NOTE — I borrowed lines and inspiration from my 2011 poem: Skye Fyre
The SunsetGunn is loaded, the controls, in GunnMaster’s grip
calmly concentrating, he scans the horizon with careful eyes
the golden sun having made his journey, is weary from the trip
quicksilver moon will very soon, traverse the starry skies
Gaia rolls on gently, hushed in quiet space
GunnMaster has her skyline, locked squarely in his sight
Gaia pulls a veil of stars, slowly across her face
GunnMaster has a task, he needs complete before its night
he’s to set the sky ablaze, before he falls to sleep
a fiery coral-orange, twilight-blue, and crimson-red
in patterns broad and bold, in colors rich and deep
he carefully aims the SunsetGunn, and blasts it overhead
in a brilliant, blinding flash, he sets the dimming skies a’fire
in vivid hues, and lavish shades — the dusky sky ignites and burns
GunnMaster has succeeded, so for this night, he can retire
the SunriseGunn already loaded, in early morning, he returns
Standing at land’s end
atop a soaring precipice
jutting into the Pacific
I’m observing an Osprey
aka sea hawk
a magnificent single species
with four subspecies
these creatures
have ridden earth’s thermals
over eleven million years
fishing every type water
of every continent on the globe
the one I’m watching
is suspended in flight
high overhead
130 feet above the ocean
aloft on the westerly breeze
billowing up
then wafting down the cliff
just then
a tight wing tuck
a silent dive
effortlessly
it snatches a surprised trout
from its water’s home
using its deft skill
with talons
turns the fish
headlong into the wind
inherently aware of aerodynamics
he’s taking it back
to its stick-built
life long nest
high in the top
of a conifer at water’s edge
I’m mesmerized
this is a younger Osprey
though it will make this dive
over and over
in its 25 years of life
always taking the catch back
to it’s monogamous mate
this is a love story
he and his mate
will remain together
during their lives
and may travel 150,000 miles
including extensive migrations
always returning to home nest
he first attracted his mate
performing an aerial display
known as the “sky-dance”
he hovered
wobbled in flight
and screamed for attention
all in the name of love
snapping out of this recall
I am suddenly taken
by the breathtaking beauty
stretching before me
undulating azure blue
that’s falling away
over earth’s edge
into forever
unfurling below
a white ribbon of sand
fragile
pristine
a breath between eternal sea
and towering rock facades
flanking left and right
in sweeping panorama
the Oregon Coast
in all it’s majesty
this is my summer perch
up with the Osprey
since first I discovered it
thirty three years ago
my thoughts are adrift
enveloping me once again
just then
the breeze freshens
disrupts my reverie
tosses my hair
buffers my chest
I shudder
bracing against vertigo
swept up in a feeling
as an Osprey
rockets down the cliff face
oh to be un-tethered
weightless
no longer earthbound
like that magnificent raptor
my eyes close
my soul lifts
takes wing
soars skyward
NOTE: Ospreys are amazing raptors. They require nest sites in open surroundings for easy approach, with a wide, sturdy base and safety from ground predators (such as raccoons). Nests are usually built in treetops, or crotches between large branches and trunks; also on cliff edges, or human-built platforms, such as forest fire spotting towers, and large power poles of towers, generally in the wilderness, or isolated areas very near wilderness. Osprey pairs return to the same nest each year and add new nest materials to the old nest each year. The only exception is when their nest is obliterated behond reclamation, either natually, such as by forest fire, or by man. The male osprey collects the sticks, branches, and debri, while the female assembles thd nest.
T his time every year, rich memories stir my soul, perhaps coaxed by the warming breezes of spring. Memories filled with the smell of leather, oiled in Neatsfoot. Maybe its the clatter of wooden bats in a canvass bag, the rattle of metal spikes on concrete, the snug feel of the ballglove, or tuggin’ on the ballcap, with the bill rolled just right.
Perhaps it’s the smoothness of the cowhide sphere, my finger grip on raised seams, that stirs in my warm recall. Or the click and clack of the catcher’s gear, as he crouches, giving me the signs. Maybe it’s my right foot on the rubber, just before my leg coils for delivery. The “hey batter batter” chatter from my infielders, just before the loud pop of the ball in the pocket of the catcher’s mit — me waiting eagerly to hear “steee-rike threeee” ring out from the ump!
Or is it your arm around my shoulder, the pride in your eyes, as I step down, entering the dugout, after retiring the other team. “Nice job pitch”, you say. “Thanks dad, I mean coach” is my reply. Your were my Little League coach, and you helped make me a helluva hurler — which carried my ball career all the way through high school.
It is every year at this time, that I think of all of this, that I think of you dad. How you wanted me to try pro, and how the scout felt I had the arm — but it is the path I didn’t take. I chose music and the arts, and you never made me feel sorry for my choice — one that you supported as genuinely as you did my sports. It is you I think of this time of year, you I still miss so. You dad, are these memories, and I love you deeply, now in this tearful moment — and always. Thank you for coaching me, and for loving me!
vivid white chalk stripes
laid neatly on soft tan dirt
dad’s gift of baseball
Yesterday is money spent
a corner turned
the choice that’s made
the tear that’s shed
the sentence spoken
the breath exhaled
the fuel consumed
the life that’s lived
all gone to ash
today is influence
momentum moving
the raindrop falling
hands on the wheel
the river flowing
the voice that’s singing
it’s life breathing
it’s face to face
it’s real time
tomorrow is the land of dreams
it’s the great unknown
the wheel of fate
it’s the far horizon
the dawn approaching
the planted seed
has no guarantee
yet it’s full of promise
and it’s full of dread
yesterday was once today
today likewise was once tomorrow
tomorrow will be yesterday
but first it must become today
this is the strand continuum
how we see it through our eyes
it stretches from before awareness
and far beyond all that dies
are we essence — riding it timeless
or being — to but wonder and surmise
as we watch it passing by — so helpless
P assion
let it flare fire red
red as the shuttered windows
of Paris rue du limuze
that conceal the carnal
intertwined
on a starburst night
in the throes
of steaming conquest
ripe with release
coursing with hunger
for the tender flesh
of reckless passion
white hot
as a deflowered bride
burning with the lust
of an august first-night
impaled on the horn
of promise and desire
there will be no truth
in these minglings
only raw bleeding need
and the quenchless thirst
for bittersweet
forbidden nectar
when you hear
the hushed whispers
know that it was so
and so it will remain
in the lithe loins
of the skin slaves
fully aflame
behind Paris red shutters
“Yesterday is history, tomorrow is a mystery; Ride and live today” Steve McQueen
Fueled by the freedom of the open road
racing away from routine’s grasp
leaning tightly into curves
wind whip’n long hair
the knees tucked
head bent low
motorcycle
rockets
loving youthful revolution
living in the moment
not counting time
not worrying
just being
free ¥
