The Tide

Another poem, because, well, writng poems is one thing humans do….

lazy ripples lap at tumbled rocks
rising to the tidewrack of dead weeds
then falling back, depleted and serene:
slow breathing of the sea

the farther waters refract empty sky
darkening daylight to a mimic of deep night—
sunglints on trembling water:
boats pass over
careless of darting beasts below

seagulls fight for scraps
by a midden of corn chips and stained wrappers:
detritus of our paltry aspirations:
fishermen fling their hooks across the tide
while their womenfolk sit by
sharpening bright knives

we don’t know what brings us here, none of us…
hungers and lusts are packaged in our world
and we are given the names of what we are
in tiny whining voices of machines…and yet:

under the blue sky, over wine-colored seas
we stand and pretend, see ourselves as
beasts on the hunt…
and the slow tide rises and subsides
as it has always done
cold in the lost moon’s arms

Rick Risemberg