Occasionally, poems require an introduction.

We try to provide some statement confirming the trigger for the words, the rhythm, the excitement, love, and feelings responsible for the result. But, is it really possible to document the instance of creation that gave birth to the words and expression in a poem?

How can I make you see the birth of that thought; like water turning to steam, do you actually see that creative instant?

I can tell you that my girlfriend and I boarded our 9 a.m. flight to Aruba at Newark International Airport. But, do you get a sense of what it felt like?

Can you imagine landing in Aruba at 3 p.m.? Do you feel the humidity or smell the sea breeze mixed with the toxic scent of jet fuel? Probably not.

Were you with us when we cleared customs, got in the taxi and took the 20-minute ride to our timeshare at the Divi Divi?

How about as we quickly changed into bathing suits, throwing our clothes on the bed, floor, wherever they landed? Nope.

Did you get breathless from running to the beach, hoping to find a lounge chair and drag it to the water’s edge?

How did the earplugs feel when I pushed them into my ears?  What did you hear when I pushed the start button and the sounds of George Winston’s “Rain” blended with the sound of waves, the salt air, the sea breeze?

I bet you missed the sunset.

And the moon. Oh. My. God. The moon. Full appearance, shining down, turning the ripples in the water to so many flashing diamonds. Did you see it?

Were you there the next morning when the sun came up? Did you see the flaming red sun rise over the horizon?

I will share this with you. Share some of what you missed.

~

Monday Sunrise

The moment just before the sun comes up
the sky at the horizon is shock-red
the color fades, 
softens
as your eyes rise skyward.
Anything between you and the horizon appears
as though carved out of jet-black coal.

I never witnessed angels in black overcoats then
but I have heard music.

Evenings on beaches looking west.
Your beach chair at the
water’s edge,
in the water if they let you.
The sun sets while the sky dances to the ever-changing colors.
They are vibrant, yet earth-toned
The work of angels with electric brushes transforming the
clouds like paint on canvas.
They create an evening picture for us while they prepare
the dawn for those far west—looking east.

I bring my own music to sunsets.
George Winston
or Vivaldi’s Four Seasons will do.

The colors fade.
The sun is gone leaving us with stars
and diamonds on oceans water.
The beach belongs to us as we slow dance to
George Winston’s Rain,
laugh as the sensations of cool sand and warm water confuse our feet,
and fall on the sand beside each other
laughing still
and believing we can count all the stars by morning.

Author: George Robalik
Image: Alejandra Queroz/Unsplash
Editor: Lieselle Davidson
Copy Editor: Emily Bartran
Social Editor: Lieselle Davidson