water weaves waves

water weaves waves
reflecting brick and weeds
window refracting sun
sprinkling light
on playful crests
weaving water waves

full moon recall

dream
salt sea foam
clams scurry
dig themselves
into sand
as the waves recede
we are young
i wrap
burgundy and cobalt
gauze scarf
about my torso
my nipples show
i reach out
to touch
your silken sandy curls
as cigarette smoke
sinuously rises
your voice rumbles
weakens my knees

Transition: July 25, 2016

Dark night,

sea seeps into sky.

I make footprints,

sand soft against my soles,

soft against my soul,

dipping my feet

at the ocean’s edge.

First light fills the sea.

Sable brushes

against sky.

Ebony ripples

topped

by pale whitecaps.

Still,

the sea is monotonously calm.

One small wave

lands at my feet.

Clouds fall into horizon.

Sky grows lavender

and pale azure,

flaunts charcoal clouds.

Rain

comes.

walk.

East,

stirring of orange glow.

By my right shoulder,

moon peers through clouds.

Sandpipers descend

from

wherever they spend the night.

Feast on

tiny shoreline organisms.

Nimbly avoid

the sweep of waves.

Race forward

and back

from water’s edge.

Skim across the sand

in a motley crew,

in a ballet of

choice

fate.

Now,

Bach’s major chords.

Lemon, rose, violet commingle,

create

a path to the horizon.

Clouds consume rising mist.

West light expands.

Sun capers

in cloud mountain peaks,

rises from the sea.

Indigo clouds stretch,

unveil coral cumulous,

so fluffy

I could eat them.

Cloud column rises from sea,

lays against green sky.

Thunder crashes,

booms.

Lightening cracks open sky.

Heat leaps from sand.

Moist

heat

rises,

cocoons me.

North turquoise sky,

dusky blue ocean.

I turn south,

purple horizon,

salmon undercoat,

azure and lemon overlay.

Creation

every day.

Backyard Sunday

I lay flat in my small, urban yard and heard the cheering fans at Camden Stadium, the young urbanites at the bar at the end of the block, and the occasional radio rolling by in a car. I sank my body into the slate footstones, trying to unfurl the tightness stored in large quantities, imagining the Earth’s warm core seeping into me. Listened. The chorus of birds sang to their young, caught in the interstices of the cacophony of the city. The new leaves and pink and white buds on the crab apple tree were splayed with sunshine. I sat up and dipped my brush into amber, sapphire and emerald watercolors. The paper was fresh and white.

Buddy, my black and white cat, meowed to come join me and I opened the door. He settled comfortably under the tree, hoping the birds wouldn’t notice him. Suddenly, Buddy decided it was his chance to jump into the neighbors yard and try to find that orange tabby that lives somewhere in the alley. Yikes! Buddy is a rescue, with no claws and two teeth. The tabby outweighs him by at least 10 pounds. The orange tabby probably eats rats bigger than my cat. I ran out the gate, captured Buddy, and threw him back inside. He was indignant, but saved from his own intentions, as we all need to be at times. I went back and completed my painting. It was a glorious Sunday.