New Brighton
By Andrew Coyle
Led
by
a strong skulled forehead
you
pace the streets
with
this mind full
of an abstract curse
to
document your struggle
with words torn
into
poems by the wind
gusts
as if it’s just
enough
to say
the pitbull is harmless
the
sand dunes are charming
the
surf is disarming
the children are happy
and
we remember the golden days…
Now
you have that mad brilliance of character that
has
endeared towns to poets
since
the beginning of time,
The erratic motions, the whirling amygdala,
here, here and
here
and
in the theatre of the forehead
from
where we stand,
and
call in our own voices
from the New Brighton pier
still and slow
and hovering
above the wind whipped ocean
a
moment suspended in time,
so
we call to the moon as our planet spins to greet it
and
we call to the waves as the moon pull releases it
and we call to the wind to whisk the past
out
from a friends face, half covered in hair,
smiling
and turning into pieces
the
basic emotions rolling in
and rolling out
so
natural and so yearning to be celebrated,
beyond
any other celebration of life,
that knows just to be alive
is
just to be alive and to
speak
our minds
to speak to this struggle
and
say I see in your face,
my
friend,
an
ancient soul
lived
long and hard
and
laughing loud at the crash of waves
trickling
down your cheeks onto
an
endless page
made
endless by the
timeless
poets
who
channel their visions
through
the winds from horizons
into
sea rhythms and wind words,
and blow them softly from our mouths into the
hearts
of the people we love,
New Brighton,
drunk
on old European
wisdom,
battered by
legislation
your head half dependant
on light
innocent and
begging
sinners with
blacknailed
fingers tied to
the
turn of the sky
when
the clouds darken and the
winds
rise to bend your backs like the trees
blowing
fresh ocean flesh
from our old friend
the
sea
into the town
of our dreams,
into the town of our
dreams.
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