Notice Me, Little Things

“Notice me,”
Little things say,
“Fit me,
Somewhere.”

“You will fot
Somewhere,”
I whisper,
“Notice me.”

Tiny fragments of sea shells
Once perfect for collectors
Now inhabit the sand
The Sea’s metamorphosis
Perfection for this moment
Not needing to be picked
Not needing to be paraded
Alongside perfect conches
Needing to be seen
Needing to be known
If only for this moment.

Smooth purple rings exposed
Underneath the surface
Show a structure strong,
Endured, now on the surface
Stating their presence.

I know where
You will fit:
Beside me
On the sand

Among friends
Ground down
Not to nothing
But into earth

Hold us up
“You do,”
Whispers
“I do.”

A Love Song

Why should we not touch our souls
With one bow and hear
Separate strings sing one melody,
One voice to dive into
An echo
Between hills carved by Masters
Who could not have known of us?

Somehow,
They began our song
Before words stirred our tongues
Like a kiss
Born inside
A flower pushing up through dirt
To follow the path of Apollo

Its pedals,
Dripping with dew,
Swallow one ray of light.
Lips trembling,
At last,
Strong enough
For Love.  

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When You Lap My Feet

When you lap my feet
With your soothing song
I want to dive into your wetness
To see how deep inside our souls
I can swim.

I walk towards you step by step
Until your song drowns the noises
Life makes of other people’s living.

I could stand on your sand
A foundation slips away
And never fear a thing
Then watch the gull fly
Over your shimmering skin
Aloft in freedom
Finding inside a sustenance
That brings life
Only your deepest flesh knows.

I am briefly jealous.
Until I hear your song again
Singing for me
Alone in the surf where you end
Always giving me a loving caress
That froths as it fades
And surges up, again and again.

You deposit gifts on my earth
Broken shells and drifting weeds
Only I can see as my treasure.
Here, the smoothed rock…
There, a flattened stone
For me to return to you in skips
Like a man remembering his boyhood
Or a boy still dreaming of what story
He will tell when I return inside you
A love as persistent as the moon
That pulls you rising
Across the quiet of a solitude
That together we understand
As a language spoken
Throughout time for this moment
Awaiting us since the beginning.

Teak Arms

Come and nestle into the nook you chose
Along my gunwale. Rest. I wrap my teak
Arms around you to fend off night. Trace your
Legend between stars, twinkling as they do.

Today, you sacrificed ashes of life
To the Father tormenting your journey
Home. The dust will not heal your wounds or His,
But appeasement will blind him long enough –

His people invite you to the Phaeacian
Feast to hear the substance of your toils.
They lift you up on deck of their swift ship
Sail you home to the Faithful and Longing.

The planks of my own arms, softened by tears:
A bee sting, a disturbed nest on the path
Where you, child, excavated tiny stones
The earliest memory of journey

Are strong tonight – we have no place to be.
Our journey awaits the rose-red fingers
Of Dawn to wrap around your heart again
Teasing tiny sparks from dark, inspiring

Another stop, another mile of miles
To go before you sleep again in this
Nook of my gunwale where I will wrap
You, once again, safe in my soft teak arms.

Cannonball With Me

I need my girl,
Girl cannonball with me
Let’s see who can make a bigger splash
See who can crash harder
We are good at looking taller, we are grounded,
So tell them to talk about what this clown did.

I need my girl,
Girl come dance with me
We will spin and spin and spin
We will drink like Hank and Boleyn
I promise to keep your head, though, in mind
Really, to take it from you I am disinclined.

I need my girl,
Girl need me too, need me to
Love you more than 45 percent, expect interest
Compounding as we count our splashes and spins
Making life small enough to wrap my head around it:
The divine, the apology, the shit I lost.

I need my girl, I need my girl, I need…

Take this gun out of my hand, Davy.

Image: Rebecca Kinkead

This Cup

I offer this cup to you
refill it with the blood
of imagination and immortality
offered like a gift from the gods.

I let it slip from my fingers
into the desert of adulthood.

She offers this cup to me
filled with blood shed
to resurrect the gift of love
piercing the limits of imagination.

In her hands it throbs
with a longing for childhood.

We offer this cup
a dry vessel filled with blood
to rediscover life in red
more vivid than imagined.

In our arms lips shiver
and restores our innocence.

We fill this cup
with truths lost in the desert,
the blood of mortal life
and love immortal.

