Sunday, March 7, 2010

Working The Dream Exchange

I go down grassy
Dunes, with sling
Of tools, to the
Beach --littered
With leather straps,
Brass buckles,
Shin boots, hobbles--
Where souls rode in
On waves that rolled
Out of bridles,
Surcingles and slid
Back out to sea.
They are little use
To me, but I untangle,
Sort and store them
On sand for those
Who strike out,
Traces in hand,
From this shore
And need them more.


  1. Umm. I always like stories, poems, and movies with first person narrators like this, probably for me because I am not. You and my best friend Ed are like this: doers and seers. I am a seer but not a doer, and maybe at most reluctantly. "Down to the sea in ships" We memorized this in Catholic school fourth grade. I thrilled to that but never wanted to be part of it. So? I thrill to this poem. Maybe that explains a lot between us...?

  2. Willie,
    All I did, or all that got me thinking about it is donating some money yesterday for Chile aid. Dropped it in a fireman's boot at an intersection. I thought of Poseidon, god of earthquakes, sea and horses and ended up wondering what sort of tack you'd harness waves with. If help can be sent from one beach to another, why not dreams? Seeing and doing mingle in dreams.

  3. RSS feed says this is a revision you made yesterday. Darned if I know what you did. I still like it, if even more on more readings, but I'm curious about your revision.

  4. The word, "their", percolated out from between "of" and "bridles" in 10th line. The waves were tripping over it.


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