More ‘70s babbling. - By Mizeta Moon

Storm coast

The fury of the storm I see while looking out my window,

Is mostly screaming, howling winds,

Heard over the clock ticking on the mantle.

As the fire crackles and sputters, we chat in fading light,

But I feel the need for a change of pace, 

From the view of a water-soaked, mud-splattered highway.

I wander toward the ocean, dear mother of raging maelstroms,

Attacking the land with laughing, snarling jabs,

Searing the marrow of gaunt, bending trees.

Jack Pines and trailing vines merge with sandy dunes,

Facing cascades of waves, incredibly furious,

But yet, poetically moving and fluid.

Turning to hissing, crackling whiteness,

Exploding in a foamy line across a beach,

Littered with earthly treasure.

The tremendous surge tossing driftwood about,

Twenty foot logs as if they were toothpicks.

So small one human against this,

An inferno of elements so biologically rational.

Pourings of regenerative life essences,

For souls and spirits on every level of life.

Leading to rebirth when the sun comes to dry tears away,

Reabsorbing excesses upon every surface.

Apollo’s chariot with its shiny disc wheel,

Treads the sky with horses in rein.

I see the spark of him for just a moment,

Before Poseidon unleashes another battery of rain and mist.

Battering, lashing against windowpanes,

As I return to my fireplace and your side again,

Finally whispering so long for now.


First touching

Your perfume clung to me all the way home.

Every place that you kissed, still tingling.

Some hot, others cool, an unfamiliar warmth,

The electricity of your hair, a tactile memory to be cherished forever.

To make contact. To go from fantasy to fact.

All in a heartbeat, but what a pulse quickener.

That breathtaking moment when,

What’s been in our eyes transfers to the senses.



Tomorrow will be too late,

To touch your lips with love.

Today the nectar is sweet,

And I am here to taste,

What may never bloom the same again.


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