The Poetry Of.
Francis Masat.......................................................
Three Days Out From Najin, Korea
There is no rain to cut the salt
spray growing thicker on a rising sea
spray coating my throat as I taste
my last meal from Mi-Ling's hands.
Cold comes on a fish-eye stare, stinging
claws that pierce and pierce again.
Inside the cold, winds announce not
their coming, revealing only their fury.
Numbed to near blissful ignorance,
a keening scream, the sound of gusts
skimming the white crests of waves
spins my thoughts to Charybdis' whirlpool.
In turn, my mind twists past regrets,
past my second thoughts. With resolve,
I know I am right to return as I am
whipped again by spray and I remember
the taste of Mi-Ling's skin, of her hair,
of her skin, of candles on a summer's eve -
just before dusk surrendered to the dark.
And I stare out into the sting of salt,
feeling the redemption being earned
in the healing journey home, now
only three days out from Najin.
Heartland Reach
Streetlights - miniature orange starbursts -
glide past the rime-coated windows.
Towns lie black and silent; smoke rises
from chimneys in wispy gray curls.
Sooty snow, pulses red in crossing lights,
frames an empty road, vanishes in a blur.
Warning bells clang in metallic hollowness,
fade behind in the frozen air. So cold.
Such numbing cold. And dark. The constant
clack of the wheels, bumping of the cars, . . .
The rhythmic sound and motion mesmerizes,
fixes the scene in your mind forever.
With the swaying pink and iron-rail dawn,
we roll on open prairie, climbing slowly.
From one sandy river to another, we reach
for home - we reach for the heartland.
Socks: First to Last
at first
tiny socks
then slippers soft
small shiny shoes
sandals buckle new
sneakers running
