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Posts Tagged ‘beach’

delayed on the tarmac
my inner scheduler
decides to nap

*

walking on blue cobblestones
we arrive
six hundred years ago

*

that man playing harp—
his voice opens doors
in the air

*

unsure what comes next
I translate all my worries
into purple orchid

*

best rainforest guide—
two-note song
of an unknown bird

*

decades of calamities
and triumphs
to be just another body on the beach

*

my tears unnoticed
I offer myself
a tissue, a shoulder

*

from the calendar squares
I fell with a splash
into warm blue water

*

night full of rain—
come morning light
my dreams shine

*

squeezing lime
into the ripe papaya
scooping out delight

*

in bioluminescent water
I write your name
watch the blue cursive disappear

*

picking your pocket
hoping
for a poem

*

no hard feelings, pigeon,
rumor has it
this is good luck

*

paddling to the island
drunk on blue
my eyes keep swerving

*

the way the ocean
never refuses raindrops—
learning to let in the whole world

*

back at the empanada café
hoping to fall in love again
with spinach

*

remembering with a start
nothing
is happening

*

a full moon
in my body—
all around me the tides

*

after floating in saltwater
hand in hand with my girl,
on land, still floating

*

between the missiles
and the song of the ocean
this chance to love

*

distilling the dazzling day
into three-lines
and one glass of wine

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Sometimes, when I fear
the small light I bring
isn’t big enough or bright
enough, I think of that night
on the beach years ago
when every step I took
in the cool wet sand turned
a glowing, iridescent blue—
and the waves themselves
were a flashing greenish hue—
imagine we could do
what 7.9 billion
one-celled plankton can do—
can shine when it’s dark,
can shine when agitated,
can shine with our own
inner light and trust when we all
bring the tiny light we have,
it’s enough to illumine the next step
in the long stretch of night.
 
 
 
 

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And while I am at it, I should like to send you

a postcard from the shores of my body,

wish you were here, it is warm and there

are so many places for us to explore

together—but even as I write these words

the letters grow ink dark wings and fly

over the sea, a colony of cormorants,

silent as they soar, and I a beach with no footprints,

the waves lapping, everywhere the scent, the sting of salt.

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