#9: Surf Born #10-11: On the Day You Die. Poems

moon jellies

#9  Surf Born

As I watch your image pulling in the weight
held fast by a rope, see its edges large, heavy-
a fish? A board? -no wait, the covered edges, worn, laden
pages, a book, heavy with weight, made so by
water, how long has it floated
soaking up, all in its wake
we wonder, as we watch you pull the tome just released by the ocean
surf, detritus hugging, then letting loose, you pull on the thick rope,
up and out of the water, slowly and then force it up, onto
rocks, large chunk rip rap, up and over
this last stage of resistance before

your upward trek. And As you begin your walk, up the dirt trail,
Pacific wind blowing your curls and locks (were you barefoot?)

it dawns
on me, the funny thing about memories is
we think they can be stolen, removed, soiled.
But now I see through the clinging dirt, past sea soaked salt
that though they may work to take them away,
rip up your photos, light your written words aflame
with a candle or match, release the ashes to clouds, or drag all you
cherish through mud, dip them in tar, or float them out to sea,

They remain.
Always the same. Tethered by bull kelp arms so strong,
might of presence, tendrils in our minds and beyond them, waving
up over, up high, always waving up to the sun.  And then I see

what can be done.

© 2018-4-26 Tara Linda. v.1

Inspired by a video of Junk journal artist Orly Avineri.

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It is difficult
to get the news from poems
yet men die miserably every day
for lack
of what is found there.

Excerpt from Asphodel.  William Carlos Williams

#10  On the Day you Die

The sky
is partly cloudy, split in
half by bright billowy clouds
dark ones too.  Rain? we ask each other
feeling illumination balance
stillness with
breath.

#11 On the Morning You Die

A Spring wind
blows out of the North at 17 mph, April’s
Flower Moon is high and full. Skies are still and
ink clear, will our memories travel well?
Only when the winds
pick up.

© 2018 4/29 Tara Linda. V1

Jean-YvesNoury
NaPoWriMo

#7: Excuses #8: Physalia Love. Poems

#7   Jealous Muse

Time for a million
and none for me, gives zero
to the bossa waiting patiently.

We could sip wine and light a fuse
taxes and death are no excuse.

© 2013 Tara Linda

This prompt is clear; distracted by paperwork & taxes this month, to the exclusion of music & writing. Think I’ll pick another month for poems next year, like Haiku March.

pexels-photo-167080.jpeg

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#8  Physalia Love

How can I forget? The day we met, all signs
faded in the hot Gulf sun, Peligroso!’s letters dissolved in
the venomous glow. I swam to you, as you surrounded
me, enrapt the moment we touched, my legs & arms made
numb with sensations I’d never felt before they left,
leaving just below the surface of mirth & warmth,
just you & me in this chocolate sea.

Oh how many ways you held me! If
I could count them all, sweet Siphonophore,
opals embedding in tiny tentacles, dangled light to my skin, just
below your majestic sail, that glistening iridescent mast, that
veil submerged- just once, in our sea-green water waltz.

And how you tethered one to many- eloquently, as I swam
through, you- so selflessly giving all, each colony, its own treasured
jewel, each a dance of give & take, all held afloat by one
well-healed hunger, one desire to feed, to move, to gather in tryst
over & over held, then burned in your nematocyst kiss.

© 2018 Tara Linda. V1

Prompt: a poet friend and I challenged each other to retell a terrible life experience, something we couldn’t forget; cast in a positive poetic light.  Mine was a run-in with a Portuguese Man-of-War when swimming in the Gulf of Mexico years ago. It was awful; I went into shock and had to be hospitalized. My second degree burns taught me (as a budding then marine biologist), that there are at least 3 types of tentacles on Physalia physalis, each specialized for defense and feeding, each inflicting a different type of wound to hapless prey. The best thing about that experience was that I learned to play drums in the 30 days that I could not sleep, due to the steroid treatments from the burns. Drums became my heart instrument for the next 20 years, ironically. I suppose that should be another poem for the Muses. What did not kill me, made me musical. Haha! 😉

Web
NaPoWriMo

Bailiff 35:52

Bailiff
you scan the room eyes travel wide
and land long
as I pick up my badge And later
after lunch again your eyes lock mine…

Bailiff

you scan the hall           eyes travel wide
and land         long
as I pick up my badge   beside 300 others   And later

phase II  after lunch this time your eyes      lock
mine as you announce      full volume  Ladies and gentlemen
no gum in the courtroom please       watching as I  slowly

swallow

And later          when we all get lost    taking sides
piecing together     what ifs    with how whys         I hear
my name      gather my things to

approach

the bench      turn to find       you suddenly              
smiling taking the badge from my hand       here let me help
            as someone says

Dismissed!

copyright: Tara Linda

Prompt: Lunch Poems~Frank O’Hara

Today, I begin, again, my poem-a-week challenge PoemX:52. I did it last year, but I’ve no idea how many I’ve written, posted, or not posted this year before today. So I’ll start with as many weeks are there are left (17) of the year of 52 weeks. If my math is right. Just one poem a week; how hard can that be? And lots of tiny ones on Twitter in between.  Join me!! Post a link to one of your own poems here, in a comment, and on every post with a poem in it so we can encourage each other.   And to my 110 followers~~ thank you! 😉