"whitecap" poems
The river winds in from distant lands
With mercyless power it turns stone to sand
Through its mysterious life, the very earth it commands
And Yet the fearful river still runs through our hands.
In torrents of furry where the deepest currents flow
The rivers wild waters surge with woe. For
Onward, forever, its destined to go
A permenant home it won't ever know.
The river runs from each of us
As a refugee of fear,
It knows in a blink it will be somewhere else
Its waves are really its tears.
It runs from the audacity
Of the selfish human mind
As Its massive life capacity,
Of flora and fauna combined,
Are threatened by our antics and helpless to our crime
So the river runs on their behalf, from everyone, in time-
even within its whitecap foam
Water's yearning for a home
So roam does the water- endlessly,
till its long gone out of sight
The essential droplets of the river-
Nomads day and night.
Jun 26, 2018
Jun 26, 2018 at 11:55 AM UTC
This morning,
I walked with god and man, and animal
I've come to believe,
no other possibility,
He denies me sleep
as His insurance policy
some One wants to be sure,
someone sees His sunrise poem,
He selected this ancien regi-man
to be His admiring audience,
with deer, squirrels, rabbits, a red fox, an osprey
always complaining, why do they get
the cheap seats
so up at five,
no jive,
gotta get there early,
for a good seat,
on the dock by his name
watch the color blue transgender
from feminine elegy elegant pale
to peacock royal male,
the water,
a contributing editor,
phases in with a steely grin,
with ermine whitecap hints
and an orange marmalade sky homage,
I cannot try to describe
and here is where man comes in...
as the tableau reveals a still life
come to be,
a painting enlivened,
come to me free,
bursting with
effervescence and
animal life tribunes,
paying on...
strange...
my Pandora app
back to back,
plays for me
Gershwin's Rhapsody In Blue,
hard upon it comes
Saint-Saëns's
The Carnival of the Animals
and I
enfeebled amateur,
needy for a
word titan Titian,
can think only
this trite thought:
*I know not who is the
instrument and who
is the
artist,
but virtuous us,
We, all, now-capital-buddies,
now, all, well-color-capitalized,
god and man and animal,
crooning a chorus of appreciation
let this "accidental" miracle,
this collaboration,
enthuse me,
to live happily
with anticipation
for just one more day...*
June 2014
Jun 15, 2014
Jun 15, 2014 at 6:56 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
For Eliot
a man possessed awakes and blessing pronounces that the world needs another poetry site even though nothing new under the sun nonetheless the secret passion is coded and the white swells grow into a hurricane whitecap crescendo, lighting thunders cymbals and the non believers (how I want to believe!) quietly step forward
from unpronounceable places you never heard of,
no longer cowards, not a one,
invoking a blessing of:
"me too, I am a poet with something to announce new, and I've been sitting patiently in distress, looking for a place to say, see,
I think I can,
I think therefore,
I am,
a named human.
no longer an asterisk."
6/22/17 2:40am nyc
Jun 22, 2017
Jun 22, 2017 at 2:46 AM UTC
There’s you,
coming up to breathe
for but a few heartbeats
before returning to the
deep, where there’s none
other than those who
belong.
Oh, what a marvelous space,
inverted space to be exact,
to live and float while
still retaining our right to
drift, kick and scream
to noone else but us.
At several leagues I
heard a sound that gave
my neck a chill, but not
the kind that makes one small,
instead the kind that feeds
gigantism in the icy north’s
hadal spheres.
From there, the rest seem lightyears off,
and closely similar in kind and way,
but as you rise at speeds that would
give a man the bends, those waves
will wash away the frightened guppy
until only the brave and strong remain.
It’s a long way down for sure, to
those who couldn’t sense or feel
that rush of bubbling need for fresh
and clean sky in the lungs,
so now theirs hold about a
half dozen wet litres each,
the poor fools.
But what a sight it was to see,
to watch the whitecap gleam
above a newly capsized crew,
and presently neath the sun and
moon and stars at same time;
to hear the truest form of life
that came from both high and low;
now that was worth a second look,
or a third.
And there was I,
wading with my
smallest green lure
and bishaded buoy,
and nothing else was.
Jun 26, 2023
Jun 26, 2023 at 11:10 AM UTC
Troubled teen-ramblings
rustle in the palms of your hands.
