monday morning at the beach high tide

i.

monday morning at the beach high tide 

but almost no surf

waves as high as my ankles

the sun rises higher

peeks into the cove

light spilling down into a pool of sea

a curl of rocks & swaying seagrass

creates a translucent dream in water

chased with bubbles and foam 

like a place i'd assume

a goddess or miss nyad would emerge

so chaste so shy delicately dripping 

ii.

an enclosed getaway seen from the sand

table for two at an open double window

i've never seen it occupied

the rendezvous faces the sea on a cliff

there's art in the walls and cunning signal flags

sometimes they leave an outside spotlight on

it's a sodium arc oldish yellow pointing down

into the void to a spot on the sand 

they might sip tea at dawn's first light

or late in the night eat rare steaks

otherwise it seems like holding space

holding space commanding a sweet view

holding emptiness and being far away 

i am that tragedy and so are you 

iii.

high tide receding with gentle waves

at the place where seaglass has been gently placed

he reeks of cigarettes and marijuana

i wonder if he can smell it

we all reek i assume mine is sweet

to some i surely offend

now that i think about this

all i can do is sense

he faces the sea he takes a selfie coughs

he reeks and the sea reeks

but the morning light is right

near him i find purple sea glass of the rarest kind

under where he stood i find a piece that looks like a crystal

and dogs run free the pristine beach is marked

but no matter while we are away it will redraw

our stink molding somewhere else

and more seaglass but i must go

we all must go

i never had it so good

for instance today

like last saturday

in the morning
i'll buy you a large coffee
and a croissant 

at the french cafe

down the street 

with locals 

and tourists

you won't remember

to ask until we get to 

the boutique just like

every saturday morning 

there's the same plane

flying north and 

the same strong sun

and hint of breeze

then i'll give you

the coffee and croissant

with a zarf on the drink 

& some added cream

i'll drive to the library

just like last time

and get new art books

i tried my whole life

to become something 

like every sports car

i see with the top down

i thought wanted 

what i could imagine 

and there could be

no unhappiness

in plotting

no regret in

gilding the lilly 

no regret dooming

my enemies 

now in this life

i know what 

saturday is like 

every saturday

has nothing to do

with conquering 

or getting even 

settling scores

i see so many

with a distant

look in their eyes

i never had it so good

I want to write a story about how I’m going to remember you

I want to write a story about how I’m going to remember you, in a narrative like Kurt Vonnegut would imagine -- first we pull you magically out of thin air, then we put you into smoke, then vapor, then moisture, we put you into ashes and with a flash you go into an old body that is very still and pale. Under a sheet, then Voilà! You breath and you spend a few days visiting and then from time to you stay in different hospitals always getting a little bit better, stronger, more clear eyed. You tell stories, you help friends. Then as the years go by you get younger and younger, have a happy marriage and interesting career starting as a know it all but always learning something new every day. Giving up knowing it all, all along, finding one laughs more. Admiring waterfalls, mountains, rockets and rodeo queens. A fast car. Bunches of roses for lovers. Dreamy nights. Bright stars. Becoming thirty then twenty then teen, running and jumping and laughing and finding a crush then school, home, mom and pop in brighter and ever tightening circles, dawns and starry nights, orchards and field, your favorite dog, you’re small and fast and you sense the rhythm of all little things like waving strands of grass and polliwogs in the creek and you’ve got your blanket and then soon you’re being held close, everything amazingly given to you, now in such a safeness you don’t know where you are you’re in solace that gets bigger and bigger and even more peace, a humming and thrumming, until these definition between you and bliss becomes totally moot and even irrelevant.. sweet motion until there’s no sound no dark no light not taste touch thought or sensation, no self and no not self … just bright and aware and full of a seeing, wise delight without any boundaries that goes on beyond infinity and hope and fear


For Jerry Thompson
1935 - 2025