A Blueness I Could Eat Forever Read online

me,

  a straight path, if you like.

  Today, I know that I was seeing

  only one perspective.

  And like any winding path,

  perspective may change around each bend:

  youth, sacrifice, friendship, success, love, parenthood,

  joy, loss, folly, misfortune, and aging.

  And yet, no matter how many turns we may take,

  we may not fully comprehend

  the wholeness of our life,

  the unifying secret of our life,

  until we look back

  on all that has come before.

  WHAT DO I REMEMBER

  Yesterday was a warm day in San Francisco. So, I decided to take a longer lunch break and walk down to the bay and around the Embarcadero. And what do I remember the most?

  A cobalt blue bay, smooth, perfectly flat and glistening like wet polished glass? White flocks of sailboats skimming in slow motion across the bay waters? The giant fountain of broken pipes gushing foamy waterfalls, while below some kids walked barefoot and laughed? Bright red, green and yellow antique street cars inching along their iron-engraved paths? People everywhere: eating, talking, listening to music, basking in the sunshine and walking in great schools in every direction?

  No, I remembered one young couple, who spotted each other from afar.

  Their eyes locked, and they walked toward each other, seemingly entranced, as if they were the only people left in the world.

  Perhaps they were long lost childhood friends, cousins maybe, who had eaten hot dogs together and toasted marshmallows over an open fire?

  They both smiled, tentatively.

  Perhaps they were fellow travelers, and he had helped carry her bags and offered to feed the gas tank and capture her picture in front of a statue?

  With a brilliant smile, she looked up at him, bit her lip, pushed back her hair and blushed. He put his hands on her shoulders.

  Perhaps they were long lost lovers, who had made love on a white beach? He missed her sweet smile and perfume; she missed his pale blue eyes and hands on her hips.

  He drew her near, cupped her jaw in his hands, and they kissed, as people flowed all around them like a river flowing around steadfast boulders.

  BEES

  As I am weeding my garden,

  I notice a bumble bee flying around a tuft of grass,

  a green castle standing fast against the world.

  She is flying around her nest,

  back and forth,

  like a child turning on a tire swing

  swaying under a tall oak.

  I grab several stakes and fence them around her home,

  to keep it safe from my carelessness.

  Just then, I spot a curious dark amber, a honey bee,

  climbing and tumbling over green edges and stony bits,

  trying to make her way back to her hive,

  where she would be killed by her sisters,

  if she made it home.

  She can't fly because her wings droop

  like unhinged shutters,

  battled once too often by the elements.

  I wonder if during her short life of sacrifice

  if she had ever become drunk on the fragrance of my roses,

  yellow flames tinged pink?

  Or, maybe she had slept overnight on a flower,

  gently rocked to sleep by a light summer breeze,

  while chirping crickets gave voice to the darkness?

  Or, maybe she had stopped to have tea with the bumble bee,

  gossiped and sipped sweet nectar with her?

  I put some sugar water in a saucer for her to eat.

  Sometimes, I am not sure if anyone could ever understand me

  with all of the bees flying in my heart.

  LOVING HER

  Bracing my body, I stab the surface with my blade

  and pull the blade back and away from my kayak,

  a yellowed, paper-thin skin of glass sinews, resin and gear,

  a hollow bone floating on a naked sea,

  which tongues my blade as I slip it out

  and whispers and murmurs against the hull.

  Peering into the blue-sky liquid,

  I can make out swimming things of light and darkness:

  flashing and twisting flurries of glistening silver,

  burning oranges, reds and yellows;

  thick shapes with needled teeth,

  and a gliding darkness, ancient and silent.

  Like the human heart, the sea cages all matter of things,

  some beautiful and magical, but also mysterious and dark.

  And so, I know that my lover may always remain

  a mystery to me.

  And yet, I know I can only keep loving her,

  as her love washes over me,

  whispers and mummers against my heart

  and invites me to lose myself

  in her loving embrace.

  COLD LIGHT

  It's past midnight, very dark

  with a new moon.

  The only lights are yellow-green blooms,

  appearing spontaneously

  as my sloop broaches the waves.

  And of course, there is the Milky Way,

  a glowing creamy swath across the heavens,

  and thousands of twinkling stars,

  which seem to shine straight

  through me.

