Archive Poetry, #2

–2014-2016–

Alex Monday

ODE TO THE CAPTAIN

Someone tell an Angel that small Harbors are Paradise.
Fish blood, fish hearts; in the blood of everything live the Stars and the Sea.
The Ideas that most excite you do not save.
There is born in some a Wildness to seek their Destiny at Sea.
Old Captains come here to rest and young ones, in turn, are birthed this Love of Tides.
Off the point, beyond the Light, proud and somber, a fishing vessel rides her mooring.
Her bow hung with a banner; heavy as Melancholy, dark as Night.
When Islands invade your dreams, in the gray, the Captain has gone.
To know later that you have unknowingly said Farewell to a Friend who has sailed with the outgoing Tide.
With a Sea-goer’s swagger, with a slow and steady smile–a mast-head Light shown in his eye.
Where birds nest and docks rise and fall with the rising and dropping of tides.
A Sage taught me the boy must learn to Love before he will be a man.
 ___________________________________________________________________
A Sage taught me the boy must learn to Love before he will be a man.
Where birds nest and docks rise and fall with the rising and dropping of tides.
With a Sea-goer’s swagger, with a slow and steady smile–a mast-head Light shown in his eye.
To know later that you have unknowingly said Farewell to a Friend who has sailed with the outgoing Tide.
When Islands invade your Dreams, in the gray, the Captain has gone.
Her bow hung with a banner, heavy as Melancholy, dark as Night.
Off the point, beyond the Light, proud and somber, a fishing vessel rides her mooring.
Old Captains come here to rest and young ones, in turn, are birthed this Love of Tides.
There is born in some a Wildness to seek their Destiny at Sea.
The Ideas that most excite you do not save.
Fish blood, fish hearts; in the blood of everything live the Stars and the Sea.
Someone tell an Angel that small Harbors are Paradise.
Boston Harbor, WA
Tribute to Cpt. Mark Halverson, of the Hans Halvor
___________________________________________________________________
WAR IS HOME
A wild blue world.
I saw a red road in the sky.
The bridge is a golden gate, They said.
He said the gate was a bridge between War and Home.
On ships and islands They grow dreams of destruction.
The badge of courage is red—red enough to convince despair.
A mile and back is enough to forget the gold They take from Island prisons.
Every year at the pyrotech display he recalled the neglected nightmare.
Home from War; he said War had come Home.
I walked a road down the red bridge.
Above and below They kill a wild blue world.
_________________________________________________________________
Above and below They kill a wild blue world.
I walked a road down the red bridge.
Home from War; he said War had come Home.
Every year at the pyrotech display he recalled the neglected nightmare.
A mile and back is enough to forget the gold They take from Island prisons.
The badge of courage is red—red enough to convince despair.
On ships and islands They grow dreams of destruction.
He said the gate was a bridge between War and Home.
The bridge is a golden gate, They said.
I saw a red road in the sky.
A wild blue world.
___________________________________________________________________________
NELITTA SONG
Heart of an Oyster.
She found a Nellita Pearl.
Chill the watermelon in the creek.
Rolling the back-beat forward; a long way home.
This song, this song, she says, is my favorite!
Tell me your memories, your favorite ones from before, and after.
Merrily, merrily, merrily, Life is another dream.
Dates and names of places, places and events of your memories.
When the noise of it all gets to you, to forget all but the poetry; got no place to go.
The memories of after become her jumping off point.
In the stories she tells about herself, she was always clever like that.
Sometimes she says,  I discovered my fear of heights at Dead-horse Peak,
Sometimes she says; It was the High Steal Bridge.
If there is of Love something to know, I have learned this, Love does not strive to change the other.
Sign-board grown into a tree; does this bone become new flesh or a scar?
_________________________________________________________________________
Sign-board grown into a tree; does this bone become new flesh or a scar?
If there is of Love something to know, I have learned this, Love does not strive to change the other.
Sometimes she says,  It was the High Steal Bridge.
Sometimes she says, I discovered my fear of heights at Dead-horse Peak.
In the stories she tells about herself, she was always clever like that.
The memories of after become her jumping off point.
When the noise of it all gets to you, to forget all but the poetry; got no place to go.
Dates and names of places, places and events of your memories.
Merrily, merrily, merrily, Life is another dream.
Tell me your memories, your favorite ones from before, and after.
This song, this song, she says, is my favorite!
Rolling the back-beat forward; a long way home.
Chill the watermelon in the creek.
She found a Nellita Pearl.
Heart of an Oyster.

Nellita, WA.

For Pam and Winn,  To all the Good Times!

___________________________________________________________________

 

 

 

VESPER

I went into the woods.

Back, Back into the woods.

To a restful place where the Cedars pray.

I felt my soul awake.

Among moss and the bones of trees,

I relearned the language of a thousand birds.

 

 

 

_______________________________________________________________________

ALL THIS

 

He looked up.
Up.
And higher.
Into the Canopy.
There was a break in the green and sunlight spilled  down through the rent-green and onto the trunks and stems and air-roots.
Living, like the veins and arteries and capillaries,
Carrying life to and from the heart.
And it was the closest to the Devine he had ever been.
The Banyan tree was the River and the River was the Sky
And all were bound together by the breath of Earth.
He existed as a Being on the Bridge.
Embraced by it All.

He looked up.

And higher.

Up.

 

 

 

 

Big Island, Hawaii

____________________________________________________________________

 

DOVER PT. SPRING

Behind silhouetted Firs another Morning is illuminated.
A wild Finch advertises for a mate above the Rockery.
Bonsai Maples hunch like old men—Cherry blossoms caught in their beards.
Below in Fish-Trap Bay the Loons have returned.

