Beach Poetry: Scenes 4-7

This is a "mini-series" of poems inspired by very personal feelings I won't disclose until I post the notes for this series later. "Scene IV" was written on October 11th, 2015 and "Scene V", "Scene VI" and "Scene VII" were written on October 13th, 2015.

Scene IV: "The Night Sky"

The night is not an element
But it creates new identities
With “water” and “air” at the beach.
In the day, water is bright
And inviting but can only
Reveal so much.

At night, water becomes warm
After taking heat from the Earth.
The warm side of water is sadly ignored
As no one but the air
Is around to see the warmth
Despite the darkness all around.

In the day, air is distant
But observant and sensory
Even if it seems too idle.
At night, the air has mild warmth
To not be confused with the Earth
Which has only grown colder at night.

The beach is meant for water and air
Although fire and Earth watch only
To fade away from its impulse
And grow cold after time “respectively”.
As for water and air, the beach
And in turn the night sky turn into sanctums.

In the day, “Mr. Yellow Moon”
Presents himself emotionally pristine
At the risk of being labeled “manufactured”.
At night, he exudes warmth
With his darkness being nothing
But unappreciated passion.

In the day, I’m idle until
He calls for me.
At night, I’m less intense
And am able to see him
For who I think he is
Thanks to the night sky.

Scene V: "When the Waves Crashed"

More than once have I broken
Down into tears over him.
Someone else’s wedding bells
Went off the day he did.
The day when the waves crashed
Is when my stomach churned.

“Mr. Yellow Moon” was breaking
And I was aching for him.
That fateful end of July
And start of August
Has led to a much needed fall
From my idle and ivory tower.

I once saw a horrible vision
Of him being one with downward air
In the hopes it would lift him out
Of this world.
This mystifying omen proved false
But I still sensed such hell in him.

Being observant from the tower
Days before it fell, acted as
Inadvertent precognition.
He had faced polluting condemnation
When it seemed no one but his
Adopted family came to his aide.

Lucky for him, the two Josephs, The Wiccan
And the others of the adopted family,
Their pain seems to have subsided.
As for me, coping with love for him
Proves to be arduous even if
It allows me to feel.

“Mr. Yellow Moon” at the moment
Continues his melodic pilgrimage
To gain a sense as to where
The gold coast that glitters too resides.
I hope he visits me along the way;
Even if I’m not “truly” meant to be there too.

Scene VI: "Pyrite to Life"

In spite of who I am,
I am within my right
To imagine me being with him.
The most dangerous wish
Is wanting an ideal scenario
To play out in reality.

Making the pilgrimage
To the gold coast that glitters too
Wasn’t in the cards to begin with.
Only by assumed proxy
Did I ever cave in
To such a fantastic laden mentality.

Unless he pardons me
Or executes my heart,
I’m serving pyrite to life.
Putting myself in a thought
He probably isn’t having
Is a crime deserving of death.

A plea deal comes in the thought
Of us both doing so on each other.
Gaining warmth from his
“#Blessed” muscles
From coitus and camaraderie
Is what I should be pleading for.

 What I fear and what I expect
Are synonymous with every waking
Day and night I delve into these feelings.
Digitalized “attention”,
Cybernetic “affection” and
The internalized truth damn near plagues me.

Should I receive or see
The truth for myself
I will experience gratitude...
Compounded with either my wish,
His wish, heartbreak, or perhaps...
Water and air meeting at the beach.

Scene VII: "The Gold Coast that Glitters Too"

Whether or not I will be there
The day “Mr. Yellow Moon”
Brushes up against
The gold coast that glitters too
Is irrelevant now
That the picture is being painted.

Once he isn’t landlocked
He will feel temporal freedom
As I do in my stationary, airy state.
Brushing up against the physically fine
But emotionally coarse sand
Will present no scarring on his body.

The fire from the sun will
Provide lip service in giving
His body warmth from his journey.
As he recedes from the sand,
He’ll savor every drop of heat
Even knowing he will have made it.

The hours that elapse will mean little
Even if he is cognizant of the Earth
And sun being temporal entities.
The singing from his harp blessed
Vocals will be at their most projected
And resonant with relief.

All the while,
Who he’ll be serenading
Will be a mystery...
Unless against all odds
Set by elemental counsels
Or even by logic...

He’ll want me to defy the odds
And not end up drifting
From him because of my personal,
Pragmatic restraints.
He’ll surface from his heart
And emit the notes meant for me.