HomeThe Bailey Poems
Cribstone Bridge
-- after Engineer -- L.N. Edwards
that links Orr's and Bailey Islands, a work
of art in its own right -- 10,000 tons
of granite blocks piled in an open lattice frame --
gravity stabilized -- no fasteners needed --
1150 feet of granite cribwork that withstands
salt water exposure, the tide of Will's Gut
sweeping in and out,
finished in 1928 -- named
a "National Historic Engineering Landmark"
in 1984 -- one of a kind since it's only relative
in Scotland was taken out by Nazi bombs in WWII --
yes, definitely, a work of art connecting
one island with another while the salt tides --
millions of drops of sweat and tears --
are flowing, always flowing to and fro,
in and out, flowing back and forth
through all those open pores.
Low Tide, Sitting
on the top of the ledges of the gut --
Will's gut itself, beside a stream of water
not more than 10 yards wide -- marked
by poles with triangles on top -- red
on the Orr's Island side -- green
on Bailey --
hmmm -- look at that now,
a boat is coming through the small rectangle
opening in the granite latticework
in the center of Cribstone Bridge --
a boat carrying a family of five -- the father
steers through the narrow channel between
red and green, stop and go -- the mother
adjusts the life jackets of the two youngest --
the boy in the rear smiles, waves to me --
I smile back -- my new dentures gleam
in morning sunlight -- "Go for It"
I mouth to him -- a silent shout
from the ledges of the gut,
the first day of my 65th year.
Feet Muddy
from wading through clam shells, mud
and leaked sewerage that had seemed
an inviting stretch of blue gray
carpet -- that looked solid enough
from the lawn chair in front of the motel,
but my feet didn't crunch shells, just
squished them into oozing black mud
and felt the suction whoooosh! schlup!
with every step I took -- my new blue
sneakers covered, my legs splattered
up to my knees and beyond,
yet, sitting here
on the gut's ledges -- I won't complain
when before me lies an archipelago
of island fingers -- bare white knuckles
of rock rising above the lines
of wrack and weed, rising mysteriously
in the haze and mist,
rising out
of the cream gray ripples of Casco bay --
under the cream gray clouds with a blush
of rose from the bashful sun --- mmmmm --
delicious -- the sandwich of knuckle
that refuses to fold into a fist.
On the Ledges of Will's Gut
on those distinctive petrified wood
Maine rocks -- peering into gray
gruel fog -- one can barely make out
the dark curved beckoning, admonishing
island fingers -- the vague snouts
of creatures -- undefined, hinted at --
all mystery, we can only guess how
many eons it takes to create a ledge
of rock -- a human being -- a direct line
of poetry -- how many eons to create
all things -- all we can see from here
with these eyes -- this narrow patch
of ripples, laid out with beads -- late
man's addition, the only color, the only
straight lines in the wavy scene --
cream white pearl and orange donut
buoys strung on some submerged rope --
a boundary (Will's seven times great
grandson explains) of a lobster field.
On Cribstone Bridge
in thick fog -- an eerie effect, like being
in a plane and looking out a side window
through mist and cloud at the world
far below -- dark twin stiff bodies of land
one male, one female with draining tide pool
hearts laid out in a fog shroud
look there -- on one, the male -- see
the twin gull skyscrapers fly away
from the rock skull of their own accord
look down on the dark, thin peninsulas
stretching into the gray sea -- see malignant
fingers of glioblastoma stretching into
the healthy gray cells of my brother's
brain -- inhale the fog, the dampness,
the aroma of death in the wind.
Grey Sail
in the distance -- shrouded creature
trailing his dark cape, steering
the silent craft, as always, death
has someplace to go -- couldn't,
wouldn't stop for me -- just gliding
calmly on into the gathering storm
clouds fused with summer smaze
behind the dead man's float island
dotted with white birds;
while here, now, in the sudden
summer squall, we watch the cool,
refreshing rain spatter on, then
rise in steam from the pavement.
Giant Staircase
Well, here we are again, sitting
on the dry stairs, donated in 1910
to the town of Bailey Island by Captain
Wm Sinnet and his wife Joanna -- a great gift
(whether or not it was theirs to give)
so much to so many -- and free (sort of) --
all one has to do is know the roads,
the winding path through private property
to get here, to these giant steps leading
down into froth and foam of churning surf . . .
