Under the Fearsome Yellow Eye of Summer   Friday, May 23, 2014

Catching  up still on the week I lost....

My  photos  are just some old things rehabilitated.

My anthology for the week is This Same Sky, A Collection of Poems From Around the World, published in 1996 by Aladdin Paperbacks, selected by my favorite San Antonio/world poet, Naomi Sihab  Nye.

My poems, more old than new because my new poems from last week mostly sucked.

Here's what I ended up with:

be the hero

Yannis Ritsos
The Meaning of Simplicity

30 minutes

Ricardo Pau-Llosa
Articles of Childhood 

high  priest of godless truth
the little-face man, redux

Kwang-kyu Kim
The Land of Mists

a good week

Steve Healey
where spring is


Tommy Olofsson
The Shadow Inside Me

as the cookie crumbles

Diane Wakoski
My Trouble
On the Subject of Roses

changing the subject

Les Murray

fear of vegetarianism

Jeannette Lozano
The Broken Shadow

draft board

Tomaz Jastrun
Father and Son


Japanese Death Poems 
Nine Zen Monks and Haiku Masters

on the death of a friend and patron
six white-haired men

Alamgir Hashmi
A Gift Horse


night beach     


There's not many ways a poet can be a hero. Here's one  of  the  few.

be the  hero

the musically gifted,
tots to teens, and their parents
waiting for their  prodigies to perform
and I'm  the wet blanket,
the skunk at the garden party, about to  read my poems

as I look out on this small sea of impatient faces,
I know there's only one way
to be the hero here

read fast,  I'm telling myself,
get out of the  way of this  room full of talent...

be the  hero


From this week's anthology, I have this poem by Greek poet Yannis Ritsos, translated to English by Edmund Keeley. Ritsos, born in 1909, was a poet, left-wing activist and member of the Greek resistance during World War II. He died in 1990.

The Meaning of Simplicity

I hide behind simple things so you'll find me,
if you don't find me, you'll  find the hints,
you'll touch what my hand has touched,
on hand-prints will merge.

The August moon glitters in the kitchen
like a tin-plated pot (it gets that way
        because of what I'm saying to you),
it lights up the empty house and
         the house's kneeling silence -
always the silence remains kneeling.

Every word is a doorway
to a meeting, one often cancelled,
and that's  when a word is true:
           when it insists on the meeting.


Oh, the hectic, hectic life of a poet. This from May, 2009.

30 minutes

60 minutes in an
but i only have 30 of  them
to write this poem
i  have somewhere else
i have to be and further
of that would take at  least
5 minutes
which i don't have, having
now only 27 minutes
to  write this poem
so just take my word for it
i just have 26 minutes
to write this poem
because i have to be somewhere

1 minute lost
already to bad typing leaving me
only 25 minutes
to write this poem

another 3 minutes
to order my coffee, maybe more
since there's a long line
so only 22 minutes or fewer left
to write this poem

fixing up the coffee to make it
that's another minute lost
my god
only 21 minutes left
to write this poem

computer warming up
that's another minute

sipping my coffee
so it doesn't spill
that's another minu.....
oh shit,
spilled it anyway,  4 minutes
lost to cleaning up my mess
that leaves, hmmmmmmm,
only 16 minutes
to  write this poem

cracking knuckles
to possible  improve
typing dexterity

that's another minute

by the old guy at the next table
talking politics
godamighty these guys are nuts
i fear for the republic
i might say but i've already lost
4 minutes to this distraction
plus the knuckle-cracking minute
leave me just
11 minutes to write this poem

the pressure

the pressure

our greatest enemy
our occasional friend
how i miss those lazy crazy
days of summer
when time seemed to stand still
waiting for us to savor the bounty
of summer vacation, swimming,
playing in the park,  going to an afternoon
movie,  reading all day if we want

another distraction,
6 minutes this time, leaving 5 minutes
to write this poem

i don't think i can write
a poem
in 5 minutes

only 3 minutes

time's up
gotta go no time
to say where or why


From my library, I have this poem by  Ricardo Pau-Llosa,. from his book Bread of the Imagined. The book was published in 1992 by Bilingual Press/Editorial Bilingue. Born in Havana in 1954, Pau-Llosa moved with his family to the United States in  1960. Author of six books of poetry, he is also a widely published art  critic and curator.

