The Wind Storms Outside
Your curtains billow gleaming slightly of gold as we talk of forests and seas, two adventurers laughing at our twists and turns marveling at these gifts we’ve won wrestled from our respective Gorgons both of us rushing to speak of the edge of land and water almost making love to it wild like this wind and then just as quickly, soft and sensuous bejeweled by the stars and moon.Meanwhile the beach lies before us, pregnant, frothed by the ocean’s hiss while the sky begins to shift, letting through the sun’s last strands. Soon the wind subsides as we get up
shake hands and go our separate ways.
If life were simpler
I wouldn’t keep dreaming of you
and how the ocean wind
whipped our ears and blew our coats
as we searched for shells,
I wouldn’t remember huddling with you
feeling our passions rise
despite the wind, despite the ocean’s hiss.
If life were simpler
I wouldn’t need to imagine you
finding limpets and bleached olive shells
at low tide.
I reach up
and pick the tender sacks
amongst the gnarled branches
the sun filling both the fruit and my desire
barely shaded by the sparse green leaves
and I think of us
in the wee hours of the night and morning
describing the twists of the honey bee
and the bounty of the Goddess
saving us both
despite our tortured pasts,
our smiles deepening
sharing honeyed passion
savored like these sweet gritty seeds
I bite into
red and pink
beneath the sun purpled skin.
The Poets Fate
Lost like some banshee between grey and blue
I wander the streets past tall palm trees, manicured homes,
cars crawling home in chrome shined turgidity.
I finally swing open the door to your beloved used bookstore
you a great believer in exchanging most everything,
and notice wryly none of your books are here,
and neither will they be for some time,
recalling that you gave up the “poetry circuit”
and all that get-famous-quick groupie-in-tow stuff
when you moved back to San Jose
away from that crazed druggy Beat/Hip poet
hard drinking crowd, years and years ago…
I still see you with the drapes shut,
with only the back door open
the high wooden fence with a single knot-hole
surrounded by one of your black pen and ink hearts
letting through the brilliant sun
while you sit on the couch drinking beer,
or rattle a glass of distilled whiskey on ice,
the beans on low in a pot on the gas stove,
your eyes languidly following the smoke curls of your cigarette
mingling with the beams of sunlight
while the Bee Gees or Hank Williams or BB King
send you into a reverie.
Later you make phone calls in the middle of the night
drunk like a pirate with his secret horde
jocular with your barbs thrown at most everyone,
begging someone to forgive you,
finally lying on your bed at 3 A.M.
listening to the whispers of Keats, Herrick, Baudelaire, Graves…
amongst whose “Room” you seem certain to be embraced
whether the world remembers you or not,
casting all shadows to the dark.
Note: This poem is dedicated to my old friend Greg Hall.
As a young poet his work was discovered by Robert Bly
and others in the Hippy/Beat California poetry scene.
Bio: Bea Garth is known for creating visually rich narrative poetry as well as for her unique figurative ceramic sculpture, drawing and painting. Early on Bea was influenced by her grandfather’s love of poetry as well as her great aunt’s love of Asian art plus her parents’ early occupation as archaeologists. She has been an extemporaneous poetry and arts organizer off and on for many years in the San Jose, California area after also organizing many such events and small press magazines in Eugene, Oregon. Currently she is president of Quicksilver Artists, a San Jose art and poetry group. She is often found painting and writing in her studio with her cat Keiko. She will have her manuscript of poetry and drawings called Eating the Peach published sometime this year or next by Blue Bone Books. She has previously had poems and artwork published in a variety of small press magazines including Lake City Poets, Alchemy, Poetic Space, Denali, Coyote’s Dance, The Other Paper, Writing For Our Lives, Caesura, Fresh Hot Bread, Sparring With Beatnik Ghosts, Sheffield Phoenix Press (cover for Where The Wild Ox Roam) and the poetry anthologies Elegant Stew and Women’s Dreams/Women’s Visions as well as Synchronized Chaos.
You can find examples of Bea’s artwork and poetry at https://bgarthart.com/