This day the poet saunters
oh so unobtrusively down the sand-tracked walkway,
he saunters inconspicuously among the picnickers & beach-goers,
the swim-suit clad & wave splashed,
those enjoying the cool of a bay breeze on a hot summer’s day,
the bright Sunshine they all enjoy, this the most perfect of summer days,
you could not ask for a better summer day—
There must be thousands out enjoying the human pleasures on such a day;
so what does the poet know?
The poet
saunters along & looks out over this entire scene
of beach & bay & distant mountains, of sky & Sun & surf
—he sees all & he sees the flight of birds
& is suddenly with steady wings the pelican that comes into view,
gliding with an effortless grace over the waters.
The poet looks & is also the tern he sees—a swift-winged feathered jet
that now dives straight into the waters to snap upon a sighted fish.
The poet enters the waters of the bay & is the harbor seal that swims unseen
under the rolling surf & here & there will poke its head up to take a breath
& look around,
its slick, glistening body breaking the surface.
Oh, the sea otter
the poet is, torpedoing around with ease through the tall forest sway
of giant kelp.
The poet is one of any number of fishes—fish after fish the poet is,
swimming as each one deep in the waters of another world—
Those on the beach might not even entertain a passing thought
of what this other world might be.
But it matters not to the poet—
he has already become the crab, the barnacle, the sea star & anemone
living upon the pier pilings sunk firmly into the sandy bottom;
the poet is the octopus hiding—
The poet’s flesh
is so much the seawater that millions of tiny creatures
pass through his body—he has opened his arms to the sea
and is at-one-with the sea—
The poet has such depths further & further out & such creatures live
at such depths that even the scientists are not fully aware of.
The poet sparkles under the Sun as the Bay sparkles
under the radiance
of the Sun.
The poet sees the Web
& hears the Web & feels with all his body the Web
& his sensations are the rhythms of untold beings moving as the Web,
the flexing & pulsing & moment-by-moment each distinct heartbeat of the Web,
as each distinct thing & living thing manifests what it is.
The poet is
at-one-with the Web & speaks silently from out of the Web
so many voices—
He speaks silently—
he does not wish to disturb the thousands out enjoying
the human pleasures of such a day.
And what is the poet’s secret?
It is so simple, really, but perhaps a bit dangerous, too—
The poet has looked up into the sky, the poet has looked up
& has looked into the Sun
and is no longer blinded by what he sees—
With another Eye he began to see each individual streaming brilliance
& instantly, simultaneously, became at-one-with
the Web.
On this particular day,
the poet saunters as if almost invisibly among the picnickers
& beach-goers...
the poet saunters as he has done
any number of times on any number of days past...
There is always a poet somewhere, you with an Ear
can be sure—
If not here, somewhere there is a poet
speaking silently from out of the Web.
July 2008