She wanted that life, she thought,
After wading in the water up and down the beach
Her feet embedding in the moving sand.
The allure of the ocean beyond pulled her further out
To that pale white line at the edge
Of the blue-green horizon,
Until there was no place to stand,
only piled surf
And depths of a world she could not comprehend.
With remnants of foam,
The continuing washes of the waves
Moved her ashore in the sand
like a child’s tantrum from anger to tears,
Bits of seaweed in her hair,
and a breathless sobbing
that no mother can placate.
A cappella music (without instrumental accompaniment) is particularly enjoyable for me to listen to. As a poet (and an avocational musician), I am drawn to the similarities that poems and a cappella music have. Lyrical phrasing, meter, rhyming, and onomatopoeia mean so much to a cappella music, because it relies so heavily on the human vocal element.
**************************
The band Yes was/is an incredibly talented group from the early seventies and into the eighties (I know some form of them still tours, but we are talking hey day here). The musicianship of their albums is breathtaking. Symphonic rock, synthesizers, and intricate melodies all cemented their legacy. If you’ve never heard Roundabout, check it out.
Their 90125 album from 1983 was a shift to a more pop-oriented format. On that album was a unique song “Leave It“, done primarily a cappella. It definitely made an impression on me. There are some great harmonies in this song, along with some provoking lyrics.
I can feel no sense of measure,
no illusions as we take
refuge in young man’s pleasure,
breaking down the dreams
we make real.
There is a crossroad there,
but you might miss it
if you drive too fast;
you won’t miss the town
because it is no longer there.
There is shady hollow a mile or so past
at the bottom of the hill.
-An easy landmark to let you know you’ve gone too far-
This countryside is hilly and forested
with Loblolly pines,
fast growing trees that reclaim ground,
and the ground is
red Yazoo clay that is always moving.
That should tell you something,
I heard tales of gambling and roughshod characters,
when this was a destination place
or on the way to somewhere.
That was before the railroad came in two towns over
and took away its “on the way to” status,
and people left.
Eventually, you had to be from there to know.
The roadsign holds the name “Greensboro”
about eight feet high,
and an old clapboard house stands
at the intersection.
It needs paint.
Behind the house
and to the right
is a well-tended cemetery
with a new tin-roof chapel. There are no ghosts.
My people tell of a confederate general buried
-in Old Greensboro-
This summer
you are growing tomatoes in a planter,
not knowing whether you’ve placed
it in the right spot. Last year
you tried planting in the flower bed
but there was too much shade and there
were never any tomatoes. The year before,
you planted too late, and it was a rainy cool summer,
and the plant did not thrive. So this year,
you’ve decided to try using a movable planter.
You can target the sunniest place and control
the amount of water you’ve given the
plant. If there is too little sun,
or if the weather turns out to be
poor, then you can move the planter
for a better day. It is imprinted
on your mind that after you’ve exhausted all
other possibilities, that which remains,
however improbable,
must be the solution^.
in a place where you must take a ferry
to get to the airport, and there are no
roads into or out of town, one must be
able to deal with the structure of life
as it begins and ends each day. rivers
flow downhill to the ocean, clear fresh
water pushing the salt water away, over a
mile or more off shore. i saw Pegasus made
of ice, half-submerged, attempting to make a
single jump out of the water just ahead of the
whale that spewed a spray from its blowhole, and
in the background, someone says something about a
repositioning – that which moves from place to place
for a need. the waitress has been speaking about her
dreams for travel. she has very white straight teeth
that smile without any help from her red lips. her nails
are neatly manicured with fleshtone polish, a continuous
shade. The sea is blue when the sun is out. i want to know
to know how she does it; how she remains in such an isolated
place and look up to ask the question. hanging from her neck is
a silver and onyx pendant with an anchor embossed on the front
and i understand.
Two winters ago, we built a snowman
and named him Edgar.
He stood four feet tall,
and leaned slightly forward,
with a stoop.
His stick arms were open wide,
as if pleading for something.
We dressed him in a scarf,
knitted with red and white yarn
and gave him brown eyes
and a crooked smile
lined with pebbles
from the garden.
He seemed to ask,
is this all there is?
One day he was gone.
From the sweat from his brow
he had spread his smile of pebbles
and I picked them up
one by one.
the monkey wrench consorts
with the flat-head screwdriver
I managed to replace the toilet bob,
which keeps the tank from overflowing,
but the shut-off valve will not completely
close, giving a slow drip of water
out onto the blue and green beach towel.
and to think I left this poem
sitting here,
brimming with possibility.
A Cento is a poem made up entirely of lines and passages from other works, arranged in an order to mean something completely different. Here is a Cento comprised of a little bit of everything from Spike Milligan to Sylvia Plath. Enjoy! Let me know what you think.
*******************************
It’s always ourselves we find in the sea,
The green waves foam and thrust and slide,
the sea was wet as wet could be,
all my dreams come back to me.
It’s really best that tides come in
(The water soon came in, it did).
It looked so pitiful and sad,
despite this careful scrutiny.
Deeds cannot dream what dreams can do
No birds were flying overhead –
They “noticed” me-they noticed me
made of pumpkins and pelican glue.
A secret, kept from all the rest
(I never could talk to you)
Of pygmies, palms and pirates,
said the Duck to the Kangaroo.
There was an old man in a boat,
and as in uffish thought he stood,
they danced by the light of the moon.
Their heads are green, and their hands are blue,
I only sing the tunes.
Walking on the sand
he noticed that
erosion plains occur
every so often,
as run-off from heavy rains
strip away layers and sculpt
the low-lying landscape.
It is only a lake
and not a great ocean.
It is a place where rivers and creeks collide.
Behind a manmade wall,
where ancestral lands
and cemeteries were slowly drowned,
the living and the dead
were displaced with equal sluggishness.
The basin slowly filled
to cover first the grasses,
then underbrush and the trees.
He never felt the desire
to trample a sand castle,
except this once.
