Ocracoke Sketches
a little collection of poems
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Once the Storm Subsides
Eight Sketches by the Sea
On a Theory of Disappearances (as instructed by Ocracoke Island)
The Next Morning
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Once the Storm Subsides Once the storm subsides mockingbirds and nightjars begin again. It was a storm you write about, how it woke you from a good dream the tent turning to bellows, strobe lightning and all its alarms crashing. Everything held, however. Now the no-see-ums gather. Once again the ocean is the primary music over muted mumbles from the other camps that sometimes break to laughter. Once the storm subsides mockingbirds and nightjars begin again.
Eight Sketches by the Sea i My old dog can barely see. I take him toward the ocean slowly. He comes along until he feels wet sand where the tide falls up and up. It’s a hot day. A wave almost swallows him. He shakes and slowly we walk up the beach again. ii The waves are wicked today. I ride one in and it beats me down on the berm followed by a brutal swarm of others. There must be language to this but by the time I stand I am taken down again muted by the sea. iii Personification may be against the rules but nonetheless I am warned, refused access to the far breaks where in years past I have been allowed to take the waves iv The sea is like an elephant or some other animal that only allows me to wander near enough to feel its power. v Another tower of cloud appears out of nowhere and sails up the island. It is full of blooms, a potential to unleash something else in the firmament not allowed intellect or reason, a kind of force would-be kings foolishly imagine they possess. vi That tower of a cloud moves above the clout and clamor of the ocean and then falls into a long chain of smaller renderings stretching down the shore. The wind never ceases. vii In wave after wave the world makes its settlement with any kings who suppose they do not belong to its fecund terror viii I believe my little dog remembers something. What is it? Does he see himself as he once was speeding just beyond the reach of the waves after sanderlings? Red knots, plovers, and turnstones? Where have they all gone?
On a Theory of Disappearances (as instructed by Ocracoke Island) The water eventually rises. and we decline our part in the deluge. The lighthouse we’ve come to depend on and its keeper’s cabin sink under several feet of water. Nothing will soon be remedied. All those old trees beyond the back dunes stiffen and fall. Nothing of what once was will be remembered. Some stupid things go on as if none of this matters. * You’ve been here through other changes, but none as fast and hard as this. Rain so thick all the lights are eclipsed as if it is a blizzard. Not until the rich man’s summer home tips and crashes into the sea will anyone be compelled to take notice. And by then there is only time to leave. * Every time I arrive I am jolted by changes— old homes smelling of sulfur and mold finally collapse—the big storms more frequent and fierce. Places pirates once were hidden sunken into a deeper oblivion. I am wary of such warnings. Still— * in the end no one has time to stop doing what must be done to say to someday’s children “This is where we once caught dinner. This is the place the water washed us as if we were welcome. This is when, at the end of the day, we found time to be grateful.”
The Next Morning I am really proud of the way the clamps and ties held through the storm This is not your usual poem but I have to say I put up our shelter quite well and now the coffee is nearly ready and a little sun burns off the mist hanging high above the sea oh so what if everything got wet.
