Whispers by the Bay

We often listen to bad advice,

Meaningful words spoken and written

By which we hope to gain some understanding

Of the deep chaos that our lives present—

If you ever choose to consider its meaning…

I have sought, listened, and read

Many of those I hoped knew so much more than I did.

Now, sitting here by the Bay,

My silly little mongrel dog next to me

On our morning bench.

The sea calmly reaches out to the rocks below.

Nearby, the beach is empty of people.

How is it that I found this answer?

Just as the sun rises and warms my bones,

A scent of saltwater— beside me,

my little dog.

—Bruce Linton

Overheard at the Cork and Keg

He hates poetry.

He hates the way it sounds,

how its writers spills out words,

yet keep their secrets close.

He loves the certainty of wine and bridge.

He keeps his iron drawbridge rusted shut.

In the water swirls around his moat

many croaking frogs announce abundance.

Every spring, pink lotus blossoms burst open in the green scum.

Blue dragonflies dart across the lily pads. 

They feast upon mosquitoes.

He hates his own poetry and the poetry of others.

He hates to look upon the sands where Ozymandias sleeps.

He rushes by the woods so lovely, dark and deep.

He will not rage in the dying of the light.

His candle burns at one end, soft, quiet.

He walks through days blindfolded, 

hands tied 

behind his back.

His heart cracks open a thousand ways,

not in the flow of poetry,

but in the glow of alcohol and a rigid sadness.

We mourn his cataracts.

For we love poetry.

We love the communion that it conjures. 

We pray, one dark and dreary night,

he will look up and over the ramparts,

that one day 

he will spy its light.

—Emily Romano

Untitled

 “Artists can color the sky red because they know that it is blue.” Jules Pfeiffer

The cow jumped over the moon, we chant

and we know no cow ever jumped so high,

no moon had to duck,

and the shining tail of comet cow

spreads all across the western horizon.

The shirt I wear at poetry readings—

a tiger jumping the moon—

does not float me across the night,

does not sprout fangs in my face,

and yet … I fly.

The poetry clouds below me

whisper and sing, 

and the broad face of the earth

looks up and smiles. 

I am a woman with a daughter,

and I live in a house and will someday die.

And I am a smiling tiger 

who leaps the stars, I am words 

that mutter and shout, I am a light across the floor,

I am a snail on round green leaves 

like buttons between the flagstones,

and I will never die.

I shine and continue. I see and am not separate.

I sleep in a land where the rules are nonsense,

and I wake bound by law and custom.

I am earthbound. I can jump higher than the moon.

I am this name and body, this sweatshirt and these jeans,

and when I am not looking, I launch across the sky.

***

In a land with a pear for a moon

golden curves

sugar white inside,

I walk the dunes ready 

to forget all that is said of me,

all that is fenced and possible,

ready to somersault 

over the moon

and touch down soft

on sand that shines.

***

We all forget sometimes,

and I forget that I need to sleep,

and I walk the velvet of the street

till dawn comes up.

I forget that I am angry

and wave hello to the man who scowls,

forget who I am and where, 

not some tired mother 

but a poppy bouncing in the wind,

a cloud that scuds on the wing.

I remind myself of my name and address—

flaking letters on the mailbox—

and mumble through my past:

this many stars for good deeds, this

many blurs for business as usual

(what do they expect of me?)

this many pinches for the outrageous

totally out of character!

I forget that I dissolve in the rain,

that if I run in the wind,

it will lift me over the moon.

—Sarah Webb