Baker Beach Poems

01 - 02 - 03 - 04 - 05 - 06 - 07 - 08


A Grey Day

A cold grey day, silver blue
streaks in the wind, the water,
cloud puffs, driftwood lying in
the sand, the tanker reappears
once again,

blue, red, squares on top of the
massive slow moving hulk, speeding
forward, nevertheless, to an unknown
industrial destination, which is hyper
rational, with no magic,

an object of economic analysis, cancerous
hyper-growth, a symbol for vacant politicians,
and angry columnists, an icon of a world
filled with American technologies, coercive
tools and erosive toys,

a world measured in money and summarized by
statistical numbers and faceless demographics,
the ocean is hitting the shore, it hits it a
hundred times a day, until it hits it perfectly,

a rare moment,

with water, spray, and wave,
not pausing to savor the satisfaction
of a certain moment.

The Ocean

The bridge is here, one turret glows
with sunlight, the other is covered
by clouds, the ocean has also never
left, there are two seagulls in the
air, they are unaware of compressed
time and coercive employment,

of this flopping competition, if you
practise concentrating on your breathing,
you may someday understand the teaching,
which is not really particular, yet which
is perfect, the profound truth of concentrated
practise, which brings absolute freedom,

the ocean is unaware of nuclear war, it has no
use for Manhatten projects, you know--the UFOs
are laughing at the Star War blueprints being
cooked up in the military think tanks, but they
really take the concept of nuclear waste seriously,

in the Buddah's day, the ocean always lived in
the moment, it had no ignorance,

------------ no life
------------ and no buddah.

The Seagull

White neck and head,
grey body, black rear,
yellow beak, pink feet,
its wobbling walk, quick
glances, white foam
--------- ripples, the ocean's
tongue receding
----------- and approaching,
the lift-off, wings flapping,
-------- then soaring,
like a glider with no movement,
a fisherman casts a line,
--------- he gazes towards the unknown horizon,
you know, devoting oneself
--- completely and sincerely,
to one thing is not as easy
- as it seems.

A grey seagull and a white seagull,
stand nearby the fisherman,
who like a sentinel stands
with his companions
---- 400 yards apart,
and you see, concentrating one's
-------- whole physical and mental being
-- is supremely important,
a grey seagull with a black beak,
and flecks of brown
lands on the sand,
and flicks its head,
back and forth,
giving its whole mind
and body,
to what it sees,
to its washing, to its late breakfast,
and a shrill siren wails,
about this collateral damage,
the robber barons are stealing

----------------- all the money needed to solve,
all the problems in the
--------------- United States of


A soft mound, granules, brown
crystal, white, grey, black edges, oval,
hard rocky grains, polished, soft to the
breaking touch,
the Buddah became lost in China,
the foam, spider webs,
puddles of water, in each written
- wave, that crashes into the damp
sand, when we become
sincere about our daily
life, we pay attention
to everything,
and everything has magic,
and then there are no seagulls in the air.

01 - 02 - 03 - 04 - 05 - 06 - 07 - 08

All contents of this site © Finberg Books 2000-2004 by Michael Arthur Finberg