surf's edge

I recently spent a number of days on the outer banks with a group of nonconformist friends in a huge house four miles beyond any paved road. The only way in was by 4x4 up the beach. Those days were spent laughing and discussing. Sharing and discovering. Enriching and nurturing. I love unique souls. So full of color and light.

A storm front cut our trip short and we had to leave the island early in order to avoid the high tide and a storm surge that would make leaving difficult. Upon leaving I found myself and my gear in the back of a pickup, facing backwards, headed south along surf's edge. Wild horses grazed freely among the dunes, the stumps 0f an ancient maritime forest appeared and disappeared in the distance behind me as we sped along. Red flags popped in the gale and sea foam emerged from the surf, rolling in the wind like bubbly brown liquid tumbleweeds.

Lost in the flutter and the straw scratch sound of my hair about my ears I began to recall. Echoed laughter and the sights and sounds of it all, of them all, was still searing deeply the palette of my mind. Looking to my right, I gazed past the raging Atlantic and realized the perpetual frontier of the lives I've lived and felt grateful. The kind of grateful that makes your lower eyelids raise as tears slightly well along the delicate lashes. The purple scent of joy saturated the sea breeze. It feels good to be on the surface of this magnificent world.

Wonders abound. Now home, writing this, my dog's head is resting heavily on my thigh as he gratefully snores my safe return. A cold, windy September rain pours outside. I look at him. His twitching pink muzzle always aware.
We two, he and I, mere carbon based life forms. Each an accumulation of cells acting in unison. But there is this wonderful connection between he and I. Between them and us. Between you and I. It can't be seen, though it can be felt and reflected.

And so I catch myself gazing once again, pondering us all and feel my lower lids begin to raise.

cock of the walk

Ralph, greeting the morning. He is a magical soul.

young pete

Our newest addition to the family, Young Pete, settling in for the night on top of the house. He's a good bird I rescued about six weeks ago. He and Ralph have become fast friends.

bbq chicken dream

It was a blustery winter's day. Danny and I were talking in the courtyard when at least a hundred strange beasts flew over. Loud monkey hoots and screeches filled the air. They tumbled in the breeze like autumn leaves, broad and paper thin with white fringes on their sides and down their long thin tails. Changing colors simultaneously, yellow to blue to red, sifting through the limbs of trees and disappearing en mass over the blue horizon.


I looked at Danny. Dumbfounded.

"Sail monkeys." Said Danny. "Wildlife agents released them to curb the overabundance of Glider Turtles."

waxing gibbous

Butterscotch shadows flickered on the ceiling.

The katydid's relentless cadence creaked and groaned in the darkness like an old rocking chair.
"Can you hear them?" She asked.
"I cannot." I whispered.

Gazing now, I asked.
"If the moon sang, what would be the song?"
"Depends on the phase." She said.
"Full"
"It would be a jolly song." She replied.
"A jolly song indeed." I agreed.

The drive home revealed a butterscotch moon. Canted westward.
Waxing gibbous.

Three quarters jolly on the night's last refrain.

ablution

Late day, darkened sky, rumble in the west.
Humidity, high, sweaty, nigh to ninety at it's best.
Thunder, steam, the tree frog's scream, harkens what comes next.
Shirt removed, britches too, and then remove the rest.

Here it comes, a flash, a crack, turn to face the wind.
A drip, a splat, a pit, a pat, soon it will begin.
A dribble, drop, a spit, a plop, a drizzle gust and then.
The deluge sheets, the ozone reaks, as thick replaces thin.

It roars upon me, blows beyond me, cast down in a gale.
Pounding, pummeling, hounding, rumbling, a beat I know so well.
Pouring streams, lightning, reams of gray just short of hail.
Hissing, pissing, caressing, kissing, the storm begins to wail.

On me now it coats my brow, my ears, my nose, my lips.
Pours down my neck, my nipples, back, rivulets on my hips.
Arms outstretched, palms wretched, reaching, nothing skipped.
Toes, thighs, calves, eyes, even the smooth pink tip.

Soaring now, some way, somehow, my soul seeps from within.
Oozing, healing, coating, feeling like a second skin.
It mixes with sweet heaven's rain and prompts a watery grin.
Ablution starts, and cares depart like lightning roasted sins.

Dancing, skipping, splashing, sipping, spinning in a daze.
Slipping, hopping, dripping, sopping, eyes in upward gaze.
Laughter mixes with the roar, for a time that seems like days.
I stand alone, cleansed to the bone, part of the dense gray haze.

Wind goes past, tiring at last, entertained by me no more.
Passing over the pine, the clover, to wash some distant shore.
I watch it leave, almost bereaved, but know it must go forth.
To cleanse the souls of everything that reaches for it's force.

There it goes, me in it's wake, fluttering in the breeze.
A drip, a splat, a pit, a pat, falling from the trees.
The treefrog screams, pavement steams, mudholes ripple free.
Sun comes out and warms the skin as I rise from my knees.

