2 Poems  

Sometime I think I’d like to ride out on the crest

Sometimes I think I’d like to ride out on the crest
Where the universe is expanding, as I used to ride
The waves in Jersey as a boy.

And I would bring a book to read, for when I grew bored,
Because let’s face it, after all is said and done,
One can only stomach so much space before longing
For a crowd of faces, or a street sign never seen before.

And I would bring a fishing pole, the one my father
Used to catch the bass he wanted so desperately
To hang on our living room wall, and a bobber, and I’d

Dip the line down gravity’s well with singular attention
After finding a nice little dock near the center of it all, or barring that
I’d plunk down
And sit content in the vacuum at the edge waiting for a bite.
I might grow hungry while I wait, after a long day

Of surfing at the edge, and fishing on the bank.  I’ll need
A sandwich too.  I see that now.  Maybe I’ll pack
An umbrella, just for show, to keep my Mother happy.
I know how she worries about UV rays, as mothers do.

Recalling that, I’m forced to admit that fishing has always
Failed to hold my attention in the long run, unlike rambling,
And since my book’s already done, I might want to bring
Some company, or at least to be sure I’ve good directions

So that I won’t get lost on my way back home.
After a long day of imposed silence, I’ll need a break
From the sonorous nothing.  But packing a friend might be tough.
Most people don’t like being shut up in sacks

While someone else does all the surfing, reading, fishing,
Not to mention eating.  I forgot about that.  And the excretory
Necessities, and  . . .maybe this is just too complex,
A farfetched plan, it wouldn’t be the first.

Maybe I’ll just jump in my car, drive to the oceans edge.
Maybe if I can reach my friends, tell them to bring sandwiches,
We’ll surf, and fish, and read, and eat.
That sounds like a good time.  Still

I think I might like to ride out on the crest
One of these days, when I find myself feeling a little
Bent out of shape, when nothing becomes the only thing I need



A man, A stone, and A tree
 



The stone is gray, cold, rough in size, so hard
On the fingers when lifted it sits alone
On a hillside near a tree that could be
Budding. There is a sound. A crack as if

Of lightning. The sky is clear.  The sound is
A chisel straining against a mass, brown
With rust, tainting the hands of a man with
Time.  He is the one that brings the hammer

Down.  And now the stone is mobbed by masks. The
Air reeks of lemon like a hospital.
The eyes are winter.  Not a hair is out
Of place, not a bootlace is left untied.

The surface is covered. Each hand lifts and
Each face frowns as a child might before the
Struggling sound of a grunt reminds and they
Turn to watch him bring the hammer down once

More.  A cry goes out. The wind picks itself up
Out of desolation and lifts each lagging shard
That has not been pounded into dust.  Howl
A chorus seems to whisper.  Remember this

That we have left behind: A healthy tree.
But each imperfect stroke is still a stone,
And lifted by the wind as the masks seethe
The wind carries each to an ear to drone

Uncomfortably.