May 28 by The Running Son
ɧow to surf a 1ȎȎȎ ft wave
You grab your surfboard,
make for shorelines,
soar by bystanders
and flex your best body
standards, chest hair first.
You’ll need to manage shifty
sands. and trembling hands will
wax faster with nervous laughter,
and feet will make tracks (after opening acts)
for the mother of all dread-lock attractions:
the great wave crash.
of water to ground alone
sends me back to the original curling-in:
that womb of warm sand, named home.
But these swellings and flat landings!
The sudden beach-breaks and ego manhandling
sent me off the hook–
upset like a wake, thumb sucking with a book
face forward, my look like,
“who took the wind away?”.
Who switched out my set-waves
for hours of hazy day-waxing,
nothing breaking and all bomb sets lacking?
I mean, where have all the waves gone?
The sand goes moist, a salt loam.
Then you hit foam and soar–
board first to point-break,
seeming lake minded and surfer safe
but harboring dark crags, and rocks. They crop up
and take you, wrong-side-over
to the chop: rock-point. Then drop you
to the joint of wave, and you flopping
toward the sun. You stare. You and the Sun
become one there. The sun-stare.
The hoards cheer. Who cares. Boards up!
by Jim Aldrich
.namaste. -• ö.tH(ink)Mÿstiç •- .namaste.
blu butterflies live freee.