Mina el Hosn

April 5, 2017

Endless waves collide
Against the sea-wall along
The promenade, each row
Of palm trees swaying in
The breathy wind coming
In off the Mediterranean.

Though Cyprus lies only
A few miles off-shore, it’s
Shrouded in the haze from
The forgotten ships that
Once lined these docks,
Trading goods from afar.

Beirut stands as it always
Has: ancient and modern,
A thousand languages and
Too many stories to count.
Now, it has become home
For those who have fled.

It may seem a paradise
Steeped in sunlight’s rays,
But these streets will speak
If you are willing to listen.
Voices as old as the waves
Always yearn for the sea.


Standing Water

April 13, 2016

The sea was grey,
So much so that when
You looked, your eyes
Couldn’t quite tell where
The horizon really was.
Compacted wet sand is
Terrific for holding shape,
Each paw print a smudge
That remained long after
Her feet had left the beach.

The air smelled of salt, and
The ebb and flow of waves
Repeated their song like a
Pair of giant watery lungs-
Inhale and exhale.

Every wave brought me
Closer, into the eddies and
Pools between the rocks.
I hear her splash her way
Back to me, whining and
Barking for me to return.
But here is where I’ll stay.


The Bulkhead

August 23, 2015

Sunken footsteps trail across
The beach, each wave slowly
Eroding pockets of wet sand.
Among the debris, driftwood,
And perfectly smooth stones,
There stands a hollow shell.

Her hull is rusted from years
Of tireless salty air, portholes
Nothing but suggestions of
The glassy spaces of old.
A steamship laid to ruin,
She will never port again.

In ages past, she’d stand,
Resolute against the wars of
Men and against time itself.
Now, an empty vessel, she’s
Forever beached, aground
With no hope of return.

Too few are willing to peer
Through the broken glass,
Afraid of what still remains.
Her corpse marks this place,
A shipwreck and a graveyard;
None alive know her name.


Assateague Ponies

August 7, 2015

A potent sun rises over the
Atlantic horizon, casting long
Shadows over the sand dunes
Of the serene barrier islands.

Snuffled whispers and neighs
Can be heard from the harem.
Even at this distance, it is clear:
These animals know no master.

The matriarch, a tall pinto mare,
Flips her mane back and forth
In anticipation of the day’s work;
Crossing with foals is dangerous.

With sea foam spray, they cross
The wetlands to Virginia, pushed
Onward by men atop tame horses.
Alas, some will be sold by sunset.

Those that are bought will never
Know the feel of free soil again,
Their freedom caged by the steel
Shoes nailed into their hooves.

As time marches forward, their kin
Will go on living wild and free, as
They have done for generations,
The wild ponies of Chincoteague.