Yes, here we are looking down
through rough hewn narrow canyon
walls on both sides at these giant
stairs of uneven stone --
morning fog
still not lifted -- no panoramic scene
today, -- must focus on the here,
the now that is given to us --
just wave after wave -- a four footer,
another, then a six -- a major surge up
and over the darker, more slippery
stairs below . . .
in the spirit of
William and Joanna, I hereby bequeath these
rough hewn lines -- these stanza stairs
that the sparkling surf (at somewhat
irregular intervals) may climb as high
or descend as deep as it dares --
to you, dear reader, feel free
to climb or descend with me
any time of the day or night.
64th Birthday
on the Giant's stairway
on Bailey Island, with you,
as always the best time with you
and water --
now, at low tide
the surf at the foot of the stairs
seems so far away -- the off white
cream and butter froth and foam
floats on the lime green sea
while we savor small pieces of fudge,
the swirls of chocolate and vanilla
from the gift shop at Land's End,
the swirls of froth and sea,
of going down in the light,
and coming up in the dark,
the swirls of last evening
in this aftermath present, deep,
sweet currents swirling through
each and every one of our cells.
Later, We Find
a place in the shade of a rock,
shade enough only for one -- even
though it's my birthday, I give it
to you, lay a towel over your knees
you lean back against the ledge
of petrified wood turned rock
and watch the shining surf spray
the kelp, barnacles, and stone --
feel finger strokes keeping time
with the surges of surf -- hear
my whisper: "Happy birthday to us" --
one combined being in tune
with the swells of the sea.
Seagull Flying
over a calm protected body of salt water,
a small pool between this harbored shore
and the ledges of the gut --
the mirror image --
the gull in the water, diving and rising
as if attached to the real gull above
by puppet strings -- a playful swimmer
rising and descending in a patch
of pink tinted sea til it disappears
in the shadow of petrified rock.
The real gull flies eastward --
appears as a dark speck against
pale tinted clouds.
Oh seagull flying, turn!
Turn, turn from your shadow world!
Look squarely into the setting sun.
Souvenir Feather
I am meditating on the hard
quill spine and soft fluffy edges
of this souvenir feather
that I picked up, here
on the petrified rock ledges
of the gut -- when suddenly
it flutters in the wind-- flies
out of my hands as if it were
the gull it was once a part of --
when I reach to secure it,
the movement, my first movement
in a long time, startles
the whole flock of gulls that
had been sharing the magic spot;
they explode into flight --
I lose track of the feather,
my thought, a part of myself
has drifted away, -- something
very important I wanted to say
is lost in the sudden thunder
of their wings -- the rippling
echoes that crinkle and are gone.
Plastic Gallon
water bottle -- opaque white
buoy -- drifting, drifting --
closer then further and further
away from whoever, whatever it is
that is me, these adhering, near-
sighted cells that peer through
astigmatic lenses at an empty
bottle drifting away into sunflecked
Casco bay, drifting with detached strands
of dead yet glowing golden grasses
and translucent gene pools of mint
green jelly containing seeds
of some sort.
High Tide at Land's End
I
at the tip of Bailey Island, we are engaged
in people watching -- juices are flowing:
a middle aged blonde woman with sunglasses
is sketching a pastel scene in water colors --
on her pad we see the sunset tinted haze,
the pale blue sky, the slight swells of wave,
and a female head in profile cloud;
an older man is pointing his camera
at some small rock islands -- snapping
and resnapping his shutter;
a young man with bare hairy chest
and shaggy unleashed dog is standing
on the rock ledges talking so loud,
so excitedly into his cell phone;
a grey haired woman with sunburned face,
purple baseball cap and wire glasses
warily eyes the dog, then continues writing
long involved paragraphs in her notebook.
II
A motor boat guns its way through
the channel between the islands and us,
sends waves that splash cold water
on my bare legs. I look up,
a brief wary glance, then continue
jotting down these notes.
III
the mops of hair that had been lying flat
on the rock heads are swirling back
and forth, flailing around, even standing
on end as the highest waves come and go --
white gulls and black cormorants
are sharing together the sunbaked tips
of those small barren rock islands --
while above the tinted haze,
the woman's head (that could be yours --
or any of your sisters) in pushed
ever so slowly backwards
across the sky.
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