15. It's Halloween !

And NO! It isn't hollow!
Hallow's it, despite the mispronunciation.
There's difference between hallow/hollow.
Eek.
But, maybe nothing much is hallowed these days
along the lines of history and language.
Happy October. Let November in the door.
Another new year.

14. and dry?

not gonna happen 'long as saltspray flies off the waves
and seagulls wee and tides come 'way in
although
hot days, parch wants in and
moistureless is the way things go
especially when it hasn't rained in a while
a long while.
skins can get burnt whatever color they started out being
and eyes prolongedly exposed get damaged.

gotta reserve a bit of damp to survive.

13. and when it rains, oh,

for the spirit?
no such cleansing elsewhere.
to walk Gulf-ward between howevermany drops
there are, soaked by some, missed by few -- and
know the happy chill of such touch -- the spirit takes flight
as if heron-taught, and floats
above all hints of things that mar release;

to test the textured changes underfoot
and smile at dry not really far beneath, or
mark the speckled surfaces where heartier plummets
tried for overt permanence impossible with life's tries;

to watch through blurry windshield-eyes as wet makes
dry forget its past (an enviable state for some?)
how much delight its freshness, what dedication to the task
it's got and shared with those of us out in it
prepared or not, with or without amenities of cover...
the rain's unparalleled, unique, enthralling,
never summoned nor sent off by our commands.

what special spirit food!
to miss such feasting ?
what great loss be that.

12. white sand, sand-white crabs

safer, ever-so-white and shadowless,
rarely seen, seldom sought,
their tracks distinctly theirs.

entryways (scratched alike) to
homes dug to size, furrowed out
sandslungwise -- their way -- must be fun

but must be tiresome too
to rehome every tide or every
human step or heavy windblow.

low profiles theirs. good thing. they've
kept their numbers up despite what counts
as enemies.
I hope that lasts
so they proliferate.

11. the morning birds

before dark's quite stood up
to trade vigils with this day
their waters-edge race-spree's on,
more joy than competition.
so quietly and numberless they tread,
stepsounds muffled by punctuating waves.
they miss nothing, take in every birdish thing
(thinking ahead toward morsels day will bring?)
and should thinking be not their thing (it's sure they
have a form of it) the beastilets know just where they
love to be,

earliest, the safest time, and free.
so free, so grand for me to get to see.

10. seaweed

variety itself:
somedays lots and others not
but always its way different
from krinkly pink to thready brown or
brittle black or green and slimy purple
wadded up collecting helpless creatures seeking
exits -- yikes! dead-ended by some shorebird's beak.

we haven't seen it all and won't, because it's always new
(and old) and evermore returning.

the laughter comes when beach-wheels hire at unreal
highest prices, a cleanup crew at tourist-time to rid the view
of kelp. and after all the work's been done and workers gone on home,
the water sneaks up at high tide depositing a ton.

9. but lightning, now,

that's something else
and nothing to ignore.
it has this friend accompanist that
plays when action's close enough to
let it
brandish lotsa muscle.

makes duck-for-cover one of those
essential unplanned triggered moves
a splay of brightest light announces.

that thunder's rude sometimes; both
grimace-making pals demand attention.

you'd think old thor had brought his megacycle
gang to town.
but no. it isn't thor at all.
ah, no.

it's us protesting stuff the world expects
from dames and broads and chicks and crones ---
enough! the lightning and the thunder?
Best pay attention, kids. We thrive on being
unpredictable.

8. ever watch

the stunts clouds try to pull off
in a perfectly clear sky?
starts with a puff or two so thinned out,
hardly visible.
next time we look up a crowd's gathered up there,
trying to play van gogh or somebody on a blue background.
all kindsa shapeshifting going on,
teasing our copy-cat mindsets into games of
"oh, that looks like a.." until the images change.
so much character-acting, from comedic lead to villain,
lights and darks with sometimes thoughts of rain
and sometimes storms that tire, then exit on cue
when the curtain's down and showing off proscenium-wise is
too much work.

7. sometimes it sleeps

the wind, that is.
is it, though? asleep? or like some child
playing hide and seek, waiting to see if we'll
wonder where it went?
does it enjoy watching sailboats slow to a crawl
or waves flatten out, become nondescript
or windmills still?
does it orchestrate its play? easing into gentle breeze
only to go whooshing around with our hair or a bunch of leaves
or laugh as the seagulls and pelicans test its lift? I'll bet
it does, else why so multifaceted?
you call its motivator god? where's the whimsy in that?
perhaps your god's the one so furious in hurricanes or
dreaded tornadoes, and not the wind-being at all.

think what you will, remembering that
so will each of us, since
none of us knows
the truth.

6. the wind today

isn't grandstanding.
seems happy enough to watch itself
move treetops and branches about (not to their limits)
just enough to give 'em exercise.

it does have its moods, oh, yes.
there's times it seems to sing, and other times
curse, bordering (and going beyond the borders of) violence.

when it gets on one of those tears,
best stay outta its way.

5. a kite or something

we'll fly,
maybe.
or perhaps we'll get to see a
certain happening or two
or maybe not.

but, long as we're on the move,
surely we'll find something to do.

at least
we can watch while
time flies its kite, urging us to grab the tail as it does,
swooping us, open-eyed or blind, into its vortex, helping us

forget
the big deal:
time's the ingredient in this mix we take for granted,
the great NOW's IT, and when it's past, its present can't be opened,

all that giftwrapped nourishment it fed us? only phantom aftertaste.

4. and the tide

not only pulls or pushes us
and every near or inside-it creature,
it symbolizes life,
our tenure here,
and how death's changes have
immortalized what life has been,
never quite eradicating us.
it symbolizes f o r e v e r
in forms we might not readily believe we see
for what they really are --
yet,
inspection carefully ventured
can reveal such intricacy
to the seeking eye, in depth of focus,
and show how
life continues,
pulses,
even dares to let us feel its breath.

3. could shells have imagined?

how many,
whole once,
failed to perceive value
in becoming
shattered,
scattered
all apiece,

not knowing how vital
every
particle
is,

not knowing how life's
just that . . . .

a grain here, a shard there, a tiny biticle
without which
there would be
no whole.

2. it's the intent to get up

no point wallowing
even in perceived (or not) comfort.

that getting-up intent
whether we succeed or don't
-- that motivation; that drive to m o v e --
keeps us alive
makes us well
and,
once up,
happy as hell to internalize

everything about
upright.

1. falling doesn't hurt so much

when the sand,
when there's enough
to make it soft,

it catches even the hardest fall
almost as if it knows
despite the best kind of getting-where-we're-going

we
are
gonna

fall.