Unknown Knowing: Daily Poem No. 3

Unknown Knowing: Daily Poem No. 3
A poetry series by Katie M. McGrath

POINT DUME WIND HOPING

Of the hypnotizing sea that takes you,
carries you, shelters you, I am jealous.

For the foam-laced, kelp-laden shore awake, rolling, rolling water pitch inspired songs, I ask for personal guardianship.

I indulge the abyss a safe distance
taunting the fair, primitive horizon
that will persist as it forever has:
Adho Mukha Vrksasana balance.

Nimble dance until bones decalcify
by waves, winds, sun, burrowing barnacles.

Dusting marble statues of Atlantis.
Radiant, slight on the mossy sequin
undulant, obsidian-dark glass sea:

a restless memento of dominance.
Minuscule, temporary human minds,
yet unity in the immutable
permanence of billions old energy.

Western air and your Narcissus scent mix
with salty, candy-corn fumes rising up

to the misty stratosphere: coral,
white, cognac blue curtain—Earth’s regal mane shaking off sheets of ocean mist, scattered

erratic sea birds that viciously caw
in wanderers’ ears, and speckle the sea
abundantly with shells and bright quasars.
Rhythmic heart drums excite people walking

among the searching lonesome empty boys and girls of Generation Y blowing

sickening fog: Mirage of losing love
emanating the green veils of hidden
thoughts drawing acid tears, warm stomach sting.

Windward where the unknown knowing occurs, where pink-haired losers converge on dollar pizza slice, medical marijuana.
Pierced sunburnt faces watching revolving

freak show within one sandy city block.
You are an iridescent tile in this

cock-eyed, manic-kaleidoscope sidewalk.
Drink Champagne from a creased, brown paper bag; sing out loud your personal, hot longings;

barefoot, nostalgia-coated honey songs.
Water heavy, gray laden mixing clouds stare; verdant sycamores creak violently tossed; lemon eucalypti announce the storm.

The circus rushed home will be forced to bed. Driving the possessed into leather couch,

TV set, down duvet, votive candles,
pensive reminiscence of absent days.
I keep a memory of Buddha ears,

a remembrance of your kind countenance.
I float on this pink Point Dume wind hoping.
Knowing I cannot take you with me, nor
auditory, visual stimulus.

Photo source: video-hills