Your gentle hand
fills my cup.

Image: Breakfast Still Life with Chalice by Willem Claesz Heda 1634

Into My Own: My Story as a Writer, Part II – Why I Wrote (1986)

I began my autobiography as a writer with https://sailorpoet.com/2018/05/08/into-my-own-my-story-as-a-writer-part-i-how-it-began/ an essay that explained how I began writing. It told the story of how I wrote my first poem in a note to a friend and how intoxicating those early days felt after finding this vehicle for getting things out of my head into the world. In reality, I had no idea what that world was all about let alone how to communicate with it. I had merely discovered a tool for getting my thoughts out of my own head, perhaps simply to communicate with myself. So, why did I write? This communication proved invaluable for me to understand who I was. It took another half dozen years for me to learn the phrase introvert and what it meant and probably another dozen or more for me to really understand what the definition truly meant in real terms. I did know that my head got stuck on things that other people didn’t seem too interested in and I was labeled as Serious.

Like any teenage boy, I felt uncomfortable in my own skin and needed to figure out how to fix this discomfort. Funny that none of my poetry about teenage emotional angst survived that fateful move that lost my enumerated, sacred early works. While this may have its merits in quality control, its merits in understanding what things plagued me are distinctly absent. Now, I only have a few remaining poems that I took the time to transcribe into the computer when I got to college, so they must have mattered more than the others, either because I thought they were of better quality or they meant something significant to me. They each offer different clues to answer the riddle of why I wrote (note, that I still kept the exact dates they were written, a helpful convenience today).

The Dreams of Coronus
May 25, 1986

Looking up from below
He stands high above me
I search in the heavens
As the world will see
Wherever I search,
He stands beside me
His hands support my soul
The dreams of Coronus
The dream of Peace
He watches
He understands
I feel the presence of Heaven

Aside from revealing my poor conjugating ability, what this really reveals is a significant clue into why I wrote. First, for clarity, Coronus is me; my name being Stephen, Stephen meaning crown in the original Greek, and Corona being the word for crown in Latin, the language I took in high school. I will let the pretentiousness speak for itself, but at the very least this serves as an early indication of being unable to reconcile this inner being who wrote with the outer being everyone knew as Steve. Not yet 16, I was writing about God, grappling with faith and finding confidence in my beliefs. This didn’t feel normal to me back then. Maybe it was normal, maybe it wasn’t.

I do know this confidence in my beliefs reflected in “Dreams of Coronus,” gave me confidence to reject a lot of the things that other kids were exploring at that age, like drugs and alcohol. The neighborhood I grew up in was a little more remote and off a too-busy and unsafe highway to walk down into town to hang out with the bulk of the kids. As a result, I grew up a little more isolated; not alone, by any stretch, it was still a neighborhood with neighborhood kids and regular activities like sledding and capture the flag, but it was far removed from the party culture that grew up elsewhere. In the end, this never bothered me, and the distance proved crucial in my development as a writer as well as a young adult. Plus, I became interested in Serious things, like God and peace.

The Child
June 19, 1986

Bullets pierce and echo the air
Villagers abandon their flaming homes
The king cannot see, only the Lord sees
Reasons do not matter as bloodshed begins

On a hilltop the one flag quivers in the wind
Tears pour into the Child’s innocent eyes
His brother has died in the flames of war-
Horror from what was once so grand

Unnoticed, underfoot our freedom drifts
We, sightless, block our ears from the Child’s wail
His father has died in the ocean of war
Only to be as us- free

The fire rages across the countryside
The Child is shot in his tears
The memory of his brother burns
The memory of his father drowns

One man fills his jars with tears
His son fills dreams with fears
Both are dead, burned by lead
Nothing left, there is no son

Nothing left, there is no village
At dawn the flames consumed the last morsel
On a hillside the one flag quivers
The stars shine, the bullets pierce the air

We bury the Child under the flag
His father would have won the flag
They bled too long for
A reason too wrong

Bullets pierce and echo the air
The village burnt to the ground
Does any flesh mourn the Child?
Oh Lord…

Reasons do not matter when innocence sheds blood.

These poems explain a lot about what this Serious late-15 year old boy was concerned about and goes a long way to confirming how Serious I was. My mother always called me Too Serious, a comment that felt more disparaging than she meant it to be as she longed for me to be healthy and happy. However, she was right. I was too serious to really fit in with my peers and really struggled with the right and wrong of feeling out of place in my own skin. With “The Child,” I began to tap into the compassion that I felt as an essential element of my Catholic lessons, and still do.