Articles of Childhood

Two socks
hang from night's chair
like fruit in the hands
of a ghost.Shoes,
their tongues curled,
the incense of sweat.

The ceiling hosts
my shadow
on the child
far from the bed-downed
parents. Tremble.
But I am anchored
by these fossil feet
dirty with life.
Night the scar

is now the child's dream,
my darkness lives.
A sweater on the wrinkled floor
is a torn hand
on a random shallow of  beach.
From within the belly of a shell,
my half light shape has come.
It is,  like mud, or two worlds,
continuous as fear.

He dreams
for three days
the snail clings,
a jewel
on the rotting
He curls
into the symmetry
of birth.

Together we become
the horizon
of obscene skin -
shell, glove.
Man the tortoise
abandons the earth's night
for the sea.


My first  encounter with the little-face man (as I have named him) came at my breakfast restaurant at the end of April. That meeting generated the first poem (previously posted here) that was partially about him. He reappeared last week, which generated the second poem.

high  priest of the  godless  truths

a new morning regular
in a booth down  the way,
round head, shaved bald, tiny
face, makes me think of  "Babyface"
in Dick Tracy...

a very nice fellow, I wouldn't know
but have no reason to think
otherwise, but I think
he should know some men shouldn't
shave their head, which I'm also thinking
might include me, now that I've done the deed

but it's just a fact

the fellow would look a lot  less strange
with some fuzz
on that


and now searching my own mind,
deciding the reason
I'm giving the little-face man
such a hard time is that I'm actually
pissed-off at  someone else, primarily myself,
and it feels better to  beat on the little-face man
than to slap myself around as I deserve...

the thing is I hate it that I can't seem to  stop myself
from arguing with dimwits on Facebook,  that
most highly-populated geography
of Facebook-land where the natives lack the capacity
to think anything more complicated
than a bumper sticker or a Facebook meme

I used to bedevil myself fighting back against
right-wing tea party types, but they, being unwilling to endure
good sense and good manners, eventually blocked
me to avoid the creepy-crawly feeling
they got when faced with well-thought-out expressions
of Truth,  Justice, and the American Way...

so now I'm stuck with a bunch of left-wing, occupier-types
as immune to clear thinking as the right-wingers
and equally hostile to skepticism and the hard  questions
that the real world requires, true believers, riders
on the left side of the range, kissing-cousins
to the tea partiers,  sharing the same basic
conspiratorial view of the world...

I guess they will all be blocking me soon, which
I wouldn't mind, the problem for me is
why am I waiting for them to do to me what I could
so easily do to them...

it's my preacher instinct, I think, a high priest
of the godless truths is what I am at heart and I think
I understand why the Scientologist guy gave up
on good sense and started his own religion...

maybe  I'll do the same...

I just  have to think of a  good name for  it...

the little-face man, redux

is back,
with a big straw
cowboy hat and a little sports car
and a back pack
big enough
to draw protests
from the
Burro Protection Branch
of the ASPCA

a small guy himself
I still don't see
how he gets
and that back pack
and that  hat
in that little sports

gonna watch
when he leaves
cause I think
it'll be a sight
this little-face guy
his bitty-little self
and his giant
and pasture-shading
hat into his teeny tiny


Next from the anthology, a poem by South Korean poet Kwang-kyu Kim, translated by Brother Anthony. Born in 1941, Kim studied German at Seoul National University and, since 1980, has been a professor of German at Hanyang University. In addition to his own poetry, Kim has published translations of German poems and radio dramas.

