Invitation

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Stuffy
solemnities
on a Sunday morning
while all the outside natural world
beckons.

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The Stranger

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Leaning back, floating in the waves
        off Tybee Island, a stranger amid

the jellyfish, rays, mullet
        that skitter on the surface

making me wonder what bigger fish
        are chasing them, and other creatures

unseen. Here, in their world but not of it,
        immersed yet separate,

alien
        even to myself.

The Wave

Driving east
toward Tybee Beach,
the smell of salt air
takes me back
twenty-five years.

I see in my mind
the shape of
one particular wave,
and the bob of your head
as you drift away.

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

And now, with the stresses bold:

 

Driving east
toward Tybee Beach,

the smell of salt air
takes me back
twenty-five years.

 

I see in my mind
the shape of

one particular wave,
and the bob of your head
as you drift away.


For dVerse. Tonight Gay would like us to reach deep into our natural poetic rhythms. I first posted the poem without noting how I hear the rhythm, to give you, dear reader, the chance to find how you read it on your own. This is an older poem that was written without rhythm necessarily in mind, and I think it is pretty typical of my inner beat. Do you hear it the same way that I do?