Mike Maguire
By
Jill Crainshaw
Where the Sea Kisses the Sun
The politicians try to bottle what they’re selling,
put their label on it—Vintage 2016—a winning year,
liquid assets at market value prices.
But life’s most precious nectar won’t be bottled.
Its wild flow—aged, spirits distilled–
is where corked up messages
rise and fall on storm-surge waves,
seeking what they all promise—freedom.
Or is it truth?
Jim Johnson said it best
way back in election year 2000
while we picked green beans in his garden.
I strained to hear his wisdom
through the presumptive din in my ears.
He pointed heavenward:
“Pastor, if I could paint up there
all the grace I’ve known in my life,
I would need a bigger sky.”
I’m rowing out from the harbor now,
my own corked up bottle in the cargo hold.
While politicians pander on the shoreline,
I want to liberate its message
back into the sweet essence
of undomesticated waters
where the lip of the sea kisses the rising sun.
Push the Stop Button
Katelyn loves to dance.
Twice around the sun and
she is discovering
music and her body
and how the two are meant to be together.
We rode a Ferris wheel, Katelyn and I,
noses pressed to the window
of our swaying gondola.
“Three times around,”
says the red-garbed amusement attendant,
“unless you need to stop.
Push this button if you do.”
I study the stop button. Katelyn studies the view.
We sashay into the celestial ballroom
where Independence Day fireworks
twirl and turn.
Cars shrink.
Blue umbrella tops hide diners
as they eat “the world’s best burger.”
The second time around,
Katelyn points, wiggles, laughs.
She doesn’t know and I don’t either
that in three more rotations of the earth
a truck will careen through city crowds
in a place across the ocean just below us,
music decanting out of broken bodies
onto the street.
We crest the top and begin our descent.
I eye the stop button.
Katelyn loves to dance.
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