The Land of Mists

In the land of mists
always shrouded in mist
nothing ever happens
And if something happens
nothing can be seen
because of he mist
for if you live in mist
so you don't try to see
Therefore in the land of mists
you should not try to see
you have to hear things
for if you don't hear you can't live
so  ears keep on growing
People  like rabbits
with ears of white mist
live in the land of mists


Another poem from May, 2009.

a good week

was May 1st,
the transition day
from weather
better than the fiery pits
of hell to the actual fiery pits of hell,
also May Day,
not so good these days
since most of the communists
fell into the trap of robber baron
capitalism, retiring their May Day
parades with columns and columns
of high-stepping soldiers
and tanks and guided missiles,
except for North Korea
whose missiles fall into the sea
and whose tanks  are cardboard,
carried underneath on sticks like
the dragons in Chinese New Year parades,
and whose soldiers, having not eaten
in a week,  are not so high-stepping

but that was yesterday, as the say,
history come and gone, and today
is May 2nd, starting well enough
as a brisk breeze blew in
from the southeast while I was crossing
the supermarket parking lot a cool
breeze, but damp, with the passing smell
of salty sea  and shrimp I remember
from when I was a kid and we'd drive
the 30 miles to Port Brownsville  to  buy
big gulf shrimp right off the boat

I'm a lot further than 30 miles from
the coast nowadays, and how the smell
gets all the way across the coastal plains
to treat my nose and my morning is a
mystery,  but not  one  I feel inclined to solve,
accepting, instead, however it came to me...

today is Saturday, tomorrow Sunday,
either the end or the beginning of the week,
depending how you look at it - either way
the days ahead clear of the issues
that have cluttered up the last weeks,
good days to stay inside,
hide from the weather,
write poems,
nap in the afternoon

a good week 


The next poet from my library is Steve Healey. His poem is from his book, Earthling, published by Coffee House Press in 2004. The poet has published two books of poetry, including this one, and his work appears frequently in the poetry press.

where spring is

I could be a hole
if the room's not already full of them.

We all have insides to let go,
and the room's outside. It's dusk.
I slouch and disappear reading
instructions.  White snow all around.

What happens do dust when you stare
at it? "A fully conscious state,"

this is the song about the space
between branches, "in which normal pain
is not felt." Objects appear smaller

when I miss you. I could swallow
analgesics on a slow rocket,

I could write postcards from the garden:
"It's a Latin garden: ranuculus,
prunus, ixia, iris." Then English

flowers nicely after the Black Death;
the fourth was is rarely missed.

Thank God these few mistakes
have friends, i.e., pilgrims.

A nation can depend on conditioned air,
and surely it's spring there
not just the name.  With all the melting,

streets river. Time again to honor
my favorite avant-garde milliner
who wore an exceedingly normal hat
when, just before spring, she
killed  herself by the  river.

Just before, I mean, some  things
haven't happened before. The animals
coming back to life,  for example,

they stagger around in the house.


I'm thinking I really am due for a vacation. Unfortunately, not going to happen.



like three-day old bread
left to dry out in t5he sun, except
if I actually was three-day old bread
left out in the sun I could break myself
into pieces  to make Thanksgiving dressing
or  bread pudding, or, I could count for something,  toss
myself into the backyard for squirrels
and birds (tiny sparrows, little robins, haughty, overdressed
cardinals, self-important jays and the little boy blackbirds
who puff up their feathers and dance in circles
when they're horny) or the possum that sits silent on the fence,  baby
hanging on under her belly, beautiful with soft white and gray
fur except for the long, hairless,rat tail, or toss myself
over the fence and into the creek for the little fish
that swim and swim around the rocks - I could do all these
excellent things if just I was three-day old bread left in the sun...

too bad
that  I'm not stale bread
just a stale poet instead, writing again
with pen and ink,  desperate to find the door
to that freshness  like the smell of driving past  a bakery
when the dough is rising and the ovens are on and
the bakers scurry to butter the top of fresh brown crust,
the bread cooling on a rack,  growing inside, pregnant  with fresh
and soft and clean, the taste and substance of life itself...

but no fresh bread today, just a poet's  empty head, sterile,
grasping, the wonder of it all aborted, the fire dying the embers turning
cold and gray as dark settles around the camp
and night animals prowl through the shadow-brush and the wise  owl hoots

""why bother?"

not  who, but  why...why...why...


