randoms from the sea. poetry by pd lyons
So, it begins again
watching from above
in heaven’s room
the view changing with ease
as night claims all that surrendered flesh
calling it starred
does not make anything
easier.
It takes nerves of steel to be happy.
Still, when there is nobody waiting,
This we call loving.
And to believe in what we know is not.
This we call being in love.
To the right
To the left
Breathe
Sigh
Lie
In unravelled threads
dead door nail dreams
smoke along the horizon.
Crowds disperse with knowing smiles.
There is no ship so perfect as that of fools.
While her plans so meticulous:
sky clear today a soft breeze
up from the east carrying sea like a song.
But destiny dances a sob not a sanctuary
and this curly headed trumpeting
Into shirt sleeves? We call life.
And this? This asking for nothing from the sea
Blue eyed well-manicured significant other?
We call death.
To the right
to the left.
Breathe
sigh
lie
Things can never stay the same.
Yet this we call for every day.
My Favourite Dreams Are of the Sea
Sky so bright it can’t be looked at
dark deep water, absent from any shore line
the sky bends down to in envy.
I am alone in this wide-open ocean.
knowing as I lie back she will not let me fall.
Barefoot playing on the beach sand castles tall as myself.
with my pail make a way so that mermaids who have been watching
can come up for a visit without leaving their home behind.
My mother meets me by the creek once marked the boundary of our walks.
We are heading back. I am telling her everyone is doing well.
She is pointing out to where diamonds of the waves briefly meet the sky.
My cousins brother-in-law brings us to the breakwater to fish. I’ve smoked all my cigarettes and he, the brother-in-law, is generous with his own. They get bored want to go down to the beach side to swim. I don’t want to. So, I stay smoking someone else’s cigarettes. Fishing for nothing. Keeping an eye on the gear. Nearby there’s woman on a huge flat chunk of granite. She has two small children with her. They play together with bits of sea weed. She lays there luxuriant in sun, sounds of waves, laughter of her children.
Walking on the beach with a girl from school. The tide high and slack.
We are finding things in the sand. Noting as we go strips of green weeds, bits of sea glass. Bleached bones of unknown creatures. Skulls of small crabs. Sometimes there are these pink stones I pick up. Put them into the pockets of my cut-off jeans. She picks them up as well. But even though she has pockets on her cut-offs she is rather throwing them out into the sea. I give it a go but mine fall short. They’re nowhere near the long effortless arcs of her own. So instead, I give all mine to her and watch. We continue on in that way. Me picking up small pink stones handing them to her so we can enjoy the long grace of her connections with the sea.
In the almost tallest trees, Morgan’s birds wait.
Sky near full blue but for clouds come from all the way west,
tangled with sea shape breezes tasting salty even here.
Yellow wasps angry buzzing in but never back through open windows
even though wild apples by the dozen lay strewn along the ground.
Grey stone of this house. where for the last while of the day
sun hits strongest. Rugosa roses, my own fingers stretch
along those warm textures wondering over something we need to know
until I can only say thank-you right out loud.
In the almost tallest tree Morgan’s birds preen, cackle,
shift branches, engage in soft arguments, until
like a shipwreck in the sky, they rise.
snuck up river
dared a short cut overland
crossed the lake
hitched a ride under the high lands
to where an old man sits
back against white stucco
smoking a Cuban cigar
she began right away
whispers rolling waves
soaring skimming sounds of silver birds
stars like diamonds among pure black
as if travelling among them there would never be another horizon
behind his eyes the old man smiles
ribbons of smoke barely audible ahhs into an 0h
at which she pauses
sees how he is now
and knows all she can really do?
return alone to from where she came
never to kiss his pale grey eyes again
.
July 23 14
crossing the country by train
deep water port
shore of dreams
golden gateway rising sun
grey steel ships
grey steel sea
grey soft eyes
fraternity of fear and obligation
naivete and boredom
a steady bravado
a tedium of active duty
battered, dog-eared but never a note
not even your name in,
Shakespeare’s complete works hidden away
secret claim to dreams your heart could not reveal
this note book
this desk
this sunny bay sparkling winter sea
you and our daughter in the kitchen
this left-hand page I write in
there are no flowers here but snow.
the bay not yet free, chunked by ice,
white of which exists only against a distant liquid sea.
at least the sun visits, comforting, illusion though it is,
visions of thawing, someday melting down to something green.
in the long sleep of winter, I have dreamed
something Spanish that you said along a twilight turquoise.
something soft covering sun drenched shoulders
silver threads
an old man’s harp
played for money by the moon.
