Inspired by the Peter Iredale

With years of rust, reflected on the sand
While ocean waves still crash the boat’s old bones
Imagination’s memories are grand
At least the ones the time of tides condones

Though tides recede with time, they’ll flood once more
Like memories imagined in the dark
When memories or tides approach the shore
On life’s reflected bones, they leave their mark

The cargo of our dreams may be washed out
When waves of rusted time precludes desire
And yet we still remember they’re about
Dichotomies of ocean waves of fire

Some dreams we have may rust on time’s wide beach
And yet time’s vision stays within our reach.

Nightmare

I found an old notebook with writing in it that I believe is the last things I wrote before my accident on 4/29/2010. This might be the last sonnet I wrote before the accident:

My feet, repulsed by darkness and the fruit
which rots between the rows of orchard arms
alone, organic sentinels, the root
of evil growing silently. Alarms
of touch, repulsion marks the solemn path
between the rows of withered lives. I walk
in silence, like the culminating wrath
of stagnant, rotting life, protruding stalk
which stigmatizes flesh, my feet are bare
I feel the piercing call of dreadful night
where dreams of darkness permeate the air
and danger bleeds my skin a ghostly white
I flail and moan in spasmic steps. The coup
of life is death, which life can not renew.

Sweet Apathy

Sweet apathy is more than just a shrug
“Who gives a fuck,” is personal and pure
An apathetic cord runs to a plug
It pulls itself, of that you can be sure

Sweet apathy compels the null to void
The void compels sweet apathy to null
Compulsion isn’t sweet; it’s just annoyed
That apathy’s a glass that’s just half full

It should have been half empty, like the time
“Who gives a fuck” was power, plugged for naught
By empty seconds, pointless and sublime
That felt the freedom apathy had brought

In time we see that apathy is sweet
Without it, null and void are not complete.

Capturing Light

The pen’s more mighty than the sword, they say
More mighty still is that which captures light
The lens records the luminence of day
Like dreams reveal the luminence of night

As Helios illuminates our shore
Oceanids reflect the tales he tells
Of beaches and the treasures which they wore
Brought in by tides of light and ocean swells

The burning, golden blade on waves we see
Is captured in our stories and retold
Our truth may some day be mythology
As stories seen and heard in times of old

We capture light like notes of little songs
And search to find where every word belongs.

(Picture by Wendy Ennis.)

Fourteen Tweets

Iambic sounds create a simple tweet
In fourteen tweets a sonnet will arise
Though in its brevity it is complete
A song is not composed by simply size

Nor are the words we breathe just simple sounds
Or simple lines that float through space and time
Sweet life is made of music which abounds
In heartbeats’ rhythm, loves prophetic rhyme

And so we tweet our souls to those who hear
Who hear the music of our heartbeat words
The words of life all living souls revere
We sing and tweet and soar like splendor’s birds

A simple tweet can bring the sounds of love
Or lead us all to soar like  birds above.

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Breast Feeding

Attached with love that helps her strength increase
So small, she’s pure potential to fulfill
Receiving mother’s milk in precious peace
She falls asleep with warmth wherein she’s still

And when she wakes, her comfort is complete
I see it in the sparkle of her eyes
She stretches as she coos; her sounds are sweet
She smiles in joy, between contented sighs

The gift of mother’s milk is liquid gold
The gift of life is given, skin-to-skin
The gift of love is more than arms can hold
The gift of love proceeds from deep within

Such strength, such love, by which the babe is blessed
Such strength, such love: the spirit of the breast.

Bruneau Dunes Observatory

Each star is just a single grain of sand
Each galaxy, a dune of sand, piled high
This universal metaphor is grand
It’s poetry that lights the desert sky

Come contemplate the sand within the dunes
Look up, look through the telescope and see
A thousand stars with planets and their moons
Celestial grains of sand for you and me

Look down to see the sand on which you tread
One grain on which we orbit ’round the sun
One million grains beneath your feet instead
Come contemplate one million grains or one

This metaphor of stars and dunes and sand
Is poetry that fills a dusty land.

Metaphoric Rocks

God’s poetry is written in the rocks
God’s poetry? Of course. The Word is God
Come listen to the way the landscape talks
Come hear the Word; come listen and be awed.

High verse is thus composed by God for man
High verse is how God touches hearts and minds
Poetic beauty justifies God’s plan
When man forgets God’s work, high verse reminds

High verse is made of words we understand
Its beauty is revealed in works we see
Like pinnacles and arches that are grand
Like mountains raised by God for you and me

And thus, by art, the holy landscape talks
God speaks the word with metaphoric rocks.

My Scars

Ankle Scars
I feel the plates and screws beneath my scars
Securing bones that ripped and tore my skin
Like hardware one might find on bikes or cars
Without the need to show the strength within

Within my leg, titanium was placed
Although it hurt like hell for months and weeks
The pain is less than pain at first I faced
Although the scars are still, their silence speaks

My silent scars are history, engraved
Of how my skin was ripped and torn by force
They also show the way my foot was saved
So I could walk and run again, of course

And still I battle silent scars, unseen
Where rips and tears are seldom ever clean.