when the words don’t matter

IMG_0220.jpg

Sitting by the shoreline,

the water fairly calm,

a sharp breeze enough to

suggest only the time of year.

 

watching seagulls swift past

the eery history of the mast

wondering just when waters

would ever tell me a secret.

 

I could listen for hours

while the sun began to dance

along soft waves of yesterday

sounds around me airily fast.

 

the birds, their legacy staid

by waning summer’s crying lead

in the autumn of these days,

the ones reminding time away.

 

I listen to Bob Dylan, a surreal croon

speaking of wanting ways

wishing time would forever sway,

‘Blood on the Tracks’ seems to say …

 

Inside this visual macabre

Our surreal horizon rob.

Advertisements

Lines

Glance across great body of water,

See a family of fowl travel near

Look to notice crystal waves appear

The magic of earth is all the matter

 

Birds sing in the hidden pine of morning

A quiet reminder that love is in the air,

Symbolic in its historic grasp of where

Our lives begin sweet, soft listening

 

While for the moment the sun looms high

A brilliant casting inside mellow earth

We haven’t ever understood her girth

This profound lesson toward asking why

 

I stood inside the water’s edge today,

Humbled asking I might a cry this way.