 

 

 

For Dave and Kim Phillips

________________________________________________________________

 

UNDER THE CEDARS

 

Overnight, Summer is here.

Down by the Marsh, out by the Road

Neighborhood kids are playing.

…And Phantom ships call always to every sailor on land.

For Sea-going vessels are the true Sirens.

Under the Cedars,

Little dogs watch, waiting.

Little dogs,

wait,

Watching…

 

 

 

________________________________________________________________

 

 

THIS LIFE?

If his life were a  film script, the musical score would be…?
House parties, dinner parties. Fires on the sand.
It’s a ritual to celebrate the Sunrise; it’s a ritual to watch her melt into the Western Sea.
Like the insistent chiming of wind-whipped Halyards, comes the Poetry grasping at his mind.
All these boats, he only knows them as they are now; away from the shore.
Hummingbirds kiss the face of a hanging glass Mermaid.
She asks the Preacher for milk and dark chocolate.
We want an option not being offered!
He feels what he imagines the trees feel; feet in the earth.
He feels like a dog in the afternoon sun.
What would your younger self tell you, now?
He sails in this Hemisphere’s Fjords.
Liquid ghosts of glaciers past.
A third choice; to believe in some magic …

_____________________________________________________________

 

AUGUST

 

 

When the grass under the plum trees turns dry
The color of a yellow cat
And the plums turn from blue to purple
And shrivel to the size of their own pits
Like the foreskin of old men or
The necks of geoducks
Like horse-cocks we joked
Stars fell as we watched consumed by their own hearts
Like nighttime rain
Like rain caught in the green gown of young cedars in spring
The rain turning to emeralds in the sun
Drink with your eyes the beauty around you
Dolce’ Vita
Like sun in summer
When the grass under the plum trees turns dry

___________________________________________________________________

 

LINES TO A POET

 

 

 

Sojourn, Journey, Pilgrimage.
Ambiguous wanderer with a quest.
Still as a mirror is the water of my Bay.
They made him weep, the lines she read.
Lines penned– tracing from the scars of a live heart.
Her cousin said Crescendos need a rest; Beauty is embarrassing.
In spite of everything, the gods eat coconut cake.
Yellow fingers of light reach across the Islands to the Olympics.
The Sun overtakes Night with fiery passion.
A replica Steam-ship arrives at Port.
East blushes rose and violet.
The Wind waits–Breathless
______________________________________________________________
The Wind waits–Breathless.
East blushes rose and violet.
A replica Steam-ship arrives at Port.
The Sun overtakes Night with fiery passion.
Yellow fingers of light reach across the Islands to the Olympics.
In spite of everything, the gods eat coconut cake.
Her cousin said Crescendos need a rest; Beauty is embarrassing.
Lines penned–tracing from the scars of a live heart.
They made him weep, the lines she read.
Still as a mirror is the water of my Bay.
Ambiguous wanderer with a quest.
Sojourn, Journey, Pilgrimage.
For my Poet Friend, Gaia
___________________________________________________________
4:00 a.m.
He writes because now, and here, words fall out of the hole in his chest.
Write rant to your Mother– Christian Mistress.
Write rant to your Father– A Boy Named Sue.
Rage is born within me; I am born with the rage.
Human-mind, electrical impulse, mystery of sailing, understanding batteries, sacrificial anodes; what is Love?
If you do not know him for himself, can you know him at all?
Trying to find those who need a witness, a shaman, a priest.
You were the secret fan of an un-written Poet.
A child in a white gown wandering under the blooming cherry trees.
Like a ghost of spring dreams.
Gently weeps the rain at 4:00 a.m
____________________________________________________________________
Gently weeps the rain at 4:00 a.m.
Like a ghost of spring dreams.
A child in a white gown wandering under the blooming cherry trees.
You were the secret fan of an un-written poet.
Trying to find those who need a witness, a shaman, a priest.
If you do not know him for himself, can you know him at all?
Human-mind, electrical impulse, mystery of sailing, understanding batteries, sacrificial anodes; what is Love?
Rage is born within me; I am born with rage.
Write rant to your Father– A Boy Named Sue.
Write rant to your Mother– Christian Mistress.
He writes because now, and here, words fall out of the hole in his chest.
_____________________________________________________________________

 

PART THE SECOND

 

 

Sonnet Poetry

 A new Language of Art.

Where the whole world grew as trees.

From his Heart, in beaded sandals he walked the Desert.

Where the road met the Sea, men walked camels for tourists to ride.

In Wanderer’s solitude he felt the World’s hurt  .

Questions became statements.

Poetry in half-lines, half-lives.

Art of Sonnet.

Who profits from home-grown poverty?

Target the impoverished.

Pay-day loans, pawn shops; fine print inflation.

Read a book: The Great Transformation.

If Capitalism profits from poverty, is it a query why the poor man is always the villain?

Free market economy, right? Or Princely monopolies?

Highly profitable businesses.

___________________________________________________________________

Art of Sonnet.

Poetry in half-lines, half-lives.

Questions became statements.

In Wanderer’s solitude he felt the World’s hurt.

Where the road met the Sea, men walked camels for tourists to ride.

From his Heart, in beaded sandals he walked the Desert.

Where the whole world grew as trees .

Sonnet Poetry

 A new Language of Art.

Highly profitable businesses.

Free market economy, right? Or Princely monopolies?

If Capitalism profits from poverty, is it a query why the poor man is always the villain?

Read a book: The Great Transformation.

Pay-day loans, pawn shops; fine print inflation.

Target the impoverished.

Who profits from home-grown poverty?

Olympia, WA/ Mombasa, Kenya

 

 

 

 

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