Jockey's Ridge

A great storm, it is believed,

lifted shoals and dropped them here,

hundred-foot dunes

drifting ever since

in steady winds,

southwest in winter,

northeast in summer,

saved from the developer

by one determined woman,

strong before the blade,

that men forever after

may stand atop the ridge

with sand in their hair,

between the sighing sea

and the growling continent,

drawn toward them both,

knowing it would be easy to stay,

leaning northeast in winter,

leaning southwest in summer,

floating always in one place.

copyright 2010 J. O'Brien, all rights reserved

Outer Banks

The wind from the east

carries the chill of the Atlantic

as it piles up the sea on the beach.

No collapsing breakers.

Only the relentless effervescence

of the charging surf.

The waning moon rises

out of black water

and paves its silver road.

Snow left
on the ground at home

and ice on the pond.

The wind will turn soon.

Nothing lasts.

Shifts

Margins and edges

Grinding and shifting

Give life its grain

The sea at the land

The day at the night

The summer at winter

The balance of beaches

Of dusks of equinoxes

A crystal existence

Privileged by endings.

Cooling

The ground cools, the pond

Cools – undiminished,

The mystery of

Water, window on

A fourth dimension

To close one morning

Soon, and in the ice

Another wonder.

copyright 2010 J. O'Brien, all rights reserved

Numerous

A wall of cloud in the east

flanked the enterprise of men

all afternoon, the comings

and goings, the north and south

of motors and the burning

of fuel to get fuel, endless

until it ends, until we end,

mining the ground and the air,

the water and the light,

getting and spending until

we have no place to stand.



We have grown too big,

we are too many,

too much for the earth

and for each other.



We cannot say why we see

the wall of cloud as a plea

to guard the earth

except that we must.

Avatar

As if we

needed

proof that

life is

stranger

than

fiction;

the past is

prologue.

joy is a tide and

grief is a tide

deepened by moons 

hunter harvest cold

moon of the dying grass

moon of the mud

and the shallow sea

ask me the mistakes 

i have made in my life

regret is a tide

copyright 2010 J.O'Brien, all rights reserved

Cape Porpoise Harmony

The horn bleats from the Coast Guard Station long after the fog has lifted, yet it seems in harmony still with the sounds of gulls and wind and men working at the pier, the sun uncovering and light pressing hard against the sides of boats, the surf tossing its mane as it rears up behind the barrier reefs on its gallop toward the rocks.

(As always, double click for a closer look.)

copyright 2010 J. O'Brien, all rights reserved

If I Worked on the Sea

If I worked on the sea

the cold pewter sea

I'd paint my hut yellow

with tangerine trim

and blue shutters.

I'd wear a red shirt

and a green bandana,

I'd get up in the dark

the cold broad dark

to sit near the flames

and watch the pale sun

crawl out of the deep,

the whole gray continent

at my wide red back

and I'd think brilliant thoughts

concerning eternity.

Toast

There comes a moment in some weddings when you know this is what you will always remember.

The best man was toasting the love he saw overtake his older brother.

He spoke of it with a quiet awe, and it put stars in the eyes of the groomsmen, single guys, rapt.

In that unguarded moment, you understood the dreams of boys and the dreams of men are not so far apart.

Coastal

For most of the people I meet along the Maine coast in November, their backyard is the Atlantic.

They are scrubbed clean of pretense.

They wear wool and Polartec and sensible shoes.

They speak directly and laugh easily.

Life seems best-lived powerfully felt.

Like breakers on granite, we would shine in our shattering.

Free to Make the Most of It

Frustrated, at first, that the local post office was closed again, this time for lunch, I waded through the weeds and sat for awhile on a smooth stone against the river.

Moving water is good medicine.

Driving home, I stopped for a six-point to cross the road. We exchanged glances.

Seeds floated in the sunshine.

The day is what we make of it.

Imagination

The ground is hard, and my steps

must ring like a bell in the pools.


A sudden swell where something big

moves unseen, muscular and swift.


Heaves out from the polished stones

and rolls under the bridge.


I don't know what it is

and won't guess.


 I like where the mind goes,

fantastic creature from another realm.

copyright 2010 J. O'Brien, all rights reserved

Afterglow

All the light of November, Thoreau said on this day in 1858, may be called an afterglow.

I thought I had seen it, walking back over the hill from the woods. But being experienced in this place, I sat for awhile facing the sunset, and I waited, knowing there is always more.

Nature gives as much as we expect.

copyright 2010 J. O'Brien, all rights reserved

Unspoken

I'm crouched in the leaves, experimenting with a new lens.

Blue has been watching. When I look him in the eye, he rolls.

I do the same. He's right. This is great. 

A richness of sound and texture and aroma.

We stay awhile. Sunlight lifts from us, rises up the trunks, into the crowns, and higher still until it tints the clouds.

Language can be overrated.

copyright 2010 J.O'Brien, all rights reserved

young moon

young moon

one moon

for every eye

bond enough

for those who see

Dog Snow

Snow thickens the day

Find shelter in husks


Gentle old Bob

Losing the use of his legs

Knows but won't say


Skilled care on the porch

Feet from the spot of his birth

Under the desk in the kitchen


Full fathom five


Carry on.

Self Worth

Rain on dark water

Listen to the surge before sleep

Blood a flare in your head


Please remain calm

It's just you you

force of the red and the black


Try you must to equivocate

Corporations are persons you

Are a person and so...


Fingertips to wrist feel

the thrusts of your enterprise

circles in circles in circles


Google pathetic fallacy

Please study the map

Flee to the untinted zones

copyright 2010 J. O'Brien, all rights reserved

Election Nightshade

The meter's off the charts and my fingers locked with cold stop

Crows fly out of their way to caw at me please stop

Sodium scotch espresso where the neck stops at the skull please


Engines compounding glee of the governor-elect hooray stop

Desecration accelerated by satchels of cash in the capital stop

Scarlet oaks flowers of the woods while they last advise please


Glowing toxins seep toward the surface flaring world stop

Money enough for fools hire the departments scatter the rest stop

Build me a forest the nightshade looks lovely stop please advise

copyright 2010 J. O'Brien, all rights reserved

November Sympathies

A heavier coat on the hook by the door,

Finger-cold November,

Whiter sunsets,

Sparrow-colored fields,

The old familiar walk

With the ever-new self.

copyright 2010 J. O'Brien, all rights reserved

Flare

Day reclaims the field, the frost evanescing and rising as mist into a polished sky as the sun clears the woods.

From two miles away we hear the throaty roar of compression and combustion. A new gas well flaring. All night the sky had quaked. Happy Halloween.

From space the signs of human enterprise stand out. We render the earth barren and uninhabitable.

We never have enough.

The briar leaf is worth a second click.

copyright 2010 J. O'Brien, all rights reserved