At Times Seas Angry

she rages as I write this piece of script

low frequency,

deep, moving sounds

in darkness outside

this bungalow

icey, sliding sounds slip

beneath her groans

like a spurned woman

washing, cycling,

in my mind’s eye

violent swirling

tidal crashing,

while darkness gives her cover

sand buffers her crashing sound

breakers slam like clockwork

against the reef breakers

angry and defying man to tame her

she rages

the wind assists her in sporadic bursts

of gale force

punching the walls and roof of my frail cocoon

making it shudder along with my heart

splintering my nerves like the wooden hull

of a beached ship I saw

wrecked on the beach early today

I hear the distress of a fog horn

how can birds fly in this storm?

the sharp cries of seagulls

pierce the low frequency

sounds of the sea

devoid of bioradar

such as bats possess,

they fly in darkness

’cept for the phosphoric glow

of tiny bioluminescent creatures’

light

of white foam caps

of her waves,

there is no moon,

or light

maybe the wind has taken them

and they cannot land

maybe they are searching for light

on shore

i have empathy for this

scavenging bird

may it not slam against the cliffs

a broken mast I saw early today

lying a half mile from the beached ship

forced me to think of

my own spine’s herniated disc

a floating cripple,

in a jagged cove

of inland basaltic rock,

waterlogged,

strangled by sea kelp

now it is midnight

i hear the sizzling of foam

and sand under pressure

sifted by bully waves

crashing and

slapping, having a row

against their own kind

i hear their high level decibel pitch

like the belly flop of the sperm whale

that flattened Ahab’s harpoon boat

and his own bully crew

this bungalow has survived many a storm

i surmise

let it have its tantrum

i will have my rest

i will let the sea have its way

let its sounds lull me to sleep

and in the morning when it is calm

i will resume my hunt for her artifacts