In From The Sea - Poetry Repost

When the wind blows in from the sea you can hear the

crackle of palm fronds breaking free from the heat
hiss of sea oats defiantly bowing inland
whisper of sand celebrating its lofty release from gravity
sputter of foam cascading skyward cut from wave caps
chimes of delicate shells dancing across dunes

When the wind blows in from the sea you can hear the
prayers of ancient mariners reaching home.

The Social South - Murrells Inlet, SC

I grew up in South Carolina and lived in the small community of Murrells Inlet during my high school years. I loved it. We often refer to the place as "a quiet little drinking village with a fishing problem."

So, I'm headed 'home' this week to spend Thanksgiving among the Spanish moss, live oaks trees and gazing at the inlet waters as they calmly ripple and cast a dark reflection back at me. There is a certain aroma smell to Murrells Inlet - a thick mix of mud, shell fish and salt water that sticks in the back of your throat - embedded with memories.

My mother and step-father's home is one of those Thanksgiving destination places. Every walk and flavor of family life will descend on them this week. We will eat, talk, eat, laugh, eat, eat and sit lifelessly in front of the TV while planning our next trip to "The Walmarts." It will be a traditional taste of all things South.

How about you? Thanksgiving plan? Traveling?

Relief - A Tale from the Seaside

Before the lightning flashes, clouds roll in bringing with them a promise of relief from the incessant heat and the potential of a light show over the sea. There is nothing so comforting as a summer evening thunder storm at the coast.

Their regular appearance with their own assembly of sound, light (amazing light) and a palpable embrace. It's the drop in barometric pressure, so they tell me, that creates the change in the air. the air seems to at once feel lighter and more dense with moisture as it brushes against you: an ascending wave of breeze upon breeze. The air smells of salt and sea just before the storm.

Perhaps the sensations are so powerful because of all bare skin; the taut, tanned skin of youthfulness, proclaiming would be eternal beauty and undaunted vigor, feeling every ray of sun, every grain of sand, every coming drop of rain.

Memory tells the story now... Here I felt the world, alive and full. I felt the storms. Here I would grab you by the hand and rush to the beach as the clouds darkened the sky and the breeze began to chase us. Sunbathers scattered for shelter and we would run against the current of people to the beach and scurry like sand fiddlers into the large wooden float box positioned with it's one open side facing the ocean. There we would settle in, giggling and shuffling into our place among the sandy floats, into each other's arms and wait for the show to begin.

Drops would fall, making small dimples in the sand and then give way to sheets of rain, blown sideways by the wind folding them like sheets - waving to us. The light would fade and burst in flashes. Then the moment would come when, framed by the window of our shelter we would see a jagged bolt of lightning descend in to the sea. We would shut our eyes and capture the image of that bolt now cut into the fabric of our souls as we felt the thunder - thunder into us. We would hold each other tightly as we shared the storm between us. I remember your bare back hot beneath my hands, the texture of your lips, and the taste of you.

Lightning flashes. Clouds roll in, bringing with them the promise of relief...

Note: image courtesy of Free Digital Photos

Emotive - Not a Water Poem

Emotive

placid ripples radiate

out from the stone's wake

it falls into silence

downward

from a nameless toss it came

flying in a moment

failing to break gravity's spell

downward

descending the abyss

parting waters of primeval ways

stirring the reservoir of rage

downward

what lies beneath

what longings to be stirred

what hopes become reacquainted

down there

a small pebble settles into deepest sediment

nests into it's new dark home

and then

something disturbed

moves

down there.

The Sea - A Poem from Memory

The Sea

Swirls of foam around my ankles

Wiggling toes intwine archaic sands

Minnows dart, carving the tidal plane

Sun bares upon my bare back

Gulls sing anthems of the dawn

Waves rise in the distance, announcing the coming change

Hear it roll closer, ascending

Fleeing tides rip sand and shell away

Sand moves beneath my feet, as the wave breaks

Salt burns, eyes and nose

Water cascades off of me

Surpries of familiar currents

Laughter swells within my sea

My soul welcomed home

Bellows joy

Always A Story

I viewed “The Legend of 1900” this week. I enjoyed the film - a fanciful story of a child that grows up on a commercial steam liner in the 1900's develops a mastery of piano and yet never sets foot on land.

There were several memorable moments and charming characters.

One quote that sticks with me is this: “You're never really done for, as long as you've got a good story and someone to tell it to.”

Isn’t that the truth. It's soon time for a story...

String Quartet

String Quartet

It is a mess at first

The bow strikes and glides across a single string and back again

The note wobbles for a moment

Then settles to a steady call

Joined then by the rocking and striated rhythms

Of another set of strings

And another

Then another

The tatters of sound assemble

Like clouds and squalls

Of a sea storm

Then silence before the storm

Slowly comes the rain

The thunder

The wind

Singing softly its message

We are awash in a sea

Of harmonies and melodies

Here it is useless to navigate

This storm will take us where it wills

Surrender is always

The best option

When accosted

By beauty

The Beach Remembers

The beach remembers

Lover's tastes and trash

And it can't forget

Too many breezes blow

In strong currents

And sand tossing tourists

Piles of humanity

Discarded playthings

And burnt butts

Cans crushed under foot

Seasoned among sea oats

And barley stained

His hands upon her

Rumpled sands swaying

And tides wetting

Every passion gets remembered

By the beach beneath us

And our trash

A Writer's Block of Stone - Public Journey #001-2

I'm a bit late with the second phase my public writing journey. Here is what I've 'carved' from the raw block of words - so far.

I grew up in Myrtle Beach, SC one of the largest beach tourist destinations on the east coast. In many ways I was a beach rat, spending my summers working at my family’s ocean front hotels and making friends with our weekly guests, and their daughters. Mine was a life filled with those summer days of youthful zeal, sun-tanned skin, wind blown hair and new beginnings. Every week was a new start with clean rooms and new guests. The four month vacation season dominated all that we did. It seemed that school, and all things winter, were simply the time we spent remembering or preparing for summer. Summer was our time. Summer was the time when we thrived economically and personally. I always lived in summer. The heat of the sun blazed down from the sky and up from the sand. The sea tossed its mist into our air and we breathed in the damp essence of life. Living so close to the sea, we drew our life from it day in and day out. The sea held us and brought life to us. Its vast reservoir, pulsing with each tide, offered to and collected from everything it touched. It is this giving and collecting, that I have witness many times.

The sea gives. My grandfather and father were both sailors. Their comfort with the sea and its gifts of food and fellowship were passed to me. I can remember the day my brother and I spent a day catching hundreds of small ‘spots’ only to face the task of scaling and cleaning them into the night. My grandfather taught us that day about finishing the tasks we started and about the sequence of work to reward. It was fun to catch. It was work to clean. We had to do both to eat. It was the sea, as it lingered in the marsh and inlets that gave us this opportunity.

The sea gives. I have witnessed many occasions of children and adults finding the sea for the first time. They had been inlanders all of their life and never seen the sea. That seems strange to me, even now. What a change of perspective that must be – to see the sea, to see and feel for the first time the sea from which we are created…