  As flying fish, silver wings,

  skip from crest to crest,

  a warm wind

  blows spray over the dark waves,

  slaps the rigging,

  and circles the gear

  and blows oboe notes

  as it buffets the mainsail,

  a black wedge plying against

  the starry sky.

  Although it is nearly quiet,

  the ocean calls me.

  It splashes and clamors

  and whispers and murmurs

  against the hull.

  The ocean invites me to swim

  between its soft waves

  and its sensuous embrace,

  sink to its black depths

  and contemplate

  its solitude.

  What creatures swim

  in the deep blackness

  between the waves

  and the cold light

  of the stars?

  What naked intelligence glides silently

  through the darkness,

  mysterious,

  otherworldly,

  possibly ancient?

  How wondrous these things must be,

  swimming the deep darkness

  between the waves

  and the stars.

  WAVES

  Breaking from the universe,

  like waves spilling, plunging and surging

  against a shore,

  we crash with life and vigor,

  scrape and scour,

  spit beaches and eat land,

  polish stone, glass and driftwood of splintered dreams,

  uncover and bury bleached bones

  of ambitions and aspirations,

  carve grottoes of intentions and regrets

  and then slip back into the deep

  from whence we came

  and may return again.

  MY MIND'S EYE

  I lean against the door,

  a shadow thrown against the house,

  with my eyes shrunk by the blazing sun

  against an intense blue sky,

  a blueness I could eat forever.

  I gaze out across yesterday:

  bleached white fingers of scrub,

  thin ribbons of corroded dragon teeth,

  crumbling foundations that cradled lives

  long since past

  and drifting sands.

  In my mind's eye,

  tomorrow is everything washed new and bright,

  green fields and saplings,

  swelling buds and expecting mothers,

  all
bathing in the same yellow light.

  Only today can our passions burn brightly,

  cast light and love on the lives of others

  and sow our dreams

  on fertile soil.

  FEELINGS

  I don't have the words to describe my feelings:

  A woman, the last thing I think of before falling asleep.

  A woman, the first thing I think of when I wake.

  A woman, the image that passes before my mind's eye

  in a moment of clarity.

  A woman, the hands we hold,

  the one thing I miss most.

  A woman, the laughter that warms my heart and soul.

  A woman, the perfume that invokes wonderful memories.

  A woman, the love, the love, the embrace, the joy,

  the wonderful joy.

  OLD MAN'S DREAMS

  Shivering and bucking a stiff breeze,

  I turn up my collar and pull down my hat,

  tighten my muffler around my face

  and bury my hands in my pockets.

  It's cold and dark,

  two days before Christmas.

  I turn the corner

  and look up a yellowish gray street,

  stretching off into the darkness,

  punctuated by yellow glowing street lamps.

  The street seems deserted

  and eerily quiet.

  Only the wind stirs,

  blowing oboe notes as the wind gusts

  around the corner

  and races up the street,

  circles drains and blows over curbs

  and buffets buildings

  and windows.

  As my eyes focus nearby,

  I spot a gray-bearded derelict,

  ragged clothes and shoes,

  beached against a building.

  He's gazing at a window,

  where a Christmas tree twinkles inside

  with red and green lights and various ornaments,

  silver, white and shiny,

  reflecting dappled light

  against the walls.

  Despite the dim street light,

  I can see that the old man is smiling.

  I wonder if he is remembering

  happier times with family and friends,

  anticipation of Christmas morning,

  red and green wrapping paper

  and wide-eyed children laughing

  with joyous delight?

  Does he have kids, family and friends?

  How did he come to wash up here?

  As I pass him, I drop a twenty in his lap,

  but he doesn't break his gaze.

  Nearing a corner, I look over my shoulder

  to see that he is still looking

  at the Christmas tree.

  Long after sleep has washed over the old man,

  the twinkling Christmas lights will still be there,

  red and green pinpricks piercing the darkness,

  and perhaps even twinkling

  in the old man's dreams.

  EARLY MORNING FEAST

  Cast in a dappled light,

  the crimson poppies are thick with bees

  jostling and jockeying

  for the early morning feast

  of nectar.

  By late morning,

  the sweetness has been

  kissed and tongued dry,

  and the bees have moved on.

  Using an ancient alchemy,

  the poppies suckle mother earth

  and join

  and