From the anthology, this poem by Swedish poet Tommy Olofsson, translated by Jean Pearson. Born in 1950, Olofsson is a professor of  creative  writing at Linnaeus University. In recent years he has conducted research on medieval ballads.

The Shadow Inside Me

Night has driven the shadow
into my own body. It's and  inward
robe  that stretches its arms

and legs into my limbs, whispers
like silk along my spine,
turns darker and darker until it

finally comes off in me as the color
of sleep, behind whose eyelids
two black flames are flickering.


May, 2009 again.

as the cookie crumbles

having a chocolate-chip
with  my latte this morning,
leaving me
a-quiver with the excitement
of such a foray
into the world
of wild and crazy guy-hood

it's a sign,
the palpitations
of my normally serene
and laid-back heart, that

i'm on a tear for sure,
set to become again the
of my youth when
a bottle of  Lone Star
for breakfast
followed by pancakes,
three eggs, sausage
and a gallon of coffee,
was the start of many a day

(I knew it was breakfast
because the light hurt my eyes)

i'm ready

this  getting old and creaky
has run its course

it's time  to fight back
against the deprecations
of excessive birth-daying,
smoke inhalation
from all those candles,
a major source of deterioration
of elders' respiratory functions


 the cookie's finished,
every last crumb,
and,  though dizzy now from the
big chocolate chunks,
i'm still up to the fight

but i'm going home  first
to take a nap

after that,
those mattress tags
better beware

cause i'm  on a


Here is  Diane Wakoski with two short poems from her book Emerald Ice, Selected Poems 1962-1987. The book was published in 1996 by Black Sparrow Press. Born in California in1937, Wakoski, a poet and essayist, earned her BA degree from the University of California, Berkerley in 1960. As a poet,she is most often associated with the "deep image" movement and the Beats of  the sixties.

My Trouble

my trouble
is that I have the spirit of Gertrude Stein
but the personality of Alice B. Toklas;
craggy, grand
stony ideas
all I can do
is embroider Picasso's drawings
and bake hashish fudge.
I am poor
and don't have very much to say
am usually  taken for

c. 1971

On the Subject of Roses

California shakes its petals/poppies
are lying against the hills,
orange in their casual motion,
like goldfish swimming in   and out
of an aquarium castle.

Bad music
gives a bad life. But no  one
should have to choose between Mozart and Beethoven.
a brilliant day is
one with flowers.

No, Mozart
and Beethoven
were not rivals.

c. 1977


Like I said up front, last week was not a good new-poem week for me. I wrote them (because that's my job) but that doesn't mean I have to like them. So, instead of posting poems that even I think suck, I'm sending in a couple of  relief pitchers, more poems from 2009.

Here's the first one,  which I must say makes me feel a  lot better about the generally fine weather this  May.

changing the subject

it was  100 degrees
yesterday afternoon,
in this first full week
of May, a certain sign
we will see hellfire
and brimstone  before

(is it too late,
to apologize
for that poem i wrote
last week)

the end of life
as we know it
a more immediate
than usual,
i try to belay
thoughts of my future
in the devil's own
of self-recrimination
by changing the


did you read in the paper
about the discovery on a
faraway Pacific island
of the final resting place
of a Hobbit, such identity
confirmed by examination of
the tiny creature's bones -
calcified architecture
of a hominid about three
feet tall with   tiny shoulders
and head and feet  seven-
teen inches long

working out to roughly
two inches of height for
every inch of feet, a
disparity greater even
than that of my cousin
Little Cletus,
known by many as  the
"Bigfoot of Joaqanoka County"
before his death last year
at the hand of his preacher's
wife's cousin's husband,
Festaidious,  known locally as
"Shotgun Fever Festus"

but that's another story

maybe i'll tell it  someday,
if we don't all end up
in mid-July as crispy-
critter-reminders of life as
we used to know it

there  i  go again

once i get my mind set
on the great flaming fireball
of the apocalypse
it's hard
to get back to
regular thinking


Next, Australian poet Les Murray from the week's anthology. Born in 1938, Murry is a poet, anthologist and critic who has, over a 40 year writing career, has published 30 volumes of poetry, two verse novels and collections of his prose writing. He is regarded as "the leading Australian poet of his generation."


