You walk backwards from the setting sun,
barefoot in the fading gold,
watching light dissolve to dusk,
no secrets left untold.

The evening wind plays with your hair,
soft as whispers never said.
I watch you moving through the light,
with every step I too tread.

The golden glow clings to your skin,
paints you in its embered hue,
a fleeting masterpiece of fire,
Your beauty bathed in red-shifting blue.

I love you in this quiet hour,
when day and night stand hand in hand.
As you walk backwards from the light,
And I watch you from where I stand.

is it bad i wish you suffering
because it means you're alive

we promised moonlight
we promised beach

but i float down the shore alone
my feet yet to touch ocean floor

as your dust settles back into the stars
the tide keeps pulling away
i see the rippled glass of the sand

a face shaped wildly by the sunlight you never got to see
a distorted image of me

i imagine you lived a hundred thousand years just to believe the line wasn't cut short

i imagine you lived a hundred thousand years just to believe the line wasn't cut short

in the shells i pick up, are lies
and i fill my mouth with all these little shells

you lived a hundred thousand years
you lived enough to see
you know me, even now
and your dust wont settle in the stars

it'll form in a ghost in my backyard

She sits on sandy banks,
the most beautiful sight one could see.
I give the universe endless thanks
for bringing and gifting her to me.
We’re a perfect paradise,
she’s always calmed me to breathe.
It paid off that she rolled the dice,
I know she’s not one for betting.

I can see stars looking out our window;
they illuminate us warm in our bed.
Through the screen I hear the wind blow,
it’s like a lullaby playing in my head.
“I love you more than you’ll ever know,”
You’re in my veins as the blood I’ve always bled.

Warming hands and pulling at shades,
rolling in white sands and waves, cascades.
Toppling over all the sand castles that were made,
brushing fingers on grassy patches; admiring every blade.

Watching the summer wind whip your hair to kiss your face
I start to begin to put them back into place,
before I declare that the act is just a waste
as natural perfection is one of your many traits.

There’s no lies and no regrets,
just those sweet summer sunsets
and those relaxed and easy breaths,
you are the best soul I’ve ever met.
And we were acting like there were whales in Wasaga beach,
who says there wasn’t baby, maybe they were just out of reach.

Spooky little white lights
Dancing out at sea
Deep beneath the waves and
Underneath the breeze

Little lonely lovers
Sit under moonlight
Waters stretch between them
The other not in sight

Shattered little glass shards
Glinting on the beach
Sands of time has smoothed them
Safe enough to keep

Boats and ships a-rowing
Rocking to and fro
Lost to far horizons
Wherever they may go

From my new book, Poems of Ancient Rome and Greece, available in paperback on Amazon and Barnes & Noble, as well as eBook on Kindle, Nook, and Apple Books:  https://www.amazon.com/Poems-Ancient-Greece-Christopher-Saitta/dp/B0DS6933HB?ref=astauthor_dp  

My mother the sea,
She woke my sandy eyes,
Just to tell me she had to leave,
Draw past the markets where the fish are sun-dried,
Snarled by the coral-rough hands of divers deep.

My mother the sea,
She left her running tab
Of the grocer’s choicest greens,
Thumbed the velamentous rinds and spiny scarola,
Her xylem and phloem are the slow moving cruciferousness of a breeze.

My mother the sea,
Charwoman of tides,
Who dips and delves upon her knees,
Who scrubs her brothel-coves with chamber lye,
Cyprian mistress of the salt-stained sheets.

I have looked for you, mother,
A scugnizzo amid the striped awnings of the marketplace
~ like sails to the sky ~
Where the fishmongers hawk their pride
Of conch, cavallo, and black sea bream.

I have looked for you, mother,
Walked sun-forged along the boardwalk,
Amid the neon-mascara of signs,
Hand-in-hand with only the ladyfingers of salt and vinegar fries,
Toward the crisp syllabub of pebbles and sand.

A beach is window-warmth spread free, cosmopolitan,
The longeur of eyes crushed in the glass-dust of cities.
And in the sputtering of the frosted spume of tides,
Held broken seashells in my hands like broken needles,
Heard the pump-click of the ventilator through your mask of sand.

My mother the sea,
A naked convalescent,
Whose ever-turnings have taken
A turn for the worse.
Who will know her by her death, who but me?