Saturday, September 1

Untitled

Here I lie
Poking holes
In the night sky
In your theories of life
In the balloon of mine
Making faces at babies
All traces
Of the sun subside
But not without gold,
Not without red,
Promising to return soon
When the moon is tired
And its light is dead

Layered tiles on a roof
Slats on sides of buildings
Stone foundations stained
By acid raid
Fields of wildflowers
At the beach where I wandered
Drums and torches
In the back of my mind
I raced the sand for a mile
In the dark the sea-foam
Glints like a field of stars
With tiny opalescent lights
To beckon me

5 comments:

Hans said...

Dreamland? Love your "poking holes in the sky."

Metamatician said...

Thanks again for braving a comment on a poem. Don't know why other don't do it much. I guess it's harder to comment on a poem than a quiz.

Not dreamland, no. A recollection of a real night at the beach many moons ago.

Hans said...

It's a beautiful memory.

Sara said...

This is great. I'm not sure how I missed this one earlier? I love the short lines which nonetheless flow like a narrow path in a wider vista, not only on the page but in my mind as it imagine it.

I can smell beach roses like the ones on Cape Cod and see the sun setting over the sea. The sand is cold, gritty and star scattered.

Metamatician said...

Thanks =)

Cape Cod must have been beautiful, eh? I dunno if this happens on all beaches but if you are there at night and wait till a wave comes and goes, and then scrape some of the west sand away it has just vacated, you will see all kinds of iridescent pinpoint of light, mostly green, presumably from some sort of algae in the water?

If you repeat the experiment in the daytime, of course, you don't get the lights, you get little tiny sand crabs scared out of their mind and immediately setting about burrowing to a deeper strata level. But you can nearly always get a few in your hands and have a look at them before you let them go.

Fascinating place, this earth.

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