Edit 6: Eventide

[alonso ramoran]

Eventide

In an artless time, my sister and I
chased dripping-wet seagulls
off the edge of the world, while Abuela
called to us with the crooning of sea
slushing on rock.

Muhly grass stirred and finer hair tossed
while we ran until the lullabies, heavy
as shells that we collected with Abuelo,
began to pull protesting eyelids down.

Night came and in the cottage, loose pajamas
still clung to skin, damp and redolent
of green apples and baby powder. Abuela,
in her pink silken gown and bifocals, read
a biography on Lincoln.

We were awake, still watching a cartoon
of a cat relentlessly chasing a mouse.
But with a glare past lowered glasses,
soft as the moon's, she commands a linen tide
we drift beneath and sleep. The shore outside
still singing and Abuelo, now snoring.

Then off went the lamp.

And at her dawn, you wandered in the west.
At their dusk, now I seek your cerulean sands
on this world or another. And only here does
old age come.

Edit 5: Eventide  

In an artless time, my sister and I  
chased dripping-wet seagulls off 
the edge of that world. Warm waves
crooned through our grandparents' lips,

making their calls to us seem as light  
as the currents of spray, blown from sea 
slushing on rock, that stirred Muhly grass  
and tossed finer hair.  

We ran until we met the aging day's  
drowsy tug—and we complied later on, 
when we hopped in the shower, ripened up,  
and dried off. We sprung on the bed, powdered  

in damp and tight pajamas, before watching  
a cartoon of a cat that always chases a mouse.  
Abuela, in her silken gown and bifocals, reads 
Abraham Lincoln's biography. Tonight,   

the moon's face resembles her soft disapproval 
of our late television consuming—to which  
we mind with the shore, snoring with Abuelo. 
Then off goes the lamp.  

A temporary stay at temporal ban.  

I confounded this thought with dreams  
and all a boy could experience, into  
warped meditation; and though its value  
is obscured, I am sure—out of love 
—that that evening exists, for when  
decrepitude comes.


Edit 4: Eventide

In an artless time, 
my sister and I chased  
dripping-wet seagulls 
off the edge of the world 
while the waves crooned 
through our Grandparents' lips, 
 
making their calls to us 
seem like sand on the wind 
    that stirred Muhly grass 
    and tossed finer hair, 
and the fragrance from sea
    slushing on rock. 
 
So we ran until we met  
the aging day's drowsy tug 
—to whom we complied when 
we hopped in the shower, 
ripened up, and got dry.  
 
We sprung on the bed before
watching cartoons of a cat 
endlessly chasing a mouse. Abuela,  
in her silken gown, reads 
Abraham Lincoln's biography. 
 
Tonight,
the moon's face resembles 
Abuela's soft disapproval 
of our late-night television consuming 
—to which we mind with the tides
that were snoring with Grandpa. 
Then off goes the lamp. 
 
A temporary stay at temporal ban. 
 
I confounded this thought 
with dreams and all a boy could experience, 
into warped meditation;
and though the value of this 
is blotted out, I am sure that
that evening was born 
out of love, for when 
our decrepitude comes.


Edit 3: Eventide

In an artless time, 
my sister and I chased  
dripping-wet seagulls 
off the edge of the world 
while the waves crooned 
through our Grandparents' lips, 
 
making their calls to us 
seem like sand on the wind 
    that stirred Muhly grass 
    and tossed finer hair, 
seem like the fragrance 
    from sea slushing on rock. 
 
So we ran until we met  
the aging day's drowsy tug 
—to whom we complied when 
we hopped in the shower, 
ripened up, and got dry.  
 
We sprung on the bed before
catching a cartoon where a cat 
endlessly chases a mouse. Abuela,  
in her silken gown, reads 
Abraham Lincoln's biography. 
 
Tonight,
the moon's face resembles 
Abuela's soft disapproval 
of our late-night television consuming 
—to which we minded with spring
tides that were snoring with Grandpa. 
Then off goes the lamp. 
 
A temporary stay at temporal ban. 
 
