Poem By Troy Cochran

This sea of mine makes too much haste
to roll its carpet out
for every variety of face.

Here a crest to set upon the very best
by laying waste to all the rest
feeding from a trough, as if all hungers must compete
for solitary space
to make a simple path across an over-crowded room.

Nothing very pacific in this baltic gloom.
A cold icelandic glare that mitigates against
a warm apologetic stare; the agitated dance
to get around opposing nets,
damn near meeting mast to mast, and chest to chest,
as if one heart were parceled out
beating in arrhythmic booms.

My ocean needs more rooms,
less continental shelf;
accommodations for ten-thousand aims
crisscrossing over one another's names.

Aromas so profuse I have trouble to distinguish
Russian musk tumulting with Parisian perfumes,
Mediterranean zest in a green Aleutian soup
of walruss tusk, the starch of naval uniforms
breezing in a full armada
after one Tahitian dress.

I see atlantic squalls abutting chilled antarctic walls
in every clear and jostled city pool, the spill
of small martini falls.

I cannot comprehend it All.
I only know I thrill to find a space that I can call
a momentary still, let the wind take what it will.

The world is just a beach ball.

Comments about Armada

When a whole armada sails, it takes many cinematic shifts to take it all in. While trying to herd its own gaggle, the mind invents something like an internal cinema. Somewhere in there maybe there's a hermit's coracle, approaching a rocky shore in Ireland.

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Other poems of COCHRAN

A Strange Attractive Power

It is the cocktail hour.

Too late
for sneaking up the chimney, bounding

Sat On Hat

Sam I am NOT.

Troy I am!
I happen to LIKE

The Art Of Falling

To shed all pretense to being good and great;
To undisguise,
And make open confession of oneself
Of all one's lifetime of triteness and lies;

Bull Roar

The persistence of shook leaves
Clinging so tenaciously to life and limb
Is all the roar of my October thinking now.
I, too, am such a tree as all these giants

Sins Of An Old Woodstove

The Mind is just another kind of old woodstove,
Generations of experience growing,
That needs the touch of babies' hands
To know the scream of... cold.


(In Earnest of Being Ernest) *

It is what it is.
Whatever it is.