Your anger shatters crystal:
the polished window
to the world you will never know;
forever limited
to the opaque vision
of stolen childhood dreams.
You can't understand
how my season balances
between fruit-punch parties
and beer-keg gigs,
or why I feel the need
to sling phrases of inky tar
into whitecap puffs of smoke,
and then lock them away from you.
Your invasion
peels away leaves:
secret playgrounds,
stolen kisses, innocent
trials of my teen life.
My random reflections, severed,
bleed on broken glass.
Feb 9, 2010
Feb 9, 2010 at 7:20 AM UTC
I would re-name the planets after galaxies in your eyes.
The stars finally know what it feels like to burn with envy.
There are constellations tracing the soft skin of your back.
Following dips and curves, I would draw maps with two fingers
of everything that matters.
Freshman science taught us about untouched miracles;
and just like that-
the ultraviolet cosmic phenomenon
fixed us to spiral arms in far-away planetary
nebulas, like the ringed Cat’s Eye.
The milky skies whispered
so that only we could hear,
"Heaven's dust will fall"
You feared last night you could hear the earth
cracking under the weight of the universe,
paralyzed with a crippling guilt
you'll only see the stars after they've died.
Neighboring nova would spectate
our telescopic wavelengths-
needing the prisms to reflect on
our kaleidoscope refractions.
No matter the efforts of a tangible spectrum,
one could never quite touch our frequency.
Between lazy and lively,
our whitecap love remained visibly invisible.
Our infrared vessel to space, raced clusters of runaway stars
past post-distant intergalactic bodies,
shooting through beasts, astrologies, gods.
We window shopped stellar bursts of dust clouds
above our clouds, a gravity shelter.
Meteors became our faithful companions
glowing gassy flowers of dusty debris.
The pressure (we couldn’t touch) generates combustion;
atoms gazing psychedelic pinks, greens,
soothing tones of aquamarines.
Ever since then you've been the glittering
black hole, heaving me in.
The only thing I’m able to taste is
the way your luminous Milky Way kiss
gives gifts of halos to terrestrial light rays.
But the flavor of your lips are the
battalions inspiring the star shining front lines-
Integrity a marathon taking laps
to the moon
to Pluto and back, the long way.
Blizzards of stars rewrite our language
in the moon beams,
guiding us past lost letters to Pluto.
How do you sleep among dancing stars
while the rest of the universe watches?
I made my home in your eyes
and you made your home in the sky.
Feb 17, 2018
Feb 17, 2018 at 10:06 PM UTC
Me I am
A drop in the ocean.
So the ocean is me.
Me I am
The curl of a wave
And so the ocean is me.
Me I am
The whitecap squall,
The bluest deep,
The clear lagoon,
The calm of the sea.
I feel the ocean in me.
Where is the me
That used to be,
That never was true,
Never was free,
Alone and separate,
Now able to see?
I am it all,
All is in me.
I play in this water
Every day,
Every moment,
Every which way.
Nothing I miss,
Nothing I lose,
Nothing I long for,
All I can choose.
This is my answer:
Give up my mind,
Touch every moment
Here without time.
Oct 6, 2011
Oct 6, 2011 at 10:07 AM UTC
Sometimes, I thought your eyes looked waterlogged,
wet enough to pour floods of biblical
proportion. I knew you as an ocean;
you slipped through knobby fingers with each pulse.
You growled like waves, and growling, you beat salt
into sunburn with the ferocity
of three thousand hurricanes—no more, no
less. My palm fronds will always sway for you.
But you never swayed, stayed, or even said
what you meant as your whitecap words washed blind
over coral. You stung though, full of bone
shards and plastic. Let’s face it, you’re filthy.
You smell like oil and death. Your rotting weeds
strangle the pilings of flimsy gray docks.
May 7, 2014
May 7, 2014 at 11:56 PM UTC
you can drown in the ocean
but people still flock to the beach
mostly when it's sunny
not so much when the sky is filled with clouds
or when a storm is brewing
but the ocean
it stays the same
the tide will come to the edge of the pier
and back down again
though the passion and strength of the waves changes
from forces sent from god to the gentlest whitecap kiss
rain or shine i'll stay with my feet in the water
pull me down if you want to
Jan 31, 2016
Jan 31, 2016 at 3:02 AM UTC