Morning Rain

 

    Rain, falling round about
    Is gently covering
    Everything I see.  Keeping
    Now is hard, rushing
    Off as thoughts strive
    To do.  There has been
    Much rushing, striving.

    I stood like this in the
    Yellow Sea, stretching
    From here through the
    Barbed wire fence
    On out to the horizon.
    Later with my
    Seabag near I
   
    Watched the bus coming
    To take me to Pendleton . . .
    And in a rain like this
    In a grotto near
    Newport Beach with her
    Eyes sparkling a sweetness
    I was sure would last forever.

Before the Wind

    Sailing before the wind
    This long while I
    Wasn’t prepared to
    See it change, put
    Me on a broad reach,
    Scrambling below for
    My spinnaker half-

    Heartedly, settling for
    The Genoa and as the
    Wind grew, the working
    Jib and then the storm.
    Fitting this if it's more
    Wind than I can handle,
    Limping from stem to stern

    Well enough when the weather
    Was fair, but this strange wind
    Shoves me whither it will.
    Now down to my smallest
    Sail, gripping the tiller with
    Knuckles white I feel
    The overwhelming come.

Wounded Bait

    I’m here as well as I can be,
    Braced at foot and knee,
    Thrust-spear honed sharp
    Pointed toward the herd –
    No time to think of what
    Comes next, whether to be
    Or not in a pleasant place.

    After the wolves my leg
    Won’t work as of old –
    Can’t run to hunt –
    Can’t pivot to fight
    Enemies who come.
    I can stand here and wound
    The beast that runs me down.

    Good food it will be for those
    At camp and good to see
    By those who dash out at
    The right time.  The sun sees
    Me too, breathing all this 
    In as I should, and fine:
    Hunting here one last time.