Baker Beach Poems

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The Flow

The ocean is so angry today, it’s frightening to watch the waves,
make a burning white hole in time, in the wet sands with footprints,
releasing radiations, harnessing fierce winds of gravitation, a dog is
petted by its master following this similar pattern, some people in the
distance seem about to be purely eliminated by waters heading toward
this ferocious singularity, sucking up consciousness, spraying an awakening
that is the destiny of hydrogen fed evolution, a man on the beach is drinking
beer as the crimson roar of the ocean brings Omega even closer.


A married couple is getting photographed on the Martian beach,
a far away solitary figure sits in the distant beach corner, two seagulls
walk together, two fly above the cliffs, and these headlands are brown,
green, and gray, their carved tributary branches dropping into the sea,
some Mexicans walk in the sand, broken strangers in a strange land, a
blanket of gauze-like fog begins to smother the cliffs, crash go the waves,
oozing, swishing, sound, the grand tour, many kilometers long, known
liquid waters, these Martians building canals into the dense fog, the fog
horns toot and all is gone, but this gray whiteness.


Harsh winds, silver, white foams with numerous blue colors, cold
air that freezes everything brilliantly with rugged soils left behind
by sulfurous astronauts extending these faint bands of rushing sea
tides, as a dog retrieves a stick thrown from the hands of the ancient
moon, all life came out of these waters a billion years ago, crawling from
sea tombs towards dry Martian lands, a man, a woman, and a child walk
by me now, the bridge is over-shadowed by a white mushroom cloud where
there is no longer blue skies, as dogs quickly run by the battered meteorites.

Fog Again

Fog covers the bridge, but sunlight illuminates its foundations
with a drifting glimmer, only the edges of the cliffs can be seen,
but the colors are bright today, the silent water is peaceful too, as
a jogger navigates the far ends of the beach,
a tug-boat sits in the suspended water,
two seagulls fly in the air, separated by this vast mind sky, one
flaps its wings, the other glides to infinity, two pigeons
scurry around in the sand , three more follow just behind them,
the tug-boat rotates,
only the steel bottom of the tanker is visible, because of the
fog, the seagull shouts dreams, and the pigeons coo, close beneath
as the tug-boat curses the laughing water.


Green hills rest by the receding road, this is a rough world,
a windmill, these eucalyptus trees, on the left side of the road, there
is an anxiety in the pale blue sky, it is only natural to ask this shroud
of clouds why was I born into these times, the black cows dot the land,
white ones too, like mystics coming to serve a desperate need, in response to
granite rocks, and the cow herds that challenge those farm houses like orange
poppies ringed with these sharp barbed wires, the scurrying quails run into the
barns with their weathered planks that sit like soft hills in this dangerous
world of change, yet the black and white cows know there is always a
hidden changeless foundation.

Bay Waters

I understand these bay waters and the green grasses, their contributions to
the clouds, to the puffy cypress trees on the Marshall-Petaluma road, where
there was peace in the weather-beaten buildings, where there was no fear in the
calm waters, their priority being the sunlight shining on the waves, quiet as old
ships on the land rusted way near the oyster company building, when I was a
boy there was crab and shrimps in the sand spits, the mists being just
born in these silent peninsulas everywhere, the small green bushes flourishing
near the marshes, a falcon flew by the pier and the white picket fence led to nowhere.


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