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Jekyll Island

By Leo Greene

In a place like this,
    One can exclaim…
     'This is America?'
     'This is the place?'
With teething rows of broken granite
    Half stained black from sea salt and its clinging wetness
    Bending and sculpted cypress and cheering cicadas.

A place where guttural spontaneity creates the unexpected sound
  Of ones own voice.
The vocal pressure of lung and throated emotion
  Bursting out across the flattened sea.
  Endless…Endless…Ceaseless.
Not broken hardest cold waves of a northeast shore,
  No tankers,
   Smoothed and pasted scenes,
  Artfully placed below continuous sky.

There can be nothing but space in this sea.
A Euphratian psychological baptism; that lasts.
Ongoing, as a breathing entity – long after the enlightened choke of expelled, expected, watery awareness passes over each one of us, the newest of us, the most recent of souls together.

Do I see underwater birds?
   Tips that break the surface
   Milling the salt water and sea flowers,
    Like sharks in tandem might,
    As desperate herders of easy prey.

A mother asks, 'Have you seen any sharks?'
  Her little son, the little man, ear-ringed,
  And two little girls, the littlest birds - wait for the response.

  'I've seen an easy dying jelly fish, horse shoe crabs baked in the sun,
  and underwater birds…call ‘em stingrays.'
And this mother is eased, with a short and polite, like everything southern, wave.
And the next waves contain these children of Georgia.
Sun baked free spirits, tossing dolls into the foam amongst the gleeful squealing.
Witnessed as a passing bed of flowers might be.

Leo Greene lives in Palo Alto, CA, after living in Boston. He grew up in the Lakes Region of New Hampshire (Sandwich) and graduated with a BA in Creating Writing and Literature from Wheaton College MA, in 1995. I have been a coach, actor, mechanic, and a multitude of other things since then.


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