Cold between lines

Those vibrant, powder fed dreams 

White-hot sand mines

Tearing away at reality seams 

Hard, dry comatose eyes 

Wait once again for starlight 

That quiet moment of respite 

Then synapse sparks

Like flint meeting stone

Torrid cerebellum blaze 

Burns away as memories lay prone 

Only ember and ash remains 

Testaments of disrepair 

Forever forgotten 

Locked away behind that wintry, dead stare  

Salty spray, cool against my sunburnt skin

Let me take you to a place

Where I have, more than once, been

Sand as white as snow,

Reflects like tiny shards of glass,

The incandescent solar glow,

Brilliant, blue waves sweep softly

Over tide-worn shores

Further down the coastline,

Magnificent green hills greet cloudless skies

Like nostalgic companions, never meaning to say good-bye

My fortunate eyes soak in every sight,

Screeching ‘gulls float on the Pacific’s tranquil winds,

In this place where sublimity never ends,

A rock-ribbed jetty crawls from the beach,

Into deeper and darker seas,

It extends into the ocean with jagged disregard

For the kamikaze waves that fly in, such terrifying thrust

And explode upon the giant rocks,

Leaving nothing, but a briny crust

The sun begins to set on Del Mar’s coast

To call the scene magnificent,

Hardly a worthy boast

Radiant reds, rich oranges, vibrant yellows, and vivid pinks

Follow the sun, as it quietly sinks

Into the water’s cool embrace,

Pin pricks of light begin to appear

As dusk takes hold and gives way to night

Yet, still I stand,

The frigid tide now at my knees,

I feel the ebb and flow of waves now retired,

My hands tremble, as my fingers graze the water’s foamy surface,

Another day has come and gone,

But alas, another chance of a sunlit dawn,

And dreams of a land not far,

Dreams of Del Mar    

I wrote a poem for a poetry journal awhile back and just now understood my own writing.  The poem is one of transcendence, a passage of time.  It describes transformation from youth to adulthood.  

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I am a little choir boy, sitting in the first row of pews

I am Mark Grace, smashing rubber ball off of black tee

I am a sharpshooter, sending composite orb through nylon

I am a nerd, square framed face, metal, wrap around headgear

I am a tree, blooming into something I have never been

I am a batter’s nightmare, elusive white and red sphere flying from fingertips

I am a dork, butterflies flit at the very smell of femininity

I am scared, a boy playing a man

I am a warrior, transformed by the trial of cattle brand speech

I am a ghost, green and black covering tan skin

I am tired, forced to grow too soon

I am lost, surrounded by scholar and academic aura

I am found, more intelligent than I ever knew

I am fearful, the sound and smell of hatred all around

I am worn out, an adrenaline plagued nightmare