Yellow Butterfly (for Emma)

Every moment gives a gift
An opportunity to see
A yellow butterfly land
On the pool deck to give
The daughter a smile
She seemed to have lost.

Have a good first day at school my sweet girl.

Image: Butterfly Painting – Sunflower Butterfly Yellow Gold by JQ Licensing

Posted for my good friend Chuck at The Reluctant Poet, he has been searching far and wide for this post… here you go my friend.

https://thereluctantpoetweb.wordpress.com/2017/09/04/yellow-butterfly/

Ocean Testimony

a boy sits on a broken lobster trap
to stop the shiver in his knees
and accounts for strange, winter companions:

a flock of seagulls,
cracking mussel shells on the jetty

a sentimental couple,
walking barefoot in the shallow surf

a dog and its walker,
tossing a tennis ball for an eager fetch

rescued from kelp beds
wood from broken ships
smoothed, minimizing clues
to piece together adrift memories

he surveys this salt kingdom
that spat out the detritus.

the surf, a siren’s call;
powerful crests and hypnotic cadence
subversive beauty:
when enraged,
devours armadas.
when stilled,
reveals deep harmony.

He watches whitecaps
rise to kiss the moon
then melt away.

This blameless breeze that surrounds
its guests with a pleasant chill,
Weaves dune grasses and lost relics into fences.
In his heart, a voice
– music –
a melody for strange companions
a silent resounding testament to beauty.

In Response to a Poet’s Love Song of 1/24/17

My body now wakes up on its own at 4am
Somehow, transformed from insomniac
To discover the backside of night
And find it as pleasing as Goldilocks
Found the third bed eating the third porridge.
When I talk to the old poet in my journals
Or in files found on my computer that don’t
Remember being written, he chuckles at the
Absurdity of the idea of me waking early
To do anything other than take a piss.

My body now wakes up on its own at 4am
The acoustics of this silence are similar
Yet so very different. Waking creatures
Are more for meditations like these than
The beasts that haunt hours that aren’t stilled
Inside a heart that hears only its own beating
As it tells tales that ache with longing, with pain
That never really was felt, only misunderstood.
This depth, this texture, this darkness marks
The underside of my eyes just as well, thank you.

My body now wakes up on its own at 4am
Still needing coffee in my oldest possession
Aside from stuffed animals hidden from view:
The coffee mug bought at a convention in college.
My hand still holds the pen, a new lover from Japan,
My sensuous mouth still spills familiar treasures
That makes me fall in love all over again. I adore this.
But now, I feel a presence, like eyes glowing through
A window. I am seen. Seen, my stories take me on
Journeys I didn’t even know I wanted to go on.

A response to https://braveandrecklessblog.com/2017/01/24/poets-love-song-romantictuesday/

With additional thanks to: https://thereluctantpoetweb.wordpress.com/2017/02/16/the-backside-of-the-night/
for being inspired enough by the phrase backside of night to hopefully start a meme

and
What is the Best Time of Day to Write Poetry?
for asking the question that got the whole backside of night thing going to begin with