Content with the Rustling

Man in boat, alone with book,
Sighs mightily. Looks skyward.

Mallards, in pairs, sail close,
Circling for bread, expectant.

Clouds above, seek resolve, then
Resoundingly, give their load a rest.

Humble water leaps, so tickled, and
Time, meanwhile, whispers advice to

Cattails: souls who look, circle, seek
Should rest, content with the rustling.

coming home from the beach (impossible)

i left the ocean
crashing pulling, so
oblivious, and i
dragged my wreck of
salt and hair and
said goodbye to the
grains and shells
the jellies,
surfers skaters punk kids
drove out thinking, one
child builds a fortress and
guards it with her life
while the other runs
with knowledge that high
tides will always win…
left driving
with “flashback weather classic rock”
and tried to set in motion:
the impossible comes to life.

Man, City, Sky

a similar feeling
of sky darkening and quickening breath

outside clouds gather and puff their chests
as if to say with a roar
I am here
outside the smell of rain perfumes my lungs
and soon thunder drives
dangerously close

tires grip the Jones Falls
that last turn
underpass by Penn Station and
the sculpture of woman and man as one

the feeling you get
right after the city skyline opens
and there skin prickles, shivers
a storm a man
a city that boasts many
dangerous charms.