Day 384 July 19 2015 Rain

Rain

The clouds condense and observe us close,
the flies fall down to the water's surface,
and the smoke of freighters trails along their wake.
The fishermen are beaten pilgrims, brass...
their feet cymbal shod
and fulgur lightning!

The ozone fragrance of the storm front comes,
vast alkali cleansing of the tongues;
now veils of rain obscure the sun bright pudenda!
Oppressed  by plaguey gnats and flies,
like Egyptians who refuse
to let the fishes go.

--

Day 383 July 12 2015 The Fish Speak

Born of several sires and estuaries,
spontaneous fame, we jump by art untaught
yet davening in the reeds,
studious taliban of the tides!

Old Walter sits buddha-like in the bay,
a Bamiyan of stern brow threatening looks,
as we little fish flee,
doing good acts heedlessly!

The land fattens off the screen of reeds,
which themselves browse the cooling flood of the bay;
fishermen, although we are not friends...
a world is good which hold thee!

--

Writing 382 July 5 2015 Fishing

As far as I can count, there should be 381 poems before this, even though I left a couple of gaps, thinking I would fill in. There would be too much filling in, so I will just pick up where I left off.

I let things lapse because just over a year ago we started getting my mother's place ready to sell, selling it, and then moving her closer to where the rest of the family is. In October, my little brother died suddenly, and in January this year, my wife's sister died.

I think stress, quiet and subliminal, wiped out any inspirations.

I used to title the writing "fast day no. such-and-such",  but that strikes me as too pretentious by half.

This is a birthday poem, and it is very rough and hardly ready, but I am a rough poet, not a finish poet.

--

At zero-seven hundred we got underway
heading for the Blue Rushes, at which wat'ry meadow
bulrush spread we cut back the motor, almost stopped.
My grandfather was in the stern and steering
the movement of the boat by the trolling motor;
Water and epistalsis back and forth, up, down...
I feel asleep and dreamed we had returned home,
mooring at the dock, whose bleached planks
were my fathers' bones...
and cleaned the catch by the garden,
where peonies were their eyes...
and posed for polaroids
by the old resurrected cherry tree.

 --