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Once alive. Paul Goldfinger ©. Ocean Grove.

 

 

Career

 

By Charles Pierre

 

The smashed bodies of clams,

crabs and whelks onshore

show what the world’s about.

Yet from the shadow

of a broken shell,

a small beetle walks freely

into the sun,

its path etched

on the sand’s crust.

 

 

BUCKY PIZZARELLI :

 

 

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Spring Lake

“Here’s That Rainy Day.” Spring Lake, NJ. By Paul Goldfinger ©. Undated.

Spring Pool

By Charles Pierre

In the hollow of my hand, a pool is born
of an April downpour, the sudden flood
filling every crevice of pinkish skin,
the lines of life and heart and mind engulfed,

a breeze etching the surface with ripples
that push against shores of padded flesh
around the palm, some overflowing the bank,
others sliding back toward the deep center,

the wrinkles on the bottom of the pool
brightening, as the rain that fell so fast
passes, and sunlight pierces the water
settling at the end of my outstretched arm.

BOB DYLAN:

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Ocean Grove. Sept. 2010. Paul Goldfinger photo ©

 

 

Absence

A poem by Charles Pierre

Of what was written down
or spoken aloud onshore,
eye and ear find scant remains

A few letters in the sand
or murmurs on the salt wind
show, not who was here,

but how the sea
swallows up
most human traces.



LONDON SYMPHONY ORCHESTRA "Enigma Variations."

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Late November garden in Ocean Grove. Paul Goldfinger photograph. ©

 

 

Reprieve

By Charles Pierre

From a rusted nail
on the south wall

of an old boathouse
weathered to gray,

a small pail of
red impatiens

swings in the mild
November sun,

where the rush
of stark sea wind

has yet to dim
the arc of lush color.

 

 

EVA CASSIDY
From her album Songbird.

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IMG_5349

Ocean Grove, New Jersey September, 2018 by Paul Goldfinger ©

 

Scoop of the Flux

By Charles Pierre

A breaker tumbles
into the shallows,

with onshore thrust
and muscling splash

that toss skyward
a long yellow kelp,

glazed with water
and stretched to

a string of lights,
sparkling in midair,

at the sea’s peak
an instant, until

falling with a flicker
into blurred spillage

of surf, vanishing
as soon as seen

in dark backwash
of the undertow.

 

 

THE RIGHTEOUS BROTHERS  “Ebb Tide”

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sg-2

Stephen Goldfinger. Central Park, 2014. Blogfinger.net ©

 

 

Green Vistas

By Charles Pierre

I walk the hard and darkened streets
of Manhattan as winter thaws,
where steel and concrete choke the earth,
where nature can’t unfold or flow.

Gaudy neon and bits of glass
sparkling in asphalt swell the night
with portents of spring that lead me
to a park on the river’s edge.

My left hand flies from its pocket
to test the air. The air says, Write,
until trees are flaming with leaves,
until waves are emerald fire.

 

 

ART GARFUNKEL

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Hi Paul:

Greetings from Manhattan. To observe the leaves changing on the trees from April to December, is to see, in a vivid way, the pattern of life that governs us all. Here is the poem “Late Autumn at Centerport,” from my 2009 collection, Green Vistas.

Best wishes,
Charles Pierre

Rhinebeck, New York. Mid-October, 2017. Paul Goldfinger ©

 

Late Autumn at Centerport

By Charles Pierre

Spring unfurled from ripening buds,
and a balmy summer preserved
the deep greens of oak and maple
on hillsides across the harbor

A month ago, the reds and golds
were bright distractions, but today,
descending a hill to this beach
through the bitter December air,

I feel the withering absence
of colors that once filled the trees.
Fallen leaves are now visible,
black and rotting in the shallows.

Here, the full cycle of seasons
has yet to pass, but today,
having seen this much of the year,
I know my end ahead of time.

 

CHET BAKER:

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Hi Paul:

Greetings from Manhattan. There is a common aid to navigation — often used in coastal waters — that has always had a special meaning for me as a poet. Here is “The Bell Buoy,” a poem from my 2008 collection, Father of Water.

Best wishes,

Charles Pierre

Shivering Sand. Photogravure by Wylie. Undated

Shivering Sand. Photogravure by Wylie. Undated. Click to see the bell buoy more clearly.  Reposted this poem from 2015 Blogfinger.net. ©

BELL BUOY

By Charles Pierre.

There is something singular in the rhythms

of the bell buoy, as it rings in the wake

of an unknown vessel already passing

on to its destination. The restless gestures

of this solitaire, anchored in the routine

of the sea, are a directing presence,

even in this hostile chopping,

metal on metal clanging from its heart,

clanging down the chain to the muddy anchor,

clanging out above the waves, creating

a point in the pointless sea, echoing out

to another, its clanging a song

of hope through these splintered waters,

a hard human song in an inhuman place,

something with a ringing truth to it

of who we are, something to sustain us,

wherever this imagined drifting leads.

 

Sounds:  bell buoy ringing; waves hitting boat:

Music on the water, from the film  The Sand Pebbles  (1966) with Steve McQueen.:

MATT MONROE

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Hi Paul:
     Greetings from Manhattan. When March ends, and the last few patches of snow melt from the yards, and ice disappears from the ponds, those of us who live along the coast shed our heavy coats and head for the shore. Here is the poem “Orient Point,” from my 2008 collection, Father of Water.
Best wishes,
Charles Pierre

Early spring morning. Deal Lake. Ocean Township.  March 29, 2015,   By Paul Goldfinger ©  Click to enlarge.

Orient Point
By Charles Pierre
To find words again, after winter’s pause
and the stifled months of life ashore —
to hear voices, if none but the shrill sounds
of sailors boundless in April winds.
I slip from silence, English my ship and sea.
Speech as fresh as the first mild gusts of salt air
billows my cheeks, flying from my lips
to take me as far as sound can sail —
Speak, as if spring is all there is!
——————————————————————-
BEN PATERSON TRIO,:  “Here, There, and Everywhere” by Paul McCartney;

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Hi Paul:

Greetings from Manhattan. The downtown café has been a part of New York life for more than a century — a place of quiet refuge from the stresses of the city. Here is “Café Candles” from my 2008 poetry collection, Father of Water.

Best wishes,

Charles Pierre

Paris. Candles in a place of quiet refuge. By Paul Goldfinger ©

Paris. Candles in “a place of quiet refuge” as described by Charles Pierre, poet.  Paul Goldfinger photo.©

 

Café Candles

By Charles Pierre.

 

An hour past sunset, the sky gone gray,

a waiter with a tray of candles balanced

on his palm circles this intimate room,

placing a flame at the center of each table,

the lights casting aureoles around the faces

of casually seated couples and threesomes,

and even the solitaire clutching a book

who burns with isolation in his corner.

As evening deepens and the sky darkens,

each candle becomes a central point

for the rhythms of talk and silent thought,

each table a star in the modest constellation

of this room, patrons entering and leaving,

the waiter serving and clearing the tables

of all but those small candles, which flicker

at each disturbance of the air, then recover

to blades of brightness, portioning this space

and its speech against the black canyons beyond.

 

CARLOS GARDEL

 

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