White

George Washington powdered his wig

white.  Womens’ hair whitens when they let it

and old men’s too where they still have it. 

Shaving cream and Ivory Soap.  Marshmallows.

Wonder Bread.  Milk.  Whipped cream

on french vanilla ice cream.  At the Museum

of Modern Art: White On White,

Kazimir Malevich, 1918.  Linen sheets

with high thread counts that receive you kindly

after a day in the sun.  Clam shells  

scallop, and oyster shells bleached

to reflection on South beach.

In Edgartown, Dr. Fisher’s house is white

and the captains’ houses on Water Street

and the picket fences around them.  The Old

Whaling Church and other churches, but one

is brick with white trim.  At the tennis court,

white clothes are required, though the balls

are yellow.  Clothes are also required

at the District Court, but no color is specified.

Diners in white, sit at white tables

and wipe their mouths with white napkins. 

In 1967, the Moody Blues sang Knights

In White Satin.  Perhaps women wear

white lingerie and men whitey tighties.  

Ceremonial robes of the Pope and Bedouin.

Queen Victoria was married in white

and western brides after her.  But not

in India or China, where brides wear red

and white is the color of mourning.

The morning sun catches each lighthouse –

Cape Pogue first, then Edgartown, East

Chop, West Chop, and finally Gay Head

which is red and must be moved.  You

can see all five if you start early and sail

with the tide and a northeast wind.  Sailboats

have white hulls and white sails,

but 100-year old Herreshoff sails

can be tanbark, and the fleet at Nantucket

parade with rainbow sails.  Rainbow

colors don’t include white, except before

the prism of rain where sunlight

includes all colors.

The Dove of Peace is pure white.  So was Jaws.

Moby Dick.  Cod that saved the Pilgrims

their first snowy winter.  Swans, no longer at Wasque. 

Ghosts.  Phantoms.  Unicorns.  Snow White. 

White Christmas, Bing Crosby, 1954.  White out

in the fog.  Wite-Out on typed pages.  White paper

for printers.  White papers for Presidents.

White wash.  White noise.  White collar jobs. 

White lies, damn lies and statistics, perhaps Mark Twain.

Oceans white with foam.  Alabaster cities gleam. 

Poles for flags.  Stars and white stripes

that once stood for purity and innocence. 

White wine.  White froth on dark beer.  Lines

of cocaine.  A Whiter Shade Of Pale, Procul Harum,

1967.  Two aspirin the morning after.

White is a new beginning.  Wiping the slate

clean.  White amplifies everything that comes

after it, like grass stains on a Red Sox uniform.

It is the color of the page before the poem. 

The canvas before the art.  The sheet of music

before the notes.  It is the possibility 

of everything. 

Why I Sail a 100 Yearl-old Boat

Today when twin hulls foil on top

Why splash through waves that slow and stop?

With carbon-fiber’s proven use

Why still a mast of sitka spruce?

When titanium’s in demand

Why lay-up fiberglass by hand?

And as I stop to think of it

A GPS would help a bit.

The boat I sail’s a century old

At least in its design and mold.

When Princip shot Duke Ferdinand

That year when World War One began,

When Charlie Chaplin’s on-screen vamp

Introduced The Little Tramp,

Then Cap’n Nat got Emmons’ note

And made by hand the H12 boat.

He had a goal for ease of sail

So kids could learn in Buzzard’s gale,

Though it’s not hard to make her go,

The trick is not to sail her slow.

The gaff-rigged main can be perverse

The peak-set is the devil’s curse:

Stretch it, loose it, lower to lee,

Forget to raise – a tragedy!

There’re more mistakes that can occur

When putting up the spinnaker.

I’ve made them all and here’s my list –

It starts with getting a forestay-twist;

I’ve had it doused into the sea

Which slowed my pace considerably;

Other times it’s up too long

And I jibe the mark completely wrong.

This H12 boat can separate

The best, from sailors not-so-great

Because it tests their seamanship

Instead of high tech brinkmanship.

So when it’s a comparison

Of Cap’n Nat and Ellison,

I’m proud to sail, when I cast off,

The boat that’s named for Herreshoff.

