Monthly Archives: July 2016

Wading into the Surf with Fifteenth Century Poet Sage Kabir at Wrightsville Beach, NC, Along with My Nine Year Old Son August

WB

Wading into the Surf with Fifteenth Century Poet Sage Kabir at Wrightsville Beach, NC, Along with My Nine Year Old Son August

I agree, my friend, the water and the waves are the same.
Knowing their names does not make them different.

How quickly six hundred fifty years of wisdom
are occluded by a splash of salt water in the eye

as my son insists when we haul him again from under
his arms and up through the air that he be thrown

into the wave and not the water

July 7, On A Highway In North Carolina Between Thunderstorms Around Sunset

July 7, On A Highway In North Carolina Between Thunderstorms Around Sunset

The moon sticks from the sky like a cat’s
claw snagged in a dark gray carpet.

Except the room is moving, the carpet is
shifting until the entire crescent, unmoving,

is visible. And like something caught
in a dream it hangs there and does not fall.

Those things that are so much bigger
than we think they are. That are not caught at all.