoming plans,
and dads and sons and daughters are carving jack o’ lanterns.
on porches on this clear sunlit day.
i pass my days at the top of the hill
reading, grading papers,
and gazing as far in the distance
as my angle permits.

i have spent nearly a month here
and must leave on the 31st of october.
i must turn another page in my life.
in november i am heading to cape hatteras
and fish for a month
with the man near the lighthouse
who has cast his line into the surf.


ms/’10