Drenched in the Caribbean

In the tropics muck-mud oozes and maracas
dangle from the hearty grip of the samba-player,
his once-white shirt and sun-baked skin adhering
in prayer during a seasonal downpour.

Once he wore boots laced with Christianity.
Now melodic notes, as if from a flute’s mousiest,
metronome his trek through the underbrush,
caused by rain trapped between his feet and sandals.

A rusty cannon from before Roosevelt’s crusade
is inscribed with Latino names like Luis and Carlos,
an alligator rolls with rodent prey, dark island.
Speak softly but carry a sweaty wallet.

Rain torments roof upon a knoll decorated with
a weather-torn steepled church. In the clearing,
water drips from hair, tremulas in pools greet
the native. He is drenched but smiles, hearing angels.

Before the ivory no longer trembles

Before the ivory no longer trembles,
before the breeze-tipped sassafras
gives way to her lost lover at sea,

before all the maps are brought forth
and studied with special regard for oceans,
I want to spend a sunrise before the sun-

dipped wave-world. Away from highways,
universities, government offices, seminaries,
and most sentimental trees, especially yew.

I want to sink my toes into imbecilic
lagoons and blued landscape, imagine
a deaf audience under the gods' thunder.

Ocean Stories

I

Somewhere unseen, the undertow led
by Neptune’s dread keeps boats
out to sea. The gulls, naughtied
by tourists screech indiscriminantly.

The breeze is no breeze but blows
and thwarts the singing waves’ allegro
as Beethoven knew his waves although
confined to Viennese salt.

Teetering along the wave trails,
a baby bird catches late supper
and Dylan Thomas dithers the waters
of Kill Devil Hills, North Carolina.

where Walcott lives whether in more
or merely one. Salty tourists bottom
out before dusk where waters become
Neptune’s mustang-studded playground.

II

Before I ventured forth
beyond fortuitous reckoning,
before vision, before verse,
I came upon a drum beating.

I am of poetic mind and persuasive soul
but foremost a fisherman of lore,
lawyer of love, and bringer of harmony.
I am the key, the knot, the belt.

Headlong into the wind, bursting with fervor,
I prolong sentences, leave bounty
in way of commas, and carve
chunks of rock into musical scores.

Age as a deterrent, my youth cleaves
waves of water and drifts of sand.
Oceans chip and rivers carve
and in-between fishers starve.

III

The sullen praise of waves, monument to everlastingness
beyond a cold current made strong by age.
Sand makes all things soft through
centuries of scratching, so too our scratched love.

Time smoothes surfaces, ends edges through pain.
Degradation only strengthens, though years at sea
becoming without-a-country, but, like Thoreau,
true-to-soul. Sand itself becomes smooth over years.

Nobody’s dared walk-in-front, save winged company
(those whom we all can Troust, even Walcott),
land corrupts us all. Thunderous spasms leave
scars which harden us to life, soften us to love.

Hair curls like waves bursting like dreams before
our toes. Clouds like wisps of hair become waves
over hazy horizon. Hazy communication between
lovers, separated by elements both air and water.

IV

Strands of hair lost in sky, my cowlicked
might of wave, I am forever between water
and sky. Daily difficulties send me into rage,
my salt not-so-bitter, but tongue wound.

Graciously, I brush the sand from my scalp
and lie back down on the shore. My hair knots.
My nimble nimbus fills with hatred, a shower
eminent to rid tourists from my humility.

Now I ebb once more, a hairline dissipating
to a whisper, only a footprint remains at
ocean-side. Mud-shore fails to lure visitors
at short-shadow hour by the humbled sea.

Mussel shells once looted by sea gulls adorn
the sand here. Crustaceans served with butter
over china’d plates, serving to rid the hunger
of shark-infested tourist appetites, die unfulfilled.

V

Kites aloft signal foreigners to the wave-
chipped sands of oceanfront; flagging tourists
like a celebrated souvenir shop waving at them
through vacationed streets, “Adornments here.”

Wind-swept hair lines the beach like million-
dollar homes, the locks show more dignity than
the display of seaside villas and sand volleyball
nets, adorned with seemingly prostitutic pride

and tight arses. Moreso than they share, they grunt
and glow clutching hands of possession that build
bars steel as cars and “I love you” like a hardly
delicate seagrass washed ashore like driftwood.

“With this weed, I thee spread” and live
forever with your possessions, light of heart
and high with tolerance that you gave; delegated
forthwith and without solace. Seems sad dad.

VI

Shell patches on the sand remember Raleigh
on that frightful day in 1587. Creeping babies
and weathered ladies crowded on this vessel.
Cresting through a watered throng, Sir Walter

set himself on Hatteras. Collectors now rape the shore
but draped with more is Mrs. Nature, I’m sure.
Eventually, the captain’s men would steal treasures,
but beforehand, she’d roast a croaker supper.