David Melville is the author of the poetry collection Signposts & Hedges (Finishing Line Press). He left a successful career as a lawyer to devote himself to endeavors closer to the heart. In addition to more time writing, he organized daily meditations attended by hundreds during the pandemic. His poems have appeared in national literary journals such as Water~Stone Review, Atlanta Review, Tipton Poetry Journal, and RHINO, and the college textbook, Listening to Poetry: An Introduction for Readers and Writers (2019). He lives in Oregon.
Gulf When I spoke of the heart, that raucous ocean that froths, heedless and repetitious as a drunk, open mouthed, pounding foam by the barrel, gathering to roar sloshed, mad-libbed secrets, more sound than sense, until the curl, the slump, the bubbled sigh . . . and when I babbled about palapas, islanders who rise with the sun to sweep the sands of fronds, I’d meant you as that turbulent water, me the palm-heaper, an island resident. But metaphors walk backwards. There you are, walking, sun browning your spine, fingers touching coconut husks, arms crooked, filled with fronds.
You must be logged in to post a comment.