Setting Sail

Lures

—Photo by Katy Brown, Davis

KAFKAESQUE IMAGES
—B.Z. Niditch, Brookline, MA

Kafkaesque dream images
so powerful here in my jeep
after I fish for answers
to my nightmare
in the copper light
of a less than courteous sun
for an unguarded moment
commingling on my mind
in a slightly deaf and death
shadow circling my car
by one red eyelid photograph
staring at me
outdoors at a stop sign
at dusk watched by
spy glasses of unknown
cameras taking our pictures
by unauthorized visions
on parking lots
even after happy hours
beyond city limits
by auguries and juries
as backdrops of memory
haunt us while secretly
taking our prints.

 Life Ring

—Photo by Katy Brown

LIFE JACKET
—B.Z. Niditch

Not forgetting the hour
turning blue like saltwater
pitched down at the Cape
standing below deck
in the home harbor
my sockets gave way
to city grackles and gulls
as whale watchers appear
on the wooden docks,
with latitude I take out
a photo of a jazz singer
from my wallet
crossing a Cambridge St.
yet I refuse
to make a fist to the sky
about an ex
who passed away,
the cold air stalls
in a jot of liquid silence
from a sleepless dawn
fearful from regrets
aching at sea years
setting sail
with this life jacket
at first light
in this old navy shirt
getting over a fever
dropping from an affair
of the mind and body
on board with vistas
from old sunglasses
bought for a song
at the last fishing port
as you recall
the keel and mast
from boiling winds
aromatic waves
blowing hurricanes
flirting with life
outlasting islands,
unexpected storms,
and crazed by
breathless breezes,
my logs still detailed
from studious sockets
as rain takes
on a ferry
for one more voyage
from beach head squalls
with a tidal journal
awaking buried loss
to waves on its memories
and swallow a conscience
as surf rises
on the ocean mirrors.

 Marina Gull

—Photo by Katy Brown

THE WAVES
—B.Z. Niditch

Thought waves
fishing for language
in my lexicon
while deployed
here by the crews
my breath untangles
and races above
all animated shadows
of a vagabond sun
on the Coast,
reels in memory,
rays hide out
as if to coax us
on the oarlocks
nameless voices
by tentative waves
of our own anonymity
whether we are
earth-wise or sea worthy
as my own empty body
smashes my jazzy mouth
of three syllables
shadows a coxswain words
along a drifting swim
to fathom what is lost
when welled up dark waters
rim along the lighthouse
on this navigator's waterway.

 Anchor Tip

—Photo by Katy Brown

WEIGHED DOWN
—B.Z. Niditch

Weighed down
fishing in this traffic
flowing and adrift
by the sea whirred on winds
along the weeds and dunes
by toxic dawn's helpless waters
and here on my roped kayak
by crags enigmas
anchored for my early voyage
finding a cod for supper
from one's wet hand,
for a moment's perfection
without worry yet feeling
like Melville at the hot sun's
bristling melancholy
of his balmy meanderings
without a history, only exile.
 

Berry Tree

—Photo by B.Z. Niditch

UNDER THE BERRY TREES



—B.Z. Niditch

Unexpected haven


out to the sea


redolent of berry trees


where you hide by aspen


carving your initials


as any fishing survivor


on this shade of dawn


clearing wrinkled meadows


filled with hyacinth 


where no spy or observer


could pick this place


here only a breath's wind


will speak from silence


among undiscovered rocks


not far from this coastal port,


soon grown up by the ocean beds


you embrace a shoreline sand


holding white sea shells


to expect a listening echo


in your hot grass blade hand.

 Blue Heron Itch

—Photo by Katy Brown

LOST RIVER 



—B.Z. Niditch
 

They retake silence 


enticed by collected winds


tapping the evergreen waters


into a numb maze of ice fishing


which soon became mine


as a mourning dove dives


into blackened waters


the ocean still rages


its burly breezes


from last Friday's storm


shelling the home harbor


and points North,


the radio news


travels briskly 


until a nervous confirmation


that local sailors vanish


once again by


the Lost River


that appeases fountains of


all imagination,


morning breaks 


in my tongue, like a heron 


floating at a distance


with so many names


to fill in and multiply


like cod and salmon in a basket


to the unveiling voices,

for waves can be merciless


like dusk, rain, even the sun.

________________________

Today's LittleNip:

THE DISAPPEARED

—B.Z. Niditch

(for Pablo Neruda)

Where are they
the children
the lost
those living in memory
in our solitude
those without strength
who march with us
in solidarity
who sing with us
toil with us
write on walls
all over the world with us
in prisons
with us
forever
clinging to a future
of the disappeared
and dispossessed
of the earth.

_______________________

—Medusa

B.Z. and Friends

Rockport, MI