Semiosis of Winter Beach (Day 1-5)

Semiosis of Winter Beach:
Twenty Days in Ocean State of Mind
(excerpt)

Day 1
Flat grey/green stone about twice the size of my thumb pad.
Ordinary wear and tear on the “back,” but
Deep striations in geometric/hieroglyphic pattern
On the “front.”

Not a Rosetta Stone, no.
Treasure map? Possibly.
“Message in a bottle”? Hmmn.
Story of long imprisonment
and escape? Maybe.

Palm-like lifelines, divergences, canyons:
strong inclination toward one direction, but
explorations into new territories as well.

And here is the storyline of a fresh
Spring rising in a desert
And finding its way to
The sea of open air.

And deep indentations where this vessel
Of meaning was once held
Tight by a creature
With opposing thumb and palm,
Or huge dull teeth.
Metaphorically, of course.

All in all, it is a language of stress
And mute fracture,
Of time-traveling through
Dimensions of place
And emotion,
Feigning stillness,
Holding shape,
Beckoning sensation,
Fingerprint to fingerprint.


Day 2
I was scouting winter beach for the perfect white egg today. I saw it uncovered by the tide on Day 1. In my fancy, the oval bird bodies mounted on one leg with narrow end toward the wind were hatched one by one from this perfect white egg.
But it’s gone. Or hidden from me today. Anyway, it’s not a bird’s egg I seek, is it? It’s the egg of my own euphoria, of my purpose. Seeking that egg here on winter beach, but also, most defiantly, in cityscapes, and rarely, among the cumulous, cirrus, stratus clouds and, oh, yes! the stars!

Here on winter beach today are small, speckled, dimpled stones (eggs) with imperfect bodies circling and potent or potential. Flat on one side for broadcast news, like “wish!” or “awesome!” or “come to me!”

Here are large, palm-flattened, smooth, dark, slate stones. Egg-shaped, but somehow not eggs. These are weapons. Skull-stones, war-stones, hate-stones. Or in the hands of some, stones to make grain into flour into bread into community, into love.

One stone gave birth to me and is still calling me. Perhaps it is not smooth and shaped like the egg I am seeking? Am I the rough-edged chunk, broken from a daring edifice? Or the pearly chip of shell of short local life? No matter whatever. I am one with winter beach, the tides, winds, waves, and sand.


Day 3
There are ripples, waves, surges, waves of waves, and flights of birds.


Day 4
The most amazing sight:
At the back edge of the curling wave
Visible rising maze of mist.
And in the droplets,
A miraculous rainbow dashing
Along the edge of the tumult
Rolling colors out along the verge in
Littoral delight.


Day 5
Today winter beach is
About the fold,
The crease in the deep angle where sea
Meets sand.
Both surfaces tilt up from the fold.
I am on the solid facing toward
The mysterious slant of
Water into atmosphere,
Wondering what holds it
Up and holds me down,
With eyes that follow the
Sharp horizon up
And over senses;
and far into imagination.