Celestial Sisters

thThe Pacific Ocean is akin to the face of the moon
by both its size, unfathomable,
for a mind such as mine to properly compute,
and likewise, its effect
of uniting men and women for eons.

Through the history of humankind
in all its bloodshed, and orgasms,
and soft drinks, and me,
the moon has always been there
for all the world’s people to gaze upon,
with necks bent skyward, and endless fascination,
and so has the ocean.

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my brother the stone

The ocean waves, that is the rhythmic undulations
emitted ceaselessly from the rich void out there
and beneath us in the earth and the weather from above,
gently yet unyielding, roll over the back of the large stone
three-quarters submerged at the water’s edge
in a distinctive V-pattern, and such a pattern
takes lasting shape in the lines of fine, soft sea-moss
that grows atop the stone’s surface and makes one
draw a comparison to the thick hair flowing
from the back of an early ancestor, stooped and apelike,
a pre-hominid lad or lass diving for clams in the shallows
and using their dextrous extremities to pry open the shells
perhaps with the aid of some early attempt a chef’s knife.
The stone is me, you think.
Or trying to be, at least.
Perhaps though, it is I who is trying to be the stone.