AUGUST

Today I will go to the beach
without towels, chairs, toys, a cooler, or sunscreen.
I will not plant an umbrella or line up chairs
to claim a spot for my family with all the kids.

Today I will walk alone to the sand,
nothing but myself and sit at the edge of the water
without a shirt, hat, or sunglasses.
I will plant myself on the shoreline like
the shell, a pebble, a stray black and white feather.

I will exhale all that I have carried with me
many miles from home, many years have passed.
I will empty my heart, my lungs, my brain
onto the wet gray sand and watch the white foam
take it all out to sea. And then I will inhale
the ocean breeze and take a picture with my eyes.

I will record the sounds of the birds, the laughter
and frustration of children flying kites behind me.
And before I get up and dust myself off,
I’ll say a little prayer and ask that I may
carry this with me as I go back home, to work,
to deal with all the hassles of the days and the
nights when I lay awake staring at the ceiling.

THE GHOST

white, translucent little monster,
a spaceship landed years ago
and out they spilled by the shore.
A swing of a weathered gate,
striking a pose in self defense
with his left claw up, daring you,
“just think about trying to catch me.”
Scuttling over grains of sand
as white and smooth as his body,
beady little black and bold eyes
twitch before he enters his home,
a dime sized hole on the dune’s edge.

WAVES

Alone, staring at the ocean,
smelling distinct breezes
pleasing, for a moment.
Think of all the ones who sat
beside you looking at the waves.
You spoke of friends and family,
who were long gone, even then.
Generations of wave watchers,
some you never met or barely recall.
Black and white photographs,
crinkly trimmed edges,
names, dates scrawled on back.
“Sunday best” suits on the boardwalk,
strange fitting swim trunks,
bathing caps with plastic flowers.
Vividly you remember, in high definition,
Technicolor, no less, those who sat beside you.
Sharp, clear memories, burned
on the backs of your eyes.
Impressions left from the crook of her arm,
an imprint of his hand on your shoulder
the weight of the baby on the notch of your hip.
Remembering them, now by yourself.
Thinking how time has washed them all away
pulled them out to sea, beyond the waves.

THINKING ABOUT KITES

I don’t think of kites as boxes or dragons.
I don’t think of them as diamond shaped
with long flowing tails, like in the cartoons.
When we fly your kite today
I will think about the one with an eagle
on its flapping plastic wings,
it will have outstretched menacing talons.
I will remember how it flew next to
the black and red kites with huge eyes
printed on each wing and how they
mimicked or symbolized huge bats
or aliens sent out to spy on us
as we ran on the sands of some other beach.

THE PERFECT GRAVEYARD

Cows with calves standing nearby
chewing intently, not worrying about life or death,
walking or running on age old paths
past the perfect graveyard, on the ridge,
in the corner of the pasture
where horses play and graze, where purple martins swoop,
and the angry flies bite all things living or dead.

Framed by barbed wire, its rusty thorns and tension
hold it all together with so many two pronged tacks.
Gnarly tree trunk posts dragged down from peaks
called English Mountain ,Hall’s Top, Grandfather Mountain.
All places named for us in order that we may find our way.

No names on these headstones,
no date of birth, no date of death
only a letter or two, a number one, an eight, a nine maybe.
No angels, crosses, lambs of God,
no here lies, beloved husband and father, rest in peace.

Just shade from mimosa, elm, hemlock
three foot tall thistles, light pink or purple flowers,
dropping feathery down parachutes that float through the air
landing on the jagged rocks, handmade tablets of slate.

When I pass away, when I cease to live or die,
whatever you want to say, I want to be planted here.
Put my body there, where the unknown ones lay,
next to those families who farmed the land,
who worked together while keeping it all beautiful.

They didn’t destroy the mountains, rivers or hilly pastures.
The only change to the landscape are the mounds
of newborn baby size rocks, so smooth and tan,
looking like loaves of fresh bread piled high to save the plows
while raking, windrowing, and baling the hay for winter.

Bury me here and then you’ll understand what I saw,
you’ll know why there is no need for you to hunch over my grave
next to plastic flower arrangements, mylar balloons, or flags.
You can stand tall and stare at the mountains, remembering me.

NAMING THE RIVER AFTER THE BIRDS

cursed, the same fate as plentiful pigeons,
quickly pioneers, early settlers, hungry poor people
hunted it into extinction, flocks blacked out the sun
filled the skies with flapping wings and feathers
is what the early journals and legends told us.
When the last one died, they stuffed him
for you to visit in a museum in the capital.

Unlike the birds, the river was put to death slowly,
a constant flow of chemicals from the paper mill,
the Carolina company, ironically named Champion.
After they killed the river, it was time for the people.
Tennesseans suffered, as the water flowed over state lines,
the aunts, uncles, grannies, and papaws passed away
alongside the river, in the foothills, under the great mountains.

Something went wrong when no one worried about them,
the same way that no one really thought about
the foul stench of bleach, or the fish washing up
on the shore, ulcerous legions, dull gray slippery bodies.
Court cases, two states fighting, bottled water for drinking,
promises of monitoring, controlling, testing to keep toxins
at an acceptable level for the government agents
who always seemed to be messing with the country folk.

Now after all the cancer in the little towns of the river,
the water runs brown, barely stinking, trees and grass grow green
fish jump, white and gray cranes poke for their dinners,
tourists pay to ride down on inflatable rafts with guides,
little kids and teenagers jump in for a swim or a splash.
Local families bring their meals in the evening for supper
skipping rocks, listening to the white water rush over rocks
and thinking about how many deaths it took
to bring the Pigeon River back to life.