In Memory of My Mother,
Miriam Murray nee Arnall 

Not owning  a cart, my father
in the drought years was a bowing
green hut of cattle feed, moving,
or gasping under cream cans. No weight
would he let my mother carry.

Instead, she wielded handles
I the kitchen and dairy, singing often,
gave saucepan-boiled injections
with her ward-sister skill, nursed  neighbours,
scorned gossips,ran committees.

She gave me her factual tone,
her facial bones,  her will,
not her beautiful voice
but her straightness and her clarity

I did not know back then
nor for many years what it was,
after me, she could not carry.


Back again to the wonderful world  of May,  2009.

fear of vegetarianism

i had a big
steak for dinner  last night

a big slab of cow,
cooked myself
of the pit outside

waited a full hour
for the fire
to get just right

endured 104 degree
watching the meat

turning it
just when,
watching it brown

and crisp
until it was  perfect
medium rare

not dry,
but not dripping red
cow juice either

and when I finally finished
eating it,
belly distended

from about twenty-five
too many

i felt engulfed
in a miasma
of meat

and had to take
a shower
to rid my self

of the stink
of dead

then this morning
i had scrambled eggs
at the Madhatter

and mixed in with the eggs
green strings  of

what is happening  to me,
i'm  thinking,
what in the world might be next

is this
a carrot salad
i see before me?



this can't be!

this is not the grub
of cowboys,
cowboys must have meat

it's part of the contract,
Section XII, Subsection 4.G
"Expectations of All Who With Dogies Abide"

(i'm thinking
coleslaw and endives
for lunch



 Next, a poem by Jeannette Lozano from her beautiful book, The Movements of Water/Los momentos del agua, bilingual, the original Spanish with English translation by Ron Hudson, and beautiful art by Victor Ramirez. The book was published by in 2006 by Edicioes Poligrafa of Barcelona.

The Broken Shadow

The rain was dousing
the red canvas of the tree,
a silent bird shuddered on the branch
(it was a time of fasting)
and she was longing for the nectar
that in drops falls upon the leaching gold of stones.

The negation was the movement of the water,
pain concealed in the vermillion
humming of the flowers
opening themselves
to the calcareous hands of the goddess

Cold flame
the water when it fears its immersion.
The altar of marigolds, luminous and orange,
enfolds the limy scepter
whose being rises in whorls of spiral.

Black  sun of the beginnings, slow step of the caiman
toward the white of the mirror, the damsel in her bath of pulque
with thorns her body pierced, not the man, if not the woman who sings
from the railing of the temple whose red crystal filters the shadow of the hummingbird

And she bore with the moon 400 surians,
they hurried on the hour to the temple, freely fell the obsidian blade,
the wings of the quetzal and its blue symphony
killed the gilded amaranths under their feet.


Thus was born the life of this insurmountable
sea, thought the birth persist
in the swell: flows to the center, then withdraws
tormented by an always fleeting encounter.

So the lands changed their form
and the boats altered their course and the language
befell a tower of white smoke as the  signal came
from a sinister temple decorated with nocturnal peacocks.

And in the central hall of the Museum a coiled
serpent harvests the blood of ancient sacrifices
and the multicolored masks of Teotihuacan with their  blinders
emerald chalchihuites fill - blue-green nostalgia - the tongue of  water.

