Wednesday, September 5, 2012

Blue Moon at Newport Beach

(I reconsidered my rule about not posting personal poetry on the blog. One poem per year is not bad at all.. right?)

Shall we collect seashells? I didn't ask
For his mind was already with the waves

A man on a blanket close to me, seemingly at ease,
but why the intense look & why does he have so-much-stuff?
He then goes to stand guard in water, ah his daughters
are riding the surf

Sun is dipping, final plunge so swift
Like a woman exiting workplace at end of day
weight of waiting-children at dinner-plates pulling her
7:24 PM, her day is done

Toddler in pink frilly bathing-suit
chasing a fat seagull too insulted to move
Surely the sun is playing peekaboo with children
on underside of earth for the moon is now up on the other end

The daughters come out and walk to parking
older one giving the younger a hand with the boards,
movements so steady as when in an exercise high

I pick a few broken seashells, kick an abandoned wet-sand fort 
         War's over, go home now
Even as a baby even before he said amma he'd bring me my swimwear
as if asking shall we go to the pool?
Now chasing the waves with father as friend,
water, water, little-dolphin in water
Ayyo are the waves are getting higher
I wonder

And worry. The headstand will be good for you..
The AM yoga-instructor had showed how to, oops, she said 
Never forget to tuck the shirt BEFORE going up, hahhaha!
I walk and wait in the car, away from the dusk-wind

An old Chinese woman is walking up and down methodical
A pensive wheelchair bound man is on beach-walkway
moving so so slow. He doesn't have a disabled person's grit
A summer visitor to this beach town who met with a water accident?
The man and daughters are still getting things up into car
unmindful of the drama of sun, moon or sky hues, dissolved
In their worked bodies, each cell crooning happy

He wheels his sad chair alongside a bench facing the set sun
just as a woman comes to sit. She glances around, hi she says
with kind friendship. It's like a painting, I like to watch,
she shows the sky. Oh yeah, it's beautiful
he chimes, his face breaking with feelings
Ocean and sky giving them something bigger
than themselves to hold on to
They don't notice the moon at the back
Why would they, when the woman's smile is brighter
than the bluest of moons

Chinese grandma reaches the edge of walkway
smooths her aching joints and toils back to shore.

Do you think people are nicer here?
Surprised- it seems like it, he says, turning the ignition key,
remembering how other cars slowed for highway-lane changes
But a tourist's perspective is sometimes, only that


The other poem is here.