Barefoot night beach walk, the cold foam,
My jacket caped over your trembling shoulders.
The ocean bubbled our ankles as we digested
Dinner: shrimp, champagne, and strawberry tart.
How dark it was except for that globe of chilled
Lucent gas including us on our stroll:
It phosphoresced the salty froth, effervesced your skin,
And giddied us with the laughter of spirited crustaceans.
When I leaned over and netted your hair
And robbed a kiss, you fished from the sea a lobster
And sprinkled upon it fresh winter berries.
We sat in the sand and watched the decapod return
To water scented with …
Thickly coated I sit in the snow on the side
Of a hill, peering down upon your home.
Wood smoke wafts warmly from your chimney.
I smell cinnamon and apples and baked meat.
Some type of celebration is going on,
I hear the horns, the laughter, the pop
Of champagne bottles. I wait for your door to open,
To see your shimmering image upon the snow.
A group of strangers appear in the front window.
They stare at my friendly face and yellow eyes,
Then lift their small hands to wave me inside.
I turn and pad into the birch wood,
Stephen Page has a poem on New Plains Review
Here is the poem:
Tattler, Tattler, quit telling
your tale; I arrive and find you
in your lounging pants, your horse
unsaddled. Quit looking bleary eyed
at me and saying you arrived just
five minutes ago. Quit. Quit.
The Bug-Sprayers inject their venom
into the air, multi streams of DDM
needle outward like an inside-out
Iron Maiden; the entrapped: cows,
birds, butterflies; the punished:
you and I; the ruined: global atmosphere,
water supplies; the victims: the unfed
of the earth with lies of quick
profit, with promise of a new grain belt.
You who weigh the wheat honestly,