there is a beach somewhere within
that we see in our fondest dreams
that we know is there, but can’t find
that we feel a deep longing for
white waves rolling silently in
curling into long nautilus’
infinitely at a subtle pace
as all to see is mosaic
sand severing solid ground from
our hidden heels and buried toes
warm from the soul’s burning idea
of the ideal here and never
intuition and the mind’s time
stuck between some set and some rise
awed by a favorite color sky
lifting up and opening wide
the coastline creeps away-both ways
numinous nights merge with lost days
and when a love is desired
it’s standing there in front of you
a dream so close, our eyes open
to sleep on this beach, lungs empty
to breathe on this beach, brain shuts down
to think on that which we overlook
Sea of Dreams
As the landing gears grip
the West Coast for the final moment,
he conceals his earbuds from the
ridiculously repetitive stewardess.
Tipping his Cuban glasses down
the Golden Gate of his nose,
his exhausted eyes survey the land.
It resembles a painting of Mt. Fiji.
“What would you like to drink sir?”
They don’t serve any drinks from the feet of the deity.
He asks to keep the rest of the can of Ginger Ale.
A broke man always accepts a free drink.
The thin outline of the rocky beach below
directs his thoughts to the Cliff House-
sitting snug above the white waves, beside
the Bathhouse Ruins, the moss, the cave.
His pilgrimage of insight had sealed
a place inside. San Francisco,
the first encounter with a true tandem
of passion and blind adventure.
There would be many more.
The memory of the concluded trip will be
a practical prayer, a positive scene to return unto
when hell and headlines break loose.
Perfect life turning points have become his
only addiction. He aches for them to satisfy
ever so slightly a life, a heart which has
always sought this thing that he can not name.
Darkness shines through the double paned porthole
onto his fragile face. Between clouds he sleeps.
Dream visitations create cosmic conundrums
that only the concealed third eye can grasp.
But some waking days are dreams
and those are the phantasm events
that we are blessed to remember well.
Where the mind is, there is treasure.