Some Beach

Is there, deep in your mind/heart

the rhythm of the waves

so low and slow

its more felt

than heard.

Some Beech

Is there within you as well

It's leaves held tight

Through darkest, coldest winter's night

To shelter that one thrush

Who overwinters to be the first

Song to herald the spring.

Some bitch

Who licks and suckles her pups

Whose sweetmilk breath could soften

The most cold hearted warrior criminal

Lives in your breast as well

Unacknowledged.

As climate change

Covers the beach beneath the waves

And kills the trees with wild swings

Of rain ,heat and cold

That bitch will give voice to sounds

Would cow a Rebel or a Banshee

Before she rips your heart in two.

Peter Peteet

So.

Well then, 

spring.

Must be answer enough.
No address, or redress just
A thing of varied length
and tension.
Energy stored up and pushing, 
waiting without patience, without a clock or time.
Spring is and thinks not of what was or will,
could be,
but it is not me.

For I ,yes I -that is the not everything, the not you,
not blossoms or remembered love or half forgotten dreams,
not stories told or names come loose from bodies
burned and scattered in the wind.
This I, much like any eye
is moving while constricting or relaxing
seeking unless dead or drugged;
moving even in sleep, in dreams,
to drink in light
just enough
to engage the world, admit your gaze,
and not be consumed
yet

When death, that rhythmic lover of us all
comes
I will no virgin be.
Just as a spring is born in heat and has compressions and extensions numbered
but unknown.
So is the Iris of my eye,
sprung from a bulb within my chest,
A thing of springs.
And so perhaps even from that rhythmic lover
I will rise
again.

Peter Peteet

Peter Peteet is 54 years old and lives in Atlanta,Ga.His poetry has been published in Flycatcher.