Surf Rises

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Surf rises
To the mirror lip sun,
A moment before
White thrall,
Loose of integrity
And slack
Of reer-up and shore call,
Pales the deep blue
To a lighter shade.

Near the rocks
Haze moistens the air
With sticky salt
Greasy on every surface
And root grasping trees
Survey the consistent pulse
From high, squinting promontories
Stark against the prevailing horizons
And the sea changing sky.

copyright 2016 Ben Truesdale & distilledvoice

Beachcomber

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His is the barefooted
Sand grain press
And cushion, cool toes
In the lapping edge.

And where brine falls away
He looks
To find treasures
Brought on tide

And by the sea’s means,
Things cast high
And left bleached.
His is the measure

Of time in waves,
Regular draw
And curl forward,
And again

The pulse
Of far ocean
Felt in an oscillation.
And through the night

His ears
Hear the surf clap
And crash
In white frothing excitation

Yet his eyes
Are to the black sky,
Spattered in constellation
And celestial bodies

Glimmering as the
Phosphorescent beings
That light
The universal sea

At his toe tip reach
And in the fluid ocean,
And in the intertidal furls
In which he lives:

The light years he perceives
So close
He can nearly
Touch them.

© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2015

Delight

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Delight in liquid sea-green,
Washing pebbles
In transparent equality.
Solvent clear as air

And cool
To bathe the blood
And salve the sun,
Hot on the body.

Perhaps a metaphor
For transition
To other energy:
The ever blue

When we
Were nothing
In the seamless
Beginnings

When freedom
Was our own,
As was
Fluent, weightless buoyancy.

© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2015