just to hear your voice I wait for walking
in solitude on the sands of two worlds;
alarmed by a stranger's intuition, I
journey with the sun as it appears;
the tepid waters soothes and wisps of wind
allow the memory to surface from the
self-imposed exile to which we agreed;
our loves goes forward yet we deny completely
all the absolute love and its addictions;
high spirited birds grace my path,
fishing boats ride the curved horizon, and my
thoughts dissipate in the rhythms of the waves.
August 8, 1984
Untitled
amid the curious tourist and the
frequently sweltering summer sun,
the sand crab lives quite miraculously,
just below the surface of the sand, just out
of reach of preying hands and sniffing dogs;
venturing from its protective custody at night
only to be caught by a paralyzing light
and become a youngster's souvenir.
August 7,1984
forcefully she beats upon the shoreline
as she did four hundred years ago;
we fish her waters as she battles us into submission,
her unknown perils lure us away from home;
five generations have navigated her waters
as did our forefathers and their before had done;
legends we remember as we name our villages in their honor
and are haunted by their memories as the oceans' waters
once again claim and once again her relentlessness wins;
we pay final tribute to her winter torments and
to the many fathers and sons that fill her graveyards.
August 6, 1984
Untitled
a grey laced haze covers our path where
the water curiously collides with the shore,
like a mist that gently blurs our vision and a
half round moon permits us to see a distant pier;
strolling arm-in-arm our silence is disturbed by the
persistent melancholy sounds of the crashing waves;
looking out across the Atlantic into a foggy night,
we discern no horizon nor any ships embarked
on some adventurous voyage like Ulysses;
we are alone on our own enchanted journey, a
peaceful hour just past eight bells, always walking
in a protective silence of each other's thoughts;
drifting aimlessly into tales of buried treasure,
of ghosts and pirates... of Old Nags Head...
and we wonder of tomorrow and other tomorrows
that blot out yesterday's memories...
what we meant to say but did not...
noticing how the windless darkness prevails;
the evening heat bears down upon us dictating pace,
an abstract painter's night with the rolling rhythms
of the waters beckoning us like some lady of the night,
who long since has seen her prime and the sand
between our toes is the only reminder of our reality;
the tiny dots of stars overhead records our brief visit, and
maybe a falling star will symbolize our love's resurgence.
August 5, 1984
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