Little Island
sigh …
a lifetime ago
I breathed here, vital -
dangled my topsiders over these
pier stones and pilings
tempting the dark leviathans
that swam beneath the bloated
August moon, reflected …
kissing menthols like careless lovers
concerned only with the moment (hoping)
and a pair of bow lips that
smiled beside me
in the mirrored yellow
glow...
an odd teenage
dynamic - three callow kids
consumed by craziness
and euphemistic particle smashing …
a trio of courses that spun
their own dreams -
flung on disparate winds
but wound together
by the timeless wonder of warm
midsummer moons …
entranced by the same opiate of ocean air
caught up in a manic whorl of
hormones and honeyed
twilight ...
this place
sang to me then -
reached deep and chanted an aria of
infinite attachment -
melded my being with its
charm and essence and immortality
but … I wasn't listening
all my arrogant ears could gather
was youth and ego and
the soft flesh of an auburn-haired girl …
warm arms that found
me naught but a dalliance -
a fun summer toy
bared and berried lips that I mistook
for love ... and more
and I, not the lone casualty
it lasted forever
but was gone in an
instant …
sigh (again)
now, I return
unsure of my purpose or intent
and the dulcet dirge that
doused me then still strains to be heard
its aching echo serenades -
tender, true and sweet
from some sacred place deep within -
a dark and holy realm where
hearts bleed fire
and dreams feed on marrow …
or perhaps these old, creaky poles have
their own weathered voices
brought to music by tidal bore -
gentle, rhythmic swells
plucking them like sad strings that
whisper, poignantly -
"we wait for you … “
“come”
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