Featured Poet (contnued):

Three Hundred Feet Up (or “Notes From Another Man’s Head”)

 

 

From three hundred feet above I see me

treading along the shoreline. It’s inspiring,

the gull’s view from here.

The Gulf of Mexico stretches outward,

morning sky joining it in a perfect curve,

far beyond the limited vision of the man below.

 

But from here there’s no texture

of sand under foot or cool of breaking water,

and I have a vague longing for the physical again.

I move lower – thoughts entering –

 

Like how, when I order

a raspberry mocha frappuccino at Starbucks,

I can’t seem to wait the ten seconds it takes

to find a chair and so I take the frappuccino

from the girl behind the counter

and as I’m walking – walking! – I try to drink it,

and I almost always get foam and cream and raspberry

on my face, which everybody in the place notices,

especially, I’m afraid, the girl behind the counter.

 

Or how my brother-in-law has a stupid way

of arguing by using the word “nevertheless”

when he’s out of ammunition.

He’ll just look at you, after you’ve delivered

the perfect counter to some stupid thing

he’s trying to claim, and say, “Nevertheless.”

Which is only slightly less stupid

than when he closes an argument with,

“I’m just saying.”

What the hell is that supposed to mean?

 

And a wave breaks cold over my feet, kissing

me gently back down, and I am left dazed

by the fact that I never – ever – go to Starbucks,

don’t really know for sure what a “frappuccino” is,

and don’t even have a brother-in-law.

Then I remember I’m not really at the shore.

Not really.

 

                Kitesurfer

 

 

Damn it was cold.

That wouldn’t stop you.

You, in your wetsuit,

gliding over churning white

waves, stout wind taking you up,

spinning you, and you,

landing

perfectly, effortlessly,

skating halfway down the shoreline

before I could blink.

You, goddess of the waves.

 

Damn it was cold.

Even in my windbreaker,

hands deep in my pockets,

hat pulled down, standing

on the cold, cold sand.

 

You, out there, gorgeous

with your All-American blonde hair

tied behind you, flying.

I imagine a tan under the wetsuit

(and other things).

You, flying with your twenty-something

boyfriends. The gang,

crisscrossing wakes

of invincible youth.

Probably all going skydiving later.

Damn it’s cold.

 

I could kitesurf too, if I really wanted.

I’d be good at it.

You know, when I was younger…

When I was your age.

If you’d have seen me then.

Or skydive.

Maybe I’ll skydive.

Or hang glide.

 

Maybe I’ll write a poem.

Damn.

 

                    

G. S. Payne is a freelance writer living on the Gulf Coast of Florida. 48 years old, he has been a poetry aficionado most of his adult life, reading and writing it, when not distracted by either his clients' work or his sailboat.