when my feet were sore
we shuttled as tourists do
from one cobbled shop to the next
fitting in more than we should
seeking water, hoping for tea,
and happening upon the oceanfront
through the broken gate
all suddenly familiar
ruins piled in their own
kind of beach head,
covered with graffiti,
teenagers tramping for bait
grown ups looking on, mindful
the sea air insisting
in its universal way
that we all take breath;
the sun lowered itself
for vespers; propped
on an old stone wall,
you questioned me
in the wrong language
and I chided you
——————-
Inspired by a lovely travel poem by Jennifer Knoblock.
you would think as you walk
along the forest ridge
this time of year
there could be nothing more wondrous
than the not yet faded royal
of the sky behind
grey-brown branches, the last
leaves gripping on
but then the trail edges west
and beneath the sky
a darker blue surfaces
and below that turquoise
further on the low sough
of waves reaches you
and there you are again
lost in sight and sound
I do not cry loud for battle
having given my hand already
having held my dying kin
having rested under this willow
as the breeze swayed its lashes
smooth across my breast
having gazed into the open
starlit sky with the wonder
of many years yet to travel
No, I do not cry loud
but fill my days with labor
enough to wash my heart clean
fill my hours with listening
and pulling back, each in turn
fill my moments with remorse,
anger, gratitude, urgings
fill my weeks and years
revealing a future bit by bit
coaxed out in slow muddles
I do not cry loud, I do not cry
most of all for battle
for younger years, impatient chance
bold beginnings, heroic endings
ambulances overflowing —
yes, ruin teaches most of all
of emptied shoes shoved
into untidy piles, unnoticed —
I will not cry loud, no
———————–
Another for my father for Veteran’s Day.
Poems from in between 