In the east it's golden now, I gaze way past this home.
The peacock calls out to his mate, mighty colors shown.
I gather up my thoughts and things, still soaking to the bone.
And feel my soul still on my skin as I set out alone.

rider

Rider fair on horse's back.
Slips past the sun to darkest wood.
'Midst leaf and stone they leave no track.
'Neath boughs where docile Haw once stood.
Breathing deep she closed her eyes.
Trusting him to carry on.
The broad warm beast between her thighs.
Eventually will take her home.
Limbs and branches comb her locks.
Lids shut tight she dares not look.
A clomping gate across the rocks.
A bullfrog's thrum along the brook.
A hum a buzz a rooster's call.
The rider's heart inhales them all.

mingling

She scatterd the opium weights on the table. Tiny brass tablets tarnished and cast with ancient symbols. He emitted a low growl and pondered how they had facilitated the hopeless and desparate as he fashioned them into the shape of a cross on the table. Picking one up, he licked it, wanting the taste as well as the sight and touch, then leaned across and pressed his lips to hers, letting the surreptitious mingle with the bliss of her kiss.

pale

Midnight, full moon. Air scrubbed clean by passing storms. Saturated lavender gray sky. A handfull of stars. The dog and I strike off down the trail in the crisp nightwind. We two, dogwood, beech and mayapple's pale umbrellas all bathed in blue moonglow. Our shadows dance and crackle on the forest floor as night becomes vapor and a brand new morning quietly creeps in.

gone

Lost in the wood.

In the deep green glow.

Gone for good.

They'll never know.

Final rest,

way off the trail.

It's for the best.

No one can tell.

I'll become the weed, the pine,

the winding vine.

Leaving no trace of me behind.

'Cept a ghostly scent for better noses.

mill

Cold morning,

rugged gray men in sawn pine and cedar,

a hound in the sawdust pile.

Chips on bills of caps in the bullpen.

Clattering carriage.

Singing blade.

Slapping canvas belts running pulley and lever.

The craft of slab, plank, board and beam.

Round becomes edged.

Nature becomes utility.

Man becomes man again and again.

barnyard dream

The talk show was set in a barnyard. Carson was hosting. There were white oaks and tobacco barns in the background. We were all sitting on stumps in the shade. Light breeze. Temps in the mid seventies. White sand.

The show had gone to commercial. So Affleck and I discussed topics for the next segment. I suggested we talk about his recent struggles with depression, and he said he would bring up my estranged starlet wife's new beau Steven Tyler. Ben said Stevey boy had been talking junk about me to the press.

When he said that I woke up laughing on my sofa.

meatloaf dream

He was becoming suspicious of the cafe's meatloaf. After having it the night before, he dreamed he had an invisible helicopter and was flying it all over. He also dreamed he stretched a cable a half mile across a lake and built a gondola to hang from it. The gondola had lattice gates painted blue by Dr. Blueberry. The best part was his friends were astounded he knew how to fly the helicopter.

saltine dream

In the limo we could speak perfect french. Confident it was something hidden deep inside me I'd never realized. It felt cosmopolitan as the words aimed at the woman in the sharp business suit dripped from me like warm honey. I was french. Smugly french. And I liked it.

dust

When this time has passed, keep me from that cold dark box.
Light up what remains of me here.

Keep the heart of me in that ashen jar that rests on your mantle.
Cast the rest to the four winds I love so well.

Let my dust blow amidst the bitterweed of pastures long gone.
Frolicking with the crawfish and salamanders of youths spring branch.

Let me trickle in the tears of someone laughing.
A sleeve is not such a bad place to be. An embrace will surely ensue.

Let me rise on wings in summer's oaken canopies.
Nestled deep in the feathers of a tiny wren.

Let me cascade the veil of an approaching storm.
Tumbling in the ozone of it's pensive valkyries.

Let me lay quiet on a worn windowsill.
Becoming part of the musty, the sun baked, the overlooked.

Let me infuse the workings of gadgets and screens.
So they might release you for a moment to see the day for what it really is.

Let me rest on your pillow ever so slightly.
So that I might be near you and witness a dream.

patina

Sunset silhouette. February wind. Backside of nowhere. Beaverwood walking stick. Mud in the cleats of my boots. Old gray glacial granite painted in lichen and thin moss. I pause to feel this lifes patina on my being, brush away the clatter of the days tasks and open my eyes to the evening light. Another day past. Gone the way of so many others. Long live tomorrow.

Long live tomorrow.

snoot

Gooey's nose is a smellavision. One foul whif and he's on a mission. A track, a turd, a tuft of grass, anything that smells like ass gives Goo' a broad olfactory grin no matter how faint or how long it's been. A feather, a stick, a deer bone knuckle prompts a gleeful doggy chuckle in his big pink nose with light brown blotches. Thank goodness he draws the line at crotches.