Category: Poetry

Fishing Village

The salt air will never erode away
That this town continues to operate.
Both of us are always going to stay;
We will figure how to co-habitate.
It will eat at the corrugated steel
That gives us shelter from wild weather,
But we know that the rusted roofs will heal
When they are replaced to overexposure.
The warped wood is part of our city’s charm
That only the outside will notice.
When they say something they do not mean harm;
The longer you live here, the more you miss.
I enjoy life in this fishing village
At the edge of the continental stage.

The First Sea

Mountaintops peek out from a sea of ice
Hoping to survive from its greedy bite,
Knowing time will enact the ice’s price.
They know they cannot win against this fight,
So they will still stand while they are able
Before the slow advance breaks them apart,
Leaving behind a pile of peeble
Flowing down where the ocean will start.
It is here the mountain becomes the sand
And the glacier turns into the water
Reuniting upon a distant land
That neither of them had thought to charter.
Will they ever return to that first sea
That is dying because of you and me?

The Return

When the final scallop has been eaten
And I’ve mopped up the spicy sauce with bread;
When the volcano top has been beaten,
Just so I could disprove what you had said;
After the kayak has been put to shore
From skimming out to a calving glacier;
After we have visited the gift store
We are forced to see on a museum tour;
When the mementoes are in the cases
That we have purchased without much thinking;
When we have gotten rid of all traces
In hotels where our butts had been sinking;
With the memories of this holiday,
We can return to our regular fray.

Snowbird

Winter storms have covered the land in snow,
And the chilly winds have kept folks indoors.
They have to shovel if they wish to go
To any of the restaurants or stores,
But they wish to stay away from the slop
That coats roads in an obstacle course
Where sometimes they are unable to stop,
And physics operates in a new force.
If only they could get away from there
Where winter is a distant memory,
A warm place with a desert atmosphere
With a pool under a stand of palm trees.
It’s a lifestyle they might not have heard,
Leaving cold behind to be a snowbird.

After

After all the time we spent together
Traveling the vast globe from pole to pole,
After a month of seeing all weather
From the icy winds to the blazing sol,
After we have put the parents to bed
Reversing the roles we now have to share,
After the good nights which we both have said
Accompanied by a kiss of our care,
After we have unpacked the suitcases
Finding spots in our house for new trinkets,
After we have bathed and washed out faces
And got into bed under thick blankets,
We can put away our long vacation
Returning to our normal rotation.

Morning in the Camp

Sunlight filters through the cracks of the tent,
And tries to reach the safety of my bag
Where I dig in more to avoid the glint,
Giving the morning the okay to lag.
The sun burns off the night but not the cold
As I can see my breath hang in the air.
Leaving the warmth of my bed would be bold,
And I will give it time before I dare.
Both the campfire and the hike can wait;
They will still be there once I have risen
Because where I find myself now is great,
And those other things I am not missing.
This is my favorite part of camping,
To start each day continuing napping.

A Day and a Deck of Cards

All I really need is a deck of cards,
And a group of friends around a table.
We will slowly let down all of our guards
Where we no longer live by our label.
We lose ourselves to the power of the game
Underneath the sky of a sunny day,
And the only thing we hold that’s the same
Is the thought of our next brilliant play.
We will see the afternoon disappear
As we collect them for one last shuffle,
And maybe another round of cold beer
Through the tone of “it’s not the last” muffle.
Why does it need to be complicated
When this cheap deck keeps us satiated.

Hunting the Hunter

The vineyards stretch out for kilometers,
Hiding much more than bunches of wine grapes.
During the dusk of the day, a hunt occurs,
Filled with harrowing chases and escapes.
I participate with my camera,
Hoping to capture a single picture
Of my my prey which my whistles try to draw
Out from their hiding from this adventure.
When I se one perched on top of the crop,
I creep forward trying not to scare it,
But its head will turn around with a pop,
And on the night breeze, away it will flit.
I must forget about my recent scowl
If I wish to capture the evening owl.

What I Should Know

Should I turn my back to the setting sun,
Knowing that it will rise again tomorrow?
Should I raise my glass to what has begun,
Knowing that the decay has let it grow?
Should I take the grape vine under my feet,
Knowing that the crushing will make a wine?
Should I indulge in the well-prepared meat,
Knowing that it once came from a bovine?
Should I turn the record to the B-side,
Knowing that the other is over-played?
Should I listen as my father has cried,
Knowing that the love has started to fade?
Should I care that the earth keeps turning,
Knowing it is just another burning?

Colonialism

You have traveled halfway around the globe
To remove us from living in our homes.
You sit on your horses in purple robes,
And talk of your proud cities filled with domes,
Claiming that you’re the superior race
Because you have mastered a curved ceiling.
You remind us that we should know our place,
And give to support your profiteering.
You point your greedy hands to our mountains,
Expecting to find lost cities of gold.
We have told you we’ve never seen such wins,
And you reply that our lies are so bold.
It’s better to point you to this fiction
To leave alone our old habitation.