At Bay
for the Schreiers
At Opal Cliffs’ heart
beats a salty “Ostinato,
for Pickled Herring”
Crested cormorants
keep vigil as paddlers ply
dawn’s slack tide shimmer
Viewed from above
bat rays glide aloft eel grass
from below, Azrael
They all go this way
over, under and around
then that way, again
Longer swells gather
Humpbacks hymn, deep harmony
living easier
River, Come Down
Heading to Sacramento
we traced a hint of inland sea
that breached a coastal range
and left a delta in its wake.
Upstream from the San Joaquin
three forks flow a million dammed acre feet of snowmelt
where arsonists drove out the Chinese before they could gather,
sing psalms and receive the sacrament.
Distracted by fresh release from spillway flumes
downright reckless, matter of fact,
I poured iced coffee
into a hot mug
watched it craze
wanting to crack.
Sam Hersh, a lapsed psychophysicist, lives at the foot of Mount Diablo, with his muse, Jan, and plays at beaches beginning with letters, SAN. By day he figures in the Valley of Heart’s Delight. By night, he rewrites poetry, twists porcelain and refreshes lactobacillus sanfranciscensis to perfect sourdough. His poems appeared in Sixfold, The Ina Coolbrith Circle Gathering, Monterey Poetry Review and the Scribbler.
for the Schreiers
At Opal Cliffs’ heart
beats a salty “Ostinato,
for Pickled Herring”
Crested cormorants
keep vigil as paddlers ply
dawn’s slack tide shimmer
Viewed from above
bat rays glide aloft eel grass
from below, Azrael
They all go this way
over, under and around
then that way, again
Longer swells gather
Humpbacks hymn, deep harmony
living easier
River, Come Down
Heading to Sacramento
we traced a hint of inland sea
that breached a coastal range
and left a delta in its wake.
Upstream from the San Joaquin
three forks flow a million dammed acre feet of snowmelt
where arsonists drove out the Chinese before they could gather,
sing psalms and receive the sacrament.
Distracted by fresh release from spillway flumes
downright reckless, matter of fact,
I poured iced coffee
into a hot mug
watched it craze
wanting to crack.
Sam Hersh, a lapsed psychophysicist, lives at the foot of Mount Diablo, with his muse, Jan, and plays at beaches beginning with letters, SAN. By day he figures in the Valley of Heart’s Delight. By night, he rewrites poetry, twists porcelain and refreshes lactobacillus sanfranciscensis to perfect sourdough. His poems appeared in Sixfold, The Ina Coolbrith Circle Gathering, Monterey Poetry Review and the Scribbler.