Monet Wannabe

To the Newburyport waterfront again this morning. The difference from then to the day before, if not night and day, was sun and clouds. Things were more sleepy. The air had that August feel of slipping into fall.

Call Me Ishmael

Altostratus rain clouds knock on heaven’s
door above the rising tidal waters.
Sun, like beach sand, slips right through the porous
morning sky. A chartered deep-sea fishing
boat unsettles sea gulls in the river channel,
looking for its way to strike up blue fish.
In the vessels docked along the wharf side
everyone is sleeping in and dreaming
rogue waves climb to send them falling
high above the depthless sea, transporting
lives to quiet desperation. I am
eating pastry, sipping Starbuck’s coffee,
finding out this summer’s down a whirlpool,
watching sailboats tugging at their moorings.

If Monet could paint the same scene in different light, I thought I could try something similar. I decided to stick to the trochaic pentameter meter also. I like the driving force behind it, and, because of its near necessity for the present participle, its insistence on the now.