Te messengers rushed to give fish to the king,
they were species gathered from the different parts of the ocean - fish
of lilac scales (sapphire?), membranous eyes, skin  opaque from intense sun,
such were the fish of he first super that the emperor
had sent to freeze to offer the enemy.

                         Flight 236 Mty-Mex
                         November 13, 2006


Another relief pitcher, an old from May, 2009  in place of a new.

 draft board

such a serious game,
no matter how carefully you play it,,
it kills you every time

a random  thought,
and even
i  don't know what to do with it

i just know that
that kind of stuff has been my mind
since a funeral i went to last week,
not so much the funeral itself
affecting me

- a nice affair, loose and unassuming,
perfectly capturing the man
who had left us -

but the new evidence of mortality -
as if additional evidence
is needed in the middle of one's 66  year -

like a chapel full of mostly old people
who know their own time is coming,
an exclusive club of those whose time
is running out - exclusive only in the sense
of selective membership and the year waiting
to get on the list,  whether you want to or not

Groucho said he didn't want to belong
to any club
whose standards were so  low
as to accept  him

that's how i feel about this club
of the not-yet-dead but daily dying -

i would  like t think i'm
despite all evidence
to the contrary

but it's like the draft board
on my eighteenth birthday,
there  was not a lot of concern
with my preferences
on the matter


 Now, from the anthology, Polish poet Tomasz Jastrun, translated by David Bourne. Born in 1950 in Warsaw, Jastrun is a poet, novelist, essayist, journalist and critic. Active in the solidarity movement, he was director of the Polish Institute in Stockholm and his country's cultural attache from 1990 to 1994.

Father and  Son

Here is not good enough
And he looks at me with reproach
But what can I do
I'm not about to offer excuses
So I  let my silence speak
Finally he hugs me
As if he suddenly realizes
We have to get along
To come to an agreement
There is no one else
To  deal with

And after a while
We both get to work
He collects
Old bus tickets
I fuss with words
Out of which I can whittle
My crutches and cane


May, 2009. As a poet, it  is very discouraging to notice that my old poems are better than my new  poems.


thunder and lightning
all night
but little rain

this morning
the sun -
in a clear-patch
surrounded by
black clouds -

is shining on me
like a spotlight at the grand ballet

the star of the show,
that's me,
it's my day to


Last from  my library this week I have a small selection of  jisei, or death poems. The book is Japanese Death Poems - Written by Zen Monks and Haiku Poets on the Verge of Death.

by Doyu 

Zen monk - Died on the fifth day of the second month, 1256, at the age of fifty-six.

In all my six and fifty years
No miracles occurred. 
For the Buddha and he Great  Ones of the Faith
I  have questions in my heart.
And if I say,
"Today is he hour
I leave this wold,"
There's nothing in it. Day after day,
Does not the sun rise in the east?"

by Gizan Zenrai

Zen monk - Died on the twenty-eight day of March, 1878 at the age of seventy-seven.

I was born into this world
I leave it at my death. 
Into a thousand towns
My legs have carried me,
And countless homes -
What area ll these?
A moon reflected in the water
A flower floating in the sky

*Ho, a translation of totsu - a kind of challenging cry uttered at the moment of enlightenment.

 by Chine

Haiku poet - Died on the fifteenth day of the fifth month, 1688, at the age of about twenty-eight.

It lights up
as lightly as it fades:
a firefly.

*Chine the sister of Mukai Kyorai (1681-1704), a friend and disciple of Basho's. He wrote this upon her death.

Sadly I see
the light fade on my palm:
a firefly.

by Shikaku

Haiku poet - Died on the twenty-third day of the ninth month, 1767, at the age of fifty-three.

To grass it comes
and  turns into grass:
a drop  of dew.

by Tembo

Haiku poet - Died in the eighth month, 1823, at the age of eighty-three.

I wish this body
might be dew in a field
of flowers.

by Yayu

Haiku poet - Died on the sixteenth day of the sixth month, 1783, at the age of eighty-two.

