Post by Ron Buck (halfshell) on May 17, 2009 8:14:40 GMT -5
Just around the bend
.
I tip my cap to the lull-lolly phrasing;
the push-and-shove body rising slowly.
The hum and hiss of before and after
turns the half of an emptied shell over;
as I bend to snatch it up, I think better of it.
I listen to the sun breaking under foam
where my feet leave nothing sustained;
the gulls are painting the sky again blue.
Lull-lolly, lull-lolly, lull-lolly,
where my toes webbed under the big-top
slap-slap the calliope-tongued breeze.
Along the walls of sleeping boulders
old songs unwind, unite, cascade;
the fenny grasses rub long legs and
whisper to one another reed awakenings.
The ancient horseshoe drifts in on the tide
to release a millennium mixture of egged spawn
and silently moans beneath mudrusty silt-clouds
as sandpipers rapidly tiptoe after up-and-down;
beak-beaking.
Lull-lolly, lull-lolly, lull-lolly.
At Drummer’s Cove the blackened bark and
twisted branch of gaunt salt-flecked pines bear
witness to a coven of stranded blackfish, rasping
their last bent notes through squelched blowholes.
And the molded stream of four rubber wheeled
travelers, honk-honk atop the worn asphalt channel,
rotating their heads for a moment then move endlessly
forward finally arriving to unpack and relax.
[/size]
.
I tip my cap to the lull-lolly phrasing;
the push-and-shove body rising slowly.
The hum and hiss of before and after
turns the half of an emptied shell over;
as I bend to snatch it up, I think better of it.
I listen to the sun breaking under foam
where my feet leave nothing sustained;
the gulls are painting the sky again blue.
Lull-lolly, lull-lolly, lull-lolly,
where my toes webbed under the big-top
slap-slap the calliope-tongued breeze.
Along the walls of sleeping boulders
old songs unwind, unite, cascade;
the fenny grasses rub long legs and
whisper to one another reed awakenings.
The ancient horseshoe drifts in on the tide
to release a millennium mixture of egged spawn
and silently moans beneath mudrusty silt-clouds
as sandpipers rapidly tiptoe after up-and-down;
beak-beaking.
Lull-lolly, lull-lolly, lull-lolly.
At Drummer’s Cove the blackened bark and
twisted branch of gaunt salt-flecked pines bear
witness to a coven of stranded blackfish, rasping
their last bent notes through squelched blowholes.
And the molded stream of four rubber wheeled
travelers, honk-honk atop the worn asphalt channel,
rotating their heads for a moment then move endlessly
forward finally arriving to unpack and relax.
[/size]