The Derby

He
grasps line, doubles
rod – feels male, more
competition than dalliance. Hoping,
daring, challenged by The Derby,
alone, off-shore, naive sea
peace. Big one testing
our filament.
Spooling,
tighten drag,
don’t line out, turning,
retrieving. Turns away,
against drag, against tide.
Reverse boat, clumsy chase
backward, not steering, reeling,
tip up, tip up. Spool out,
back boat, reel in.
Dark
shadow,
what’s that? Dorsal
fin, great rolling belly,
white belly, half boat length,
boat length away. Skin plucks
taut line, nervous both ends. My
fish, goddammit, him and me, not you!
Awkward maneuver boat, fish,
shark. Lazy arrogance,
shark continues,
seals ahead.
Hour,
no give, line
binds, 7,000-pound boat,
unweighed fish, 12-pound
test. Must be big, Derby winner,
picture taken, little speech,
Hemmingway. Con-
centrate.
Half
hour,
arms tired – he
must be tired. Raise
him? No. Spool out,
hard to back, wind slaps
stern, sea peace gone, gusts
coming. Run again, waves top
stern, not safe. Pay attention.
What are we going to do here, fish?
He
lets go.
No tug, snap,
just release, simple easy,
end of handshake – good game,
sport. Game over, rewind line,
seaweed. Was that it,
just weed?
No
one
watched, I
never saw him. Hope
pride, imagination? Gone,
he didn’t get lure, I didn’t
get him, nor shark. No
trophy, no pictures,
nothing but
poem.

Historic Tree – Do Not Climb

the sign said, not
… enjoy its shade by the busy road
… touch the barky edge of its life and seasons
… feel the gnarly strength of its limbs
… remember the stories of its wooden rings
… take a dropped leaf for your box of treasures.

The sign was a prohibition
by caretakers preserving
its history, quarantining
its life. Fathers and mothers
of the caretakers imagined
its limbs the prow
of a ship, a trapeze
for swinging, a lap
for reading, but
they now reside in life-care
communities where
no one comes to climb.

Shrine

Beach pieces,
seawall assembly,
low tide footprints,
deer, dogs, disbelievers,
shelter from some tides, wind,
modest monumental bequests,
requests for safety, health
by unsure parents
adopting anyway
bits of shells,
feathers,
stones.

Married

They walk briskly,
every day, early,
on the side of the road facing traffic.

She wears a soft pink shirt, tan shorts.
He wears a floppy hat, faded pants, shirt with long sleeves.

Their children have children.
Both wear glasses,
Neither hears very well.

They talk –
what do they say after a lifetime?

They don’t hold hands,
but their steps match
perfectly.

Secrets

Soft and relaxed in the afternoon sun
They’re wrapped in each other, quiet and done.
The hot twisting action, entwining and wet
Has run through its cycle, the sensors reset.
Tumbling no longer unsettles their form,
As they lie in the sunlight, breezy and warm.
Do they remember their tight fitting fashion,
The bulging and tugging of previous passion?
Or, are they content in their soft cotton folds
With elastic forgotten as it’s gotten old?
Much like the old lovers, the fresh wash remains
Still warm with the secrets of Victoria and Haines.

Distracted

Sudden shadows lift
my eyes to birds’
eyes, the sea engages,
a poem begins, your legs
summer strong seduce. I
throw the dog’s ball.

Distracted from hunting
sea glass, I forget
to focus
on the amber,
white, green
detritus of other lives.

Since buying the antique jar,
our beach walks have
purpose, progress, success.

What will happen when it’s full –
that antique jar? Will we
be happy, complete? Will we
divorce, die, disappear?

What a distracting metaphor, life,
when you’re looking
for sea glass.

Decision

You can’t stand in the doorway, pup,
please quickly make your dog’s mind up.
Your state of immobility
may work for you, but not for me.
For while you wait and vacillate,
mosquito minds just concentrate
on what will be their great delight
to be inside at night to bite.
But you don’t care, ambiguous cur,
because you’re covered up with fur.
The time has come to conquer doubt
and make your choice for in or out.

