Philip Costea
—Philip Costea, Roseville
If I could just wrap the Pacific around me
like a worn-out sarape
I would soak my memories in the seven seas
never to forget the tides
that tease the shore with fulsome breaks.
I clasp and tightly pack my sins in a skiff
careful not to break one
then smother a new coat of redemption on them
from my chipped bucketful of eternity.
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IF THE LONE CYPRESS COULD SPEAK
Would it say that this was the barbaric coast,
itself being alone for that very reason?
Would it pronounce that Drake
If the Lone Cypress could speak
Would it say that this was the barbaric coast,
itself being alone for that very reason?
Would it pronounce that Drake’s fleet was more stately than Cortez’s
unfurling a new break of waves on the infant coast?
Would it bellow its resignation and give up its cobbled mound
to an imposing neighbor from Big Sur
or the ever-rummaging black bear?
Might it, on days of satin fog and sandpaper rain
convoke the tides to hear tales of
glowing, sun-bleached beaches?
Would it, after being ostracized through time
hear a rumor of resentment
and whisper its irreproachable wholeness?
Or would it, amongst its network of pulleys and cables
sing its dream to grow in a different direction?
—Philip Costea
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TAKE MY SONG TO THE COAST
—Philip Costea
Quirk-driven mellow sounds from a Strat emerge
signaling another califorgiven day
these days were born from sea-smoke smog
where foam would congregate on high tide
and provide iridescent offerings to the afternoon light
I was young when my barnacled sea-gull angel
guided me down Beach Blvd.
to coalesce bone and sand
because, if anything, my joints rejoiced
and once the first sheet of Pacific translucent clarity slooshed over my sinking feet
my ails would drain into the receding backwash
Seal beach would surround and I would grab fistfuls of ocean and conduct
grand symphonies of crashing waves on crags of rock
spilling passion through every swell and break.
I basked in the ease of eternity
swaying from wave to wave like numbed kelp
letting go to the limitless mastery of blue
My maker let me thrive in the grotto of my imagination
giving myself a measure of exploration that waded through reminders of frailty
and the cotton-thick smog inland.
And then my moments eventually slimmed and slithered into tiny streams
splashing around stones of inevitability
Inland the intravenous 605 entered my bloodstream and pumped me through
the neon-veined city of angels
stinging and throbbing through the freeways of all my days.
I wished the gold hadn’t coursed through my veins after Hollywood hospital
the same way the city wished its freeways were empty now and again
Only that the copasetic coast would continue carrying its sea chanteys
to the confines of mortality
could I shake the smog-heap off my shoulders
and follow the trail of my sea angel again.
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Thanks to Philip Costea for today's poems! He writes: I am a 32 year-old English teacher at Del Oro High School. I'm a husband of 8 years to a gorgeous babe and a father to two amazing kids. I graduated with a bachelors from CSUS. I enjoy riding my motorcycle and snowboard, constantly learning and proud to be a Californian. I am looking to find an audience for some of my craft and hope to get a book of poetry done in the future.
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Today's LittleNip:
A car passes on a rainy street. Waking, a man yearns for all that has vanished from his life.
—Stephen Dobyns
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—Medusa
Salt Point, California
—Photo by Cynthia Linville, Sacramento
