“The soul should always stand ajar, ready to welcome the ecstatic experience.”
- Emily Dickinson
Could I bring my poetry to Paradise,
or is it just a madcap dream,
a reaction against a cafe culture,
the ironic pose -
a southern signature
of icy veins and cool disdain
blowing in Antarctic winds?
Could I be reborn
in the Sunshine State,
where the yearning sets of crystal
waves
lap long white beaches,
carve jagged rocks in astral shapes,
where surfers come to dive, drop in,
stoked on spray, on pure delight,
the roiling joy of golden mornings?
Could I find a poetry of new beginnings
in the frolic of the iron men's steel,
in knife-edged thrills
that tease and tempt
the blurred dark shapes
of a predatory ocean,
as lean young limbs
ignore the peril,
send spirit reeling to apricot skies?
Could I offer the sturdy northern tribe
the power of words, fresh thoughts to gather?
the power of words, fresh thoughts to gather?
And would they listen, or
just half smile, be kind,
text emoticons that chart contempt
while I chase freedom,
airy ways,
the light and shade of coastal wonders,
remembering only too well
how a southern dawn breaks
hard and grey
in my chilly urban seas?
© bba, 07/02/2012
