and if I wasn’t a poet, I wouldn’t hear the echoes of seagulls
studying the amazing of us, the admirers, fading off into distant
dreams of reality slightly damp from the saliva
of the ocean’s busy stillness.

  This is beautiful.

If I wasn’t a poet I wouldn’t feel the balance of these rocks,
each pile a performance dancing steady on the framework
of this landmark;  each pile a brilliant observant of history
sculpturing the many hands of touch and the many eyes
of observation that have kissed each of their existence.

Today I am a new form of an element as I walk
holding hands with the heart of my lover/listening to our heartbeats
have a conversation in the steady silence of this amazement.
If I wasn’t a poet I wouldn’t feel the emotion of love
within us and all around us as families

wander in the arrangement of togetherness
and strangers become present smiles swimming gently
past the structure of our commitment…

This is beautiful.

If I wasn’t a poet, this would still be poetry—the perfection
of these sea sounds blending with the aroma
of captivating clouds; clouds that blanket the shore
of Perkins Cove and look at the way the water giggles
as it exposes its bluish- green mouth drooling
on a light maