we may lay resting on firm conforming sand
and run our hands through its body
like warm bath water, except dry and soft,
and our fingers collect rocks.
we never know what's there in the sand
until we go digging
with only the tools we have
hands
trowels
elbows
plastic shovels
curiosity
and the likes.
mindlessly piling
playing like childthing creatures
in our memories.
our backs against
all the nameless years of named-less emotions
who have made exactly the shape of our bodies
resting on firm conforming sand.
our backs against
all the millions of tiny specks
we beckon into our hands
and the burdens we find
and don't need to understand
resting on firm conforming sand.
we cannot outcry the ocean.
a flock of seagulls will call
insistent we ex-press
and dance a part of all the rest
and continue to lie,
to cry,
to walk,
to stand,
on firm conforming sand.
who will forget our shape when the wind blows again
will forget we struggled and found our way within
whose true shape will match
the sunlight through the water at shore
and the molecular twist of life's structural core.
in repeating ridges
whittling pattern bridges
over the rocks we know are buried beneath
that we feel supporting us under our feet.
we know that our strength lies in our grief.
sheets overtop Us contract and expand
temporary forms, a piece of wherever we land
we ourselves
made of firm conforming sand.
and run our hands through its body
like warm bath water, except dry and soft,
and our fingers collect rocks.
we never know what's there in the sand
until we go digging
with only the tools we have
hands
trowels
elbows
plastic shovels
curiosity
and the likes.
mindlessly piling
playing like childthing creatures
in our memories.
our backs against
all the nameless years of named-less emotions
who have made exactly the shape of our bodies
resting on firm conforming sand.
our backs against
all the millions of tiny specks
we beckon into our hands
and the burdens we find
and don't need to understand
resting on firm conforming sand.
we cannot outcry the ocean.
a flock of seagulls will call
insistent we ex-press
and dance a part of all the rest
and continue to lie,
to cry,
to walk,
to stand,
on firm conforming sand.
who will forget our shape when the wind blows again
will forget we struggled and found our way within
whose true shape will match
the sunlight through the water at shore
and the molecular twist of life's structural core.
in repeating ridges
whittling pattern bridges
over the rocks we know are buried beneath
that we feel supporting us under our feet.
we know that our strength lies in our grief.
sheets overtop Us contract and expand
temporary forms, a piece of wherever we land
we ourselves
made of firm conforming sand.
This poem is from my body resting on the beach by the Point Hudson Marina in Port Townsend.
8/23/2015
Being adopted, "nature, nurture" is always been interesting to me, and it continues to have many layers. The soul quality and the active circumstance, the personality and memories, the tendancies and patterns.
My friend Paul Crawford, reflects on this poem:
"I feel the grains of sand beneath me and they are ancestors going back dozens or hundreds of generations They're all there. Every one is propping me up as needed. And other grains are experiences, my own and those of all those ancestors. Places we've been, things we've done, things we've learned. Family and friend, those past and those still with me. Wild places. And music. Always music.
"Oozing out of the firm conforming sand is LOVE.
"It's a question of whether all those grains are molding me or whether I'm doing the molding. Are those grains of sand conforming to me or I to them? The answer must be "Yes"."