I confounded this thought 
with dreams and all a boy could experience, 
into warped meditation;
and though the value of this 
is blotted out, I am sure that
that evening was born 
out of love, for when
our decrepitude comes. 


Edit 2: Eventide 
 
In an artless time—
my sister and I chased
brine-dripping seagulls 
off the edge of the world 
while the waves crooned 
through our Grandparents' lips, 
 
making their calls to us 
seem like sand on the wind 
    that stirred Muhly grass 
    and tossed finer hair, 
seem like the fragrance 
    from sea slushing on rocks. 
 
We ran until we met  
the aging day's drowsy tug
— to whom we complied when
we hopped in the shower, 
  ripened up, 
    and got dry. We sprung
on the bed before catching
some episodes of Ed, Edd n Eddy. 
Abuela, in her silken gown, reads 
Abraham Lincoln's biography. 
Grandpa, who doesn't talk much, 
is fast in his sleep. Tonight 
the moon's face resembles 
Abuela's soft disapproval 
of our late-night television consuming 
— to which, of course, we comply 
with the ease of the 
shore's ever-sweet lullaby. 
Then off goes the lamp. 
 
A temporary stay at temporal ban. 
 
I confounded this thought 
with dreams and all a boy could experience, 
into warped meditation. 
And though the value of this 
is blotted out so beautifully, 
I am as sure as a stone is a stone: 
eventide at that beach was born 
out of love 
for when decrepitude comes. 


Edit 1: Eventide

In an artless time— my sister and I  
would chase brine-dripping gulls 
off the edge of the world 
while waves tenderly crooned 
through our Grandparents' lips,
 
making their calls to us
seem like sand on the wind 
    that stirred Muhly grass 
    and tossed finer hair, 
seem like the fragrance 
    from sea slushing rock. 

We ran, hopefully not on their patience,
till we met all-shades-of-blue's 
drowsy tug;
as it was time to settle down. 
To which we complied:
hopped in the shower, ripened up, and got dry.

We sprung on the bed before tuning into
the fantastical Blue's Foster Home cartoon.
Abuela, in her silken gown, reads
Abraham Lincoln's biography.
Grandpa, being not much of a talker,
is fast in his slumber. Tonight
the moon bears a face that resembles
Abuela's soft disapproval
of our late-night television consuming;
to which, of course, we comply
with the ease of the
shore's ever-sweet lullaby.
Then off goes the lamp.

A temporary stay at temporal ban.

I confounded this thought
with dreams and all a boy could experience,
into warped meditation.
And though the value of this
is blotted out so beautifully,
I am as sure as a stone is a stone:
eventide at that beach was born
out of love
for when decrepitude comes.


Eventide

I. The Beach
In an artless time 
Of chasing brine-dripping gulls
Alongside my sister, 
We found comfort in a song
The waves tenderly crooned  
Through our Grandparents' lips. 
 
Must've been why their calls 
Seemed like sand on the wind 
    which stirred Muhly grass 
    and tossed finer hair;
Seemed like the fragrance 
    from which sea slushes on rock.

Playing near the edge of that world- 
We run, hopefully not on their patience, 
Till we meet all-shades-of-blue's 
Drowsy tug;
As it is time to settle down. 
 
II. The Room
It's just like the sun to say
"Time to settle down",
But now it's hardly out, isn't it? 
So those words go to our grandparents; 
Of course, we comply:
Hop in the shower, ripen up, and dry off.

We sprung on our bed before tuning into
The fantastical Blue's Foster Home cartoon.
Abuela, in her silken gown, reads;
I believe it was
Abraham Lincoln's biography. 
Grandpa, being not much of a talker, 
Is fast in his slumber. Tonight,
The moon bears a face that resembles
Abuela's soft disapproval 
Of our late-night television consuming;
To which, of course, we comply 
With the ease of the 
Shore's ever-sweet lullaby. 
Then off goes the lamp. 
 
A temporary stay at temporal ban. 
 
I confounded this thought,
With dreams and all a boy could experience,
Into warped meditation. 
And though the value of this 
Is blotted out so beautifully, 
I am as sure as eggs are eggs:
Eventide of that beach was born 
Out of love 
For when decrepitude comes.