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