Friday, October 12, 2012

Beginning to Row

Lake Huron
—Photo by Katy Brown, Davis

—B.Z. Niditch, Brookline, MA

It is October
and my orange kayak
is docked
near a tourist ship
of fake pirates
with a skull
and cross bones flag
on the mast
hearing the shanty
voices telling tall tales
of misadventures
for treasure
on the high seas,
the sand itself
starts to sing out
as a sweatshirted poet
is on board
in the only other vessel
on cold New England waters.


—B.Z. Niditch

Waiting on the Cape
for a beach umbrella
on miles of dunes
from the shore rain,
a few scarfed tourists
stare at my promise
to take out the kayak
in the frozen waters
on Columbus Day,
as a Woods Hole science class
glares at anemones
by the cloudy bay,
my photographic memory
jolts all impatience
of the weather prediction
for a poet's voyage
over the Atlantic,
with my red eye
from insomniac nights
that will not close
until I begin to row.


—B.Z. Niditch

Dazzled by
the light bathed waters
rippled in luminosity
under sun soaked dawn
in the home harbor
of Rockport,
heavy sea breezes
lift you up
on a beach chair
leaving my life jacket
on the orange kayak
in meshes of the Bay
moored by the sail boats
glistening and intoxicating
your latitude of memory.

Jetty Joint
—Photo by Katy Brown

—B.Z. Niditch

The horizon is cold
for an October
blazing with first light
of hungry dawn maps
over the quarried side
of the Green Mountains
we are laughing on rocks
under the long grey sky
to peer into crags
of a dislocated future
it starts to rain
on the lonely crevices
drizzling on our glasses
for Octoberfest
in gestures
and wild rumors
of a windy storm
written over clouds.


—B.Z. Niditch

Drawing landscapes
from an easel
facing the sea
by roots and veins
of hundred year elms,
dawn limbs
cover the painter
on October's first light,
egrets and sky birds
circle by the bay
as shadows from dunes
yard arm nature.


—B.Z. Niditch

Bend your good ear
to me, Vincent
put down your easel
on the kitchen table
calm yourself
with some chamomile
on this Fall day,
your face needs
more color
in the Holland air
of the fields,
your brother Theo
is to arrive
to hold up your arms
and give you alms
for your have not eaten
or slept alone
in a starry night,
your skin is the yellow
of your painting,
you long for love
and sunflowers
of the Dutch countryside,
ask for grace
at the table
for every artist
if he would confess it
is hungry,
thirsty for the wells
of good nature
and poor in spirit.


Today's LittleNip:

—B.Z. Niditch

No texting, kid
while driving,
better to play sax
or write
your diary
for the perplexed,
forget the violent videos
as teen life seems
always in jeopardy,
choose to read the Bard,
or the poems of St. Frank
the world can skin
you alive,
get with the words
of love
and survive.



Grate with Stones
—Photo by Katy Brown