A short night
wakes me from a dream
that seemed so  long.

by Jowa

Haiku poet - Died on the second day of the second month, 1785, at the age of seventy-one.

Second month:
I wear a new  bamboo hat
and go home.

by Kafu

Haiku poet - Died on the twenty-ninth day of the ninth month, 1784, at the age of thirty-six.

If I must die
then let me die before
the winter comes.


Another old (May, 2009) for new. These  two  short poems both inspired by the  same funereal mentioned earlier.

on the death of a friend and patron

a man
in constant

to think of him  as

six white-haired men

white-haired me
stand around the pit

watch the box
as it is lowered into the hole

think of their friend
and wonder

whose box is next


Last from this week's  anthology,  this is  a poem by  Alamgir Hashmi of Pakistan. Born in 1951, Hashmi lives in Islamabad and writes primarily in English.

A Gift Horse

Somebody must have
given it to someone,
only gifts and toys
can suffer

such love, such neglect,
in the wetness
of this lawn.

Cloth, or perhaps wood,
it is only that.
The hard and soft,
it's all the same.

Its owner,
the child, must be

asleep or have
found something  else.

I am unable
to make out
its beginnings
or end exactly:

the eyes are a bleary
the mouth seems sealed

as if to lock out
a couple of proverbs
I don not think
it will speak.


Here it is, the last old  poem from May, 2009, unless I decide to  trash  the new poems and just use  old.


has deserted me
again today

run away

left me high
and dry


headed for the

took a hike

turned tail
and ran

the white flag

skipped town

is what she did

plum gone

and i intend
to  do nothing
until she returns...

no more


A last new poem for the week, over-long, but what I have. If I ever use the poem anywhere else, I'll  need to take a sharp knife to it.

night beach

night on the beach
in a tiny camper trailer, waves
whispering as they pull and push sand from the beach to sea
and back again while tiny beach creatures scuttle, little crabs
pushing from dens under wet sand,
like babies being born, pushing aside the grit that holds them in the damp dark,
the holes they come from closing up  again as
salty foam washes over them,
the grind of new sand, washing over them...

bare as the salted air washes over me, waking
as the sun rises over warm gulf water,
breakers shining orange under dawn's fiery glow -
the red end of  night,  the time  of night when the sharks finish
their feeding in the surf under the bright tropic moon...

even as I am awakened by the golden

even as the animals are fed, I am  hungry, rising from
my hard bed, I walk the beach through ankle deep surf,
feeling the flowing sand and tide,, advance and retreat over my feet...

shaking the night blown salt from my hair, I dress, drive
for breakfast at Sandy's Pier, oatmeal and crab cakes and
coffee, then back out to the warming beach, back to the trailer
where I hitch up and go home...


a playground in the light of day, the beach
a church at night, a place of solitude,
a place of worship for those who believe in no greater
power than the push and pull of the tides,
a place to feel at one with the power of the moon,
a cathedral at midnight under a sky of stars...

when the sharks feed under the full tropic moon,
and the orange glow of dawn on foaming waves, the
the  bright glow of the sun resting on water reflecting
on the wet beach, just as the moon  shone back from
the sand  at night...

night  is the time for the beach, sleeping in the
quiet of whispering surf and scuttling

As usual, everything belongs to who made it. You're welcome to use my stuff, just, if you do, give appropriate credit to "Here and Now" and me.

I mention it every week and it's  still true, I'm Allen Itz owner and producer of this blog, and diligent seller of books, specifically these and specifically here:

Amazon, Barnes and Noble, iBookstore, Sony eBookstore, Copia, Garner's, Baker & Taylor, eSentral, Scribd, eBookPie, Oyster, Flipkart, and Kobo (and, through Kobo,  brick and mortar retail booksellers all across America and abroad)


Places and Spaces

Always to the Light

Goes Around Comes Around

Pushing Clouds Against the Wind

And, for those print-bent, available at Amazon and select coffeehouses in San Antonio

Seven Beats a Second

Short Stories

Sonyador - The Dreamer


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