Conversation

Empty now, chairs still circle
where afternoon voices flowed
with the chocolate conversation
of old friends.
A gap remains
where the too-bright sun set,
and no one could look at it directly,
like conversation about the lost child.
Chairs need rightful places,
the gap will disappear
then. Not yet,
what was said, lingers
in the leaves and morning dew.

Beach Stone

It was warm in my hand – the flat stone from the beach
Had drawn my attention, invited my reach.

It wasn’t attractive, not sparkling or bright,
Just grey on the sand among shells wet and white.

Did its wave-skipping surface or Vineyard like shape
Catch my eye, make me bend to this piece of Cape?

Its warmth was surprising, like soul in the stone,
Giving comfort, assurance I wasn’t alone.

So together we walked up the beach hand in hand,
My steps washed away by the waves on the sand.

Without quite deciding, my walk at an end,
I put in a pocket my quiet grey friend.

For years now it’s lain by the light at my bed
Where I’d notice it sometimes at night as I read.

And now on occasion, I reach out to clasp,
Not warm but remembered, the feel of its grasp.

Writing Classes

I’ve signed up for some writing classes,
With literary lads and lasses.
I hope my humble rhyming passes
The test of good and what the trash is.

Wise Teacher

The wise teacher
Hears the sound of the soul
Even in the voice of the coarsest crow.

Where's Neptune

Jet-skis make annoying noise
That blows in from the harbor boys.
With ample arm and pulsing peck
They jump the waves with sprouts erect.
Their testy youth’s a challenge bold
To me who watches feeling old.
Where’s Neptune with his mighty triton
To take offense and smartly smite them?

Water Color

In the earliest morning, just after the dark,
When the pond forms were fuzzy and the trees hard to mark,
A moment invited me into the scene
By painting me into my vision’s own arc.

The pale pond and sky shared the space in between
With sea grass and trees in a fog-blend of green.
The notions of motion and time lost from mind
Suspended by rose light too soft to be seen.

Not quiet, yet peaceful, this landscape entwined
The flyways where birds sang the songs long refined,
And liquid air summoned sounds it could achieve
Through drops of dew drumming a beat of some kind.

When I was a boy, I had tried to conceive
How big is the sky past the stars we perceive?
And what is its tiniest part that’s discrete?
And where do I fit in? And what to believe?

This live water color so full seemed to treat
All questions as moot, academic conceit.
With a presence sufficient, just after the dark,
In that moment of morning, it all seemed complete.

Visitor

Autumn announced herself last night,
Not to stay, yet,
Just a preliminary visit,
A kind of readiness inspection.

Her winds blew in from the north
Clearing the sky of its foggy warmth,
Bringing the scent of sharpened pencils,
And scattering the poems on the porch.

It’s August and Autumn is just a visitor,
A balancing obligation
For Indian Summer visits to fall.

There is still time
For a few more sails
And fresh tomato picnics.

Denial will do until Labor Day.

Sundress

Forgive my poet’s eyes from gazing,
They simply find your poems amazing.

Instead

I should have said, “How right you are” –
As I biked across the moving car.
The driver shouted, “Smart move, Dude.”
But instead, I motioned clear but crude.

Foggy

The fog confuses me.
Its disorienting distances
Make me feel
Alone.

Colors dissolve like pigments in a puddle.
The grey hidden places outside whisper
To the grey areas I have hidden within me.
It’s hard to distinguish image from imagination.

The air and water couple in the harbor and its sky
And in me too, I suppose.

Liquid pinpricks resist,
And invite me.

Voices are the flat monotones
Of people at night in another room.

The wet flag clings, like a sheer miniskirt,
To its long-legged pole.

It’s wet and fecund, seductive and scary.

This is tricky territory.

Encounter

With racing feet, the chipmunk materializes
Soundlessly on the deck.

She skids to a frozen
Stop,
Startled to find another
Presence on the porch.

On she scrambles guiltily,
Like a guest caught reading
The rough draft of my poem.

In the sun, the dog sleeps,
Comfortably ignorant
Of both the encounter
And the poem.