Tidal Sights and Sounds

*
*
*
*
*
*
*
*
*
Towards Evening
*
*
The muted roar of tidal surge
sounds like a convergence of one
million whispers.
*
Reflection of the sun's unrolled
like a ragged carpet on the surface
of the sea.
*
To touch the wind with your tongue
is to taste ancient salt and conjure
braids of kelp.
*
Soon the sea will say its vespers
deep inside its tidal whispers.

*
*
Copyright 2009 Hans Ostrom

Sleeping Seaside

Sleeping Seaside


The sea can give only so much. It shrugs
tides inland as far as possible. Then its
conscience, the moon, urges caution. What's
left behind on strands looks broken or worn.
Anyway it's exiled from origin and function:
a cracked shell, a driftwood plank.
A receding tide's a kind of regret.

Hearing the sound of surf all night erodes
the will's high bank. That's when a tide
of sleep advances. That's when you wade
in the water, child, and shrug off the day.


Copyright 2009 Hans Ostrom

After Next

*
*
*
*

Next

What happens next? Next happens
next. You go to a funeral, a hard
summing-up, and you feel as if
something's been sealed. Not long
thereafter you're standing in a
grocery store, buying celery,
or you're at home pawing through
mail distractedly.
*
Tides of ordinary
life roll in, unchecked by what we
deem momentous, even cataclysmic.
In the midst of broadcast
disaster, when time seems like
it should be seized, people
need to go to the bathroom,
put clothes in a closet, feed
farm-animals or a pet. Our
own parts in the flow end, yes.
The flow, no, never ends.
*
*
Copyright 2009 Hans Ostrom