Sharon Poch: An Ocean View

Through my friend AnnMarie over at Vox Poetica, I have had the pleasure and privelege of reading some excellent poetry this afternoon by Sharon Poch, who writes with great skill and sensitivity. 

Here at The Word Ocean, I believe unapologetically that the ocean is a great nurturer of art and creativity. I can see how living and loving close to it would be inspiring.

Anyhoo, it's a great delight to feature Sharon's poetry here at The Word Ocean.

 

From Sharon:

A Bit About Me

 

I live, write, and play along the waters of the Chesapeake Bay in the Hampton Roads area of Virginia. Barefoot and scrawny, I learned to swim and walk at about the same time. The beach, with all its shadings of sea and sky is still my refuge and inspiration.

 

I belong to the Albright Poets, who are my support system, my most honest critics, my poetry family. My husband, children, and grandsons infuse my life with joy

 

I love words in any form, travel, writing, food, wine, and all things yellow.

[click to enlarge]

Tidal

 She sits at creek’s edge,

dangles sunburned toes

in primordial stew

thick with pluff mud

and salty decay

A goggle eyed dragonfly

hums low, alights

on the minnow net

by her side

 

Girl and insect

stare

Eyes

luminous reflections of

marsh grass,

water,

 pine

 

The Caulbearer

 

Field-born under a milkstone moon

because the cabin was too hot, too close

for the thrust and blood of birth.

 

He shimmered into the world

face covered in a foretold veil

that ballooned then ruptured

and peeled from his head, his ears,

and down his cheeks.

 

He be bles’d

cried his mother’s mother

as she held the fragile birth mask

and gloried in God

 

Suckled on gold sugar milk,

until callused hands broke the seal

and laid him down on a cotton rag,

he smiled at the knowing

and slept.

 

Refuge

 

The broken Jim Beam bottle spills

anger onto cracked linoleum,

glass barbs biting    

the amber pool that laps

at my bare feet  

What the hell have you done,

            you stupid little bitch

and I run from his raised hand,

blood speckled footprints close behind

into the bruised gray mist

more night

than day

 

The copper penny taste of fear

salts my mouth, fuels flight

to the sand and fog of

my secret beach where

the wooden dragon lies down,

its fire doused by mermaids

who have come to anoint me

with healing balm

 

 Vinyl Man

He eases Etta from

the At Last sleeve

and with slight touch,

his white gloved hands

slip her soul

onto the spindle

 

The arm

rises

waits

descends

into music filled grooves

where synthetic sensors

 translate

reverberate

full-orbed desire at

      33 1/3

revolutions per minute

           

Attuned to his touch,

molded polymer notes

spin though the air,

scratches and static

unheard beneath

blue vibrations.