Updated 3/26/2020

Monologue by a River

Think a kind of suffocation, slow
but never lethal, done by ordinary men
with tools like rubber and concrete. Swallow
discarded tires, or chew on a plastic bin.
Ponder why no fish worth eating can swim
in my belly. The dark old man who used
to sit on my shoulders never comes. My rhythm
has lost its zest. All my limbs are fused
to patchwork dirt, with bony trees and stone gates.
So I did what was just. Bless the thunderous boil
that wind and light assisted, that no man could abate.
I spilled myself. I sucked the air from all the soil.

A river keeps her promise, unlike men.
What I did before, I will do again.

~~Kay B. Day/A Poetry Break (Ocean Publishing)

For Hugo

All things vertical tilt
outside is the color of water
even light is dangerous

Within these walls nothing moves
the room is a box of flesh and breath
Prayer appears

Trees snatch power lines
and sound is air
that writhes and screams

in conflict with itself.
We skitter like fledglings
far from a bough

Then a call astride the winds
scented like rain and sap
from fresh cut pine

The bidding:
Come here. Let me have you.

~~Kay B. Day/A Poetry Break
(Ocean Publishing)

Florida Beach photo; Photographs in the Carol M. Highsmith Archive, Library of Congress, Prints and Photographs Division
Florida Beach photo; Carol M. Highsmith Archive, Library of Congress, Prints and Photographs Division

Beach Soup

Only a child knows the true meaning
of the ocean, that shells wash up
to be collected and tossed into a hole
in the sand, mixed with seawater,
blended well and served up to taste
on a yellow plastic shovel
to a parent who proclaims, Delicious!

Only a child dashes into surf
to man an inflated raft that sails
a dangerous course amid
pirates and sea monsters
that nip at tender heels.

Only a child can follow the wind
blown across water
from some faraway place
and filled with the joy
that innocence reaps, select

the perfect shell to carry home
to winter. When the ground
is cold and still and hard,
a tiny hand retrieves the shell,
cups it to the ear as mystical waves

lap from a distance, carrying the smell
of beach soup delectable and fine,
making the frost melt slowly
and surely as we stir.

~~Kay B. Day/A Poetry Break
(Ocean Publishing)

highway image The Road to Tookiedoo Kay B. DayThe Road to Tookiedoo
for Valerie

When the day ends
like a bent spoon
and we know we need
to get away for just
a little while, we point
the car towards the road
that zigs and zags through
country where night seems
as long as the highway.

Small talk canters
like a song tapping
into quiet hills that hear
confessions—children, husbands,
dirty clothes and coupons.
How life makes us struggle
sometimes. We bring
a big cup of strong hot coffee,
because there’s no to-go
in Tookiedoo. And we smile,
drinking up harmony,
struggles bouncing off
the car like roadkill.

~~Kay B. Day/A Poetry Break
(Ocean Publishing)

Canvas of a Day by Kay B. Day IAS



Old Poets by Kay B Day IAS