Thursday, August 09, 2012

Dark Waters

—Photo by Frank Dixon Graham, Sacramento

—B.Z. Niditich, Brookline, MA

Your body
moves like stars
on the unbound wave
from my ditch water arms
breathing in a disappearance
on the abyss of ocean
shadows are empty spaces
when time dissolves
in memories of shivers
in a surf kind of wonder
below us merging into dusk
along the Bay's outline
reunited in the rising chasm
where reflections laugh
at the sunset illusions
of dazzled coral
lighting our sinews
on the boards of night.


—B.Z. Niditich

Tree sheltered
from silence
alone at daybreak
in consuming the sun
whose luminosity
at first enlightens
a few adolescents
out of breath
elusively running
to an uninvited
soccer match
on an enlarged field
filled with elm leaves
and fearless crows
swaying on branches
and asking like the birds
for good natured

—Frank Dixon Graham

—B.Z. Niditich

your absence landscapes
from memory of the sea
dwindles in lambent shapes
with intimate wounds
on a horizon of sky,
paints shroud
an intertwined echo
from musical stones
deafens the waves
in your watery throbs
along the sand dunes
of the Cape
half-asleep in the sun
consumed by our voices
by child laughter on rocks
and reefs of silence.


—B.Z. Niditich

To make up in August
any timeless winter
the sky and the sea
(Monet blue) will reach out
turning my camera lens
toward the gazebo
along an impressionist dawn
a painter brushes
past the tourist stop
near my parked bicycle,
offering me another glimpse
at the boats at Cape Cod.


—B.Z. Niditch

A vessel sails
on warm windy nights
along the white Cape
navigating our voyage
in the unclouded dusk
annulling our deep voices
under a full moon
of cabin fever
in subterranean smoke
and cautious shadows
over whispers of transport
keeping watch
on islands of observation
from dark glasses
our heads patted with oil
of past silhouetted love
which fishermen carry
on their open sore bodies
far from drowning memory
on the deck
filled with pitchers of wine
splattered by fingers
playing wild cards
and dice for a bed and bath
you wear a Greek cap
from a cunning runaway
with long unruly hair
wanting to be a sailor
orphaned and lost at sea
near the portholes
of your home harbor
bribing you to pick him up
with a scribbled passport
ink wise out of fear
but not his own
stolen in the darkness
from a beachcomber
without a right eye
unashamed of time
eager for
disjointed conversation
naked laughter
or smothered cupidity
in the inimical dark waters.


Today's LittleNip:

Our spirit speaks to us, we listen, then there is silence, then words until poetry says.

—BZ Niditch 



—Photo by Frank Dixon Graham