When I read these words today, I hear the voice of a young man compelled to write as a vehicle for expressing things he couldn’t just talk about in casual conversation. After all, who really wants to talk about war and God in between 200s at swim practices or while trading baseball cards or while sneaking looks at the latest Swimsuit edition? Thus writing became an essential vehicle to figure out how my beliefs defined my reactions to a growing awareness of the world and the great tragedies that were the by-products of historic events, here the death of children in war.

Vision of Tomorrow
July 31, 1986

The world is restless under my feet
I haven’t seen the sun in days
Black clouds hover the ground I walk
Yet there is no one to see what I see

The world rots in universal entropy
No light finds the grass I walk
Heaven’s tears flood the pours of my dry skin
Heaven’s roars frighten the tiny children

Here in this isolated town sleeps a naive soul
Blind by youth to the world in his eyes
He knows none see his visions
He knows he speaks false words

Here in this isolated town I sleep
Blind by youth to the mad world in my eyes
I worry of love and other bittersweet passions
I will rise above to see the world

Over the Appalachians and through the pines
I long to have the vision of years
Yet only through time will God grant my wish
I will still dream of mares in the night, and white stallions.

Lightning flashes in my eyes
The princes and slaves, two-faced societies
The land ahead is covered by clouds
I run onward in spite of my blindness

Does she on the blue-green hilltop have sight
Are the stars above hers to gaze in a dreamy awe
Does she lie blind like the naive soul I am
She is one of the merry youth

A naive child searching through the attic
I look for the key to open my sight
Soon I will find it and unlock the door
Open my eyes to the winds eluding me

The key has been stolen
The door opens before my naive eyes
The wind’s howl threatens the lies in my life
Of sweet music and star filled skies

Shut the door- my eyes burn
My ears long for the sweet music
Reality is upon the blue-green hilltop
The stars are ours in a dreamy awe

Is this my sight?
Are these mountains only my visions?
Will you look with me or sit alone?
I, naive child dare to be an adult

There she rests alone on the blue-green hilltop
She has the stars in her gaze of dreamy awe
If only the stars were not behind the clouds
I would trap the stars in her gaze

The world rushes behind the drag of my feet
The light of the sky is hidden for me to find
I write these words never to be understood
Like the scream of a child in a moonless night

Please let me gaze at a starlit sky
One last chance to wish upon my naive falling star
Soon the truth will burn this naiveté
My child will crumble in the heap of an adult

She sits with me on the blue-green hilltop
The stars are ours to gaze in a dreamy awe
The sun will shine upon our new days
The blackness of night will pass

Will the world wait for me?
I gaze my dreamy awe one last time
Run from the hilltop with me, dream and weep
Soon the world will turn in the palm of your warm hand.

The final poem rescued from those floppy discs perhaps tells the most about who this 15-year-old boy version of me was – and clearly, there is a lot of confusion in this mess of a poem. The loneliness of being Serious screams out as well as the isolation and the longing to understand why. There is arrogance directed at my peers and frustration about being young and naïve. There is longing for adventure and there is romance and there is longing for a mysterious “she” on a hill that will understand me and gaze up at the same stars I saw.  Maybe this she was the blonde runner I idealized and had a crush on or maybe this “she” is poetry or The Muse.

In these words, I find a boy who wanted almost too badly to be an adult without any real understanding of what that meant, but was fairly prescient about it “My child will crumple in the heap of an adult.” Clearly, not being Serious wasn’t a real option to me, and I was bound and determined to figure out why and what I was serous about.

And so I wrote.

stolen from the wind

this quiet voice heard
stolen from the wind
wanting to take it away
to wherever wind goes
when it whispers to the dark

captured in a heart
in the beat of its four chambers,
tender, throbbing
kept safe,
given blood, given life

its echo led to a hole
sand dug by a child
with plastic shovels
in plastic pails
until deep enough to climb in

the surf filled it up
one gentle wave after another
until buried into a whisper
it began to cry out
“hear me… hear me… hear me…”

now heard
this quiet voice
surrounded by others
dug up from the sand
begins to sing

as it always has
to the gulls and dolphins
to the otters and sandpipers
to the crabs and mussels
who have been here all along