Poetry         by Scott Crosby                         © 2021

Poetry should make you feel what is real.
 
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Sea Smoke

So crowded; so crowded; all these other water molecules, all so close.

And all the colder ones keep packing together; squeezing me out.  Out, and up.

Up?  Up to where?  What is up there?

More of the molecules I am bumping into now are as warm as me.  Those cold molecules are below us; beneath us.  Less than us, as we go up.  Beyond them.

And now, we are at the top; top of what?  We seem stuck; we’re all here; where do we go now?

Let’s break out!  Yeah, that’s it.  Let’s leave this place, with all its cold molecules!

We’re too good to stay here with them!

And so . . .  we . . .

Break free!  We’re out here, together!

Hey!  Where are you going!  Stay with me!  Hey!

You’re drifting away.  Why?  Where will you go?

Come back.

Come back.

I’m getting colder now.  Drifting along; up, down, and along.  Drifting.

Part II.

I’m getting warmer, now.  Warmer, and climbing.  Still drifting?  Yes, but climbing.

And sometimes, bumping into another.

And another; and another; more now.  Where did you all come from?

What are we doing?

And more of us.  Some stay; we’re staying together.

More and more now; more staying together.  What is happening?  Why is there change?

What a big group we are now!  What a bunch of us, all warm together!

And we keep going up, and then down; up, and then down.

And each time, more hop on; more join our group.

We’re big now.  A big group.  What will we do?  We’re a big group.

We’re going down.  More down than ever before.  We’re going down.  Why don’t we go up?

Still going down.  Down.  We’re going down.

We’ve hit something!  We’ve hit!  Hit what?  What have we hit?

There are a lot of us now!  Unending numbers of us!

No more falling.  Just here.

So crowded; so crowded; all these other water molecules, all so close.

Scott Crosby     December 2016

Sea-drawn

Hear the sea’s calling roar, muted, far away?

Hear the muted, distant horn? Steer clear! There’s rocks this way!

 

He’d think of hulls once and again, that plied the distant blue,

Far from the ocean, now, but one day the wind bore salt

His nose so easily knew that smell and up he looked at how clouds did move;

Two hundred miles inland, in such a hurry that even here the whiff he caught.

Scott Crosby     November, 1997

Sunday Ride

She hopped on the back

one day for a ride

To enjoy a sunny day

through the warm countryside

An hour’s ride out we paused for a rest

and to let a few cars get a little further ahead

Then our climb we began from the flatland on up

to Caesar’s Head – we’d show them all how it’s done

That road’s laid out like a snake or a rope

you need a bike that’s light-weight, and that handles, to cope

Through the twisties we turned

down the short straights we burned

She leaned over just right

for each switchback, and S-turn

‘Til we caught up with that sports car

and on his bumper did ride

Then blew well on past, like a gunshot

when clear road we espied

The kids on their rockets were left far behind

all glamour and muscle, but on our dust did they dine

Like that it went on, for twenty minutes all total

those tight curves we straightened, as smooth as a yodel

To finally stop, at Caesar’s Head, high

she eased off the bike with barely a sigh

And all that she said, now given the chance

was “Well, at least, I didn’t wet in my pants.”

Scott Crosby     October 2008



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