Carkeek Poems: Tides 1

My beach has a lot of rocks
not sand, not pebbles, not boulders

they are hard walking, especially when wet
they stretch out around me

wounds
disappointments
lost dreams
in the Valley of Vision

waiting for the Spirit to animate them
and put flesh on their bones
so I can properly bid them farewell
before all I am and will ever be turns again to
dry bones and dust

just a few more rocks on the beach

It’s not language, in our sense
these wisps and snarls and scatters of slimy green along the tidal zone
no need to twist itself into concepts, distinctions, judgements, assassinations

Still, it communicates
a sense of the great speaking of All:
the rainbow
the pebble
and this dance of seaweed

What does it say
to the foam
to the indifferent geese who nevertheless listen
to the still-attentive shells
to the ripples that will shortly return?

Though I can’t read that scrawl
O Earth
your message is clear and unmistakable

Blaise Cendrars (1881-1961), modernist poet

Filmy substances everywhere:

film of fog over headland
film of seaweed on rocks
film of bird poop on log
film of dampness on feet
film of ash on sand
film of marshmallow on skewer
film of thoughts on Mind
film of water on crow back
film of seaplane drone cast abroad
film of obligations, regrets, hopes, impatience

what lies beneath?

“Because your mind pursues every object that comes before it without restraint, the patriarchs describe you as one who foolishly seeks a second head over the one you have.”

Linzi, 9^th century CE

The low tide breaks me

I can walk farther, see more
greet the purple star
the twin eagles roosting on rock
the pair of seals hunting
the two herons stalking
everything is doubled, you see
reflections on glassy sand

my second head explodes
the one becomes two becomes one
all because of the withdrawal of water
withdrawal of thoughts and concepts
leaving the unbearable aroma of seaweed, shellfish, life itself
for my double nostrils to inhale

Rhythms of white and black sand
Marching down the beach parallel to the shore
Patches of on-again off-again
Like trigrams
Predicting a future none of us will understand
Known only to the heron, the gulls, the crows

When the tide is in these patterns swirl and mix
Dance of dark and light as the waves mingle them
Forming new predictions
But still unknown

I could write about
the softness of clouds reflected on the stillness of water
the dismembered crab picked at by seagulls
the rust-encrusted ancient forgotten sewage pipe exposed by this minus-two-foot tide
wondrous continents of sand with ephemeral rivers and seas flowing

I could write about
the sun breaking through and winking at me among the ripples of sand

but then I would be tearing the moment apart
(as the seagulls tear the crab)

I would be deflecting
diffusing
avoiding
hiding from
this very THIS:

this never
repeated
gone-as-soon-as-it-appears

moment

but to call it “moment”

to call it

to call