Poetic Fishing License
"For about an hour, David." Thomas O. called back
In answer to his brother's: "When you coming home?"
Never thinking that in that time he would attack,
In record time, the better part of the poem
Soon to be legend in the Believesphere.
How could he have known that his short fishing
Interlude would catch him a whopper. A mere
Nugget even the Poet General would be relishing.
"Good luck catching one," from David on a roll
Thomas O.: "Oh that isn't the object." he replied with laughter
"Only to predict the hook's trajectory is my goal."
Usually it was vectors Thomas O. was after.
Chance had it that today he got so much more.
His casting yielded Tony and the horseshoe crab's lore.
Contra-act of creation
Under the rubber shavings Daniel could sense
Nearness of completion. He blew across the page
In hopes that his alteration would chance
Venusian birth bring to the crab's stark image.
Every once and a while, he fancied himself a
Real penner of the songs. After all who would
So much as whistle the tune later if
A certain i was not dotted? With a breath's flood,
Lovingly the mistake was gone! Another spry
Wave of the white out's brush!
And then a brief wait to let the sea foam dry:
Lovely as Venus on the half shell. Next a hush.
Then his mighty pen corrected it to the letter!
Zephyros could not have done any better.
For a song
Daniel woke and his office was calm.
Right where he left it was his ink
Eraser and copy of the contract warm
Against his face-down palm. Its pink,
Malleable surface just a reach away.
Song publishing contracts were his strength.
In a day he could prepare a few, four, say.
Not today though, for he had just dozed at length:
A good three hours dreaming he was on some
Desert island. It was so vivid. He still
Recoiled at the thought of the dead crab. Plumb
Enormous and brown it was. The thrill
And stench of it lingered. He perused the contract for faults.
Moped on in 3/4 time over this song about a horseshoe crab's waltz.
Hut, two, three, four
"But he can't walk. Because he is dead."
Expresses our hero as he slowly rises.
"Let's see who is in that hut ahead.
I'm sorry, Tony. On to more pressing crises."
Eyeing the crab one last time, Harold stumbles,
Very weak still from his journey.
Every step is an accomplishment. Harold mumbles
Something he imagines soldiers learn. He
Puts more and more oomph into the phrase.
"How did i get here?" is his echoing question now.
Entering one of the beach-side huts he braces:
Ready or not, here it comes. "Wow.
Empty." He spots a cot and collapses.
"So it's sleep again," he yawns, as off into slumber he passes.
Introduction to the Dimension Shift Sonnet Cycle
Day at the beach
Harold wakes with sand in his mouth.
Intense sunlight and something hard and brown
Slowly comes into focus like a memory from youth.
Next to him is what looks like a bronze crown.
After a moment he realizes his mistake. "Better you than
Me." He addresses the empty shell of a horseshoe crab.
Everything is still blanched and harsh. His clan
Is nowhere to be seen and this drab
Stony, prehistoric remnant with dead eyes
Targets him like a freakish portrait of a warrior stranded,
Or of some dead relative with vision that pries--
No matter where in the room you landed--
Your very soul open like a Warhol soup keg.
He is brown. He has ten eyes. He has some legs.
Outlasting
The blue and white comfort us as we sit
Here and look up as a slow gull tilts
Every so often. Though not painted, it
Seems almost static but not still.
Kinetic in attitude but emblazoned.
You reach for your book and i gaze
To the east where the waves careen into an amazon.
Her form tiny to me. But her laughing gasps spray
Eternity across the sand, glistens for a long moment,
Loses intensity as the sand soaks it up and a wary
Intimacy is left behind as i realize our love's monument
Might well be in your placing your hand just on mine. Scary.
It's like a sail or the single cel in a very, very long film.
Too fragile to linger on the horizon, strong enough to pull the helm.
Learning to wait
Some say it is television. Some, poor parenting or locusts.
It seems most prevalent in young boys:
This need to squirm, the lack of focus.
Then the maturity or biological debate annoys
Independent think tanks and thus comes the next study.
New methods using old tricks concentrate
Good money after bad. Maybe an MRI would be
Surer evidence of the problem. Better get the DNA.
Origin of the specious is nailed to the cross-hairs;
Still no solution. But maybe the unification
Theory is the problem. Should we adjust all office chairs
If the backs of a few ache. Or wait until June and vacation.
Let them run it off during summer.
Love tries everything and hope wakes from slumber.
