Beach Road

[Draft #1 of another short nostalgia-prompted poem]

There should be that moment of hesitation—

wherein the moving cars are caged behind the lines,

itching to lash out in front. And yet,

that perfect moment nearly always comes

even if you have to hold out your hand to an invisible

mother, father, worker, master,

and slip by the metallic objects in space…

through the urban layout

past the uneven stone graveyard wall

…and onto the beach road.

Sand spills out onto the asphalt,

and small waves crash in just over the wall of sand

and short wooden bridge.

There’s a dim purple in sky that hides just beyond the eye’s reach.

It’s concealing childish memories

along with the primordial infant self

that just wants to melt languidly

and lie down in the grass in the vestige of sunlight

and try to find the comforting past, hiding,

beneath the piles of leaves

rustling on the passing lawns.

Not Reached By The Frost

Descending Words

[Draft 1, from December 4, 2014]

Wrought————————————————————————————————————————————————-

———-Forged—————————————————————————————————————————————–

——————Grown———————————————————————————————————————————

—————————-Entombed——————————————————————————————————————-

—————————————Carved———————————————————————————————————–

————————————————–Chained———————————————————————————————–

————————————————————Risen—————————————————————————————–

——————————————————————Smitten——————————————————————————–

—————————————————————————Eaten————————————————————————-

———————————————————————————–Beaten—————————————————————-

——————————————————————————————Bruised——————————————————–

———————————————————————————-Bloodied—————————————————————

—————————————————————————-Lit—————————————————————————–

—————————————————————Returned———————————————————————————

—————————————————Called————————————————————————————————-

—————————————–Swept———————————————————————————————————–

————————Unearthed———————————————————————————————————————-

—————Earthen———————————————————————————————————————————–

Dethroned———————————————————————————————————————————————-

————Lost——————————————————————————————————————————————

——————Forsaken——————————————————————————————————————————

—————————Forgotten——————————————————————————————————————–

—————————————-Struck————————————————————————————————————

————————————————-Heard—————————————————————————————————

————————————————————Hewn—————————————————————————————–

——————————————————————–Sought——————————————————————————-

——————————————————————————Sent————————————————————————

——————————————————————-Spent———————————————————————————

———————————————————Buried——————————————————————————————-

————————————————Crushed————————————————————————————————-

———————————————————Birthed——————————————————————————————

———————————————————————Born———————————————————————————

——————————————————————————-Torn———————————————————————–

————————————————————————————Scorned————————————————————-

————————————————————————Horned————————————————————————–

—————————————————————Pierced———————————————————————————–

————————————————————————Devoured———————————————————————–

—————————————————————————————Scoured———————————————————-

—————————————————————————Scourged———————————————————————

———————————————————–Submerged———————————————————————————-

——————————————-Drowned—————————————————————————————————–

—————————-Deflowered—————————————————————————————————————–

———————Flayed——————————————————————————————————————————

———Neutered—————————————————————————————————————————————

Bound—————————————————————————————————————————————————-

———-Jailed——————————————————————————————————————————————

———————Impaled—————————————————————————————————————————–

———————————-Scaled—————————————————————————————————————–

—————————————–Worshipped—————————————————————————————————-

————————————————————-Shot—————————————————————————————–

————————————————————————-Fought————————————————————————–

276

The cupboard perfect for hide-and-seek,

by the gray small bathroom up the steps,

behind gray-blue painted doors,

next to the sink where I’d washed the white paint

out of the brushes,

the white paint for the garage with its dirty paint peeling,

the spiky mat  by the shaky cellar door,

the black tank,

the wooden boards on the ceiling

with the six spraypainted white names,

the curious white foam

and the dirty cracks in the white walls,

the soft green and white Celtics ball,

the small windows high up sitting just above

the flat trimmed grass outside,

the fixtures with bingo and the penny roller,

the metal columns, the dusty lightbulb,

and that old unstable dark brown wooden desk,

carved up,

with the name Bill confidently scratched in.

The adults talk upstairs,

and the cousins play,

while one sits behind the old wooden desk,

opens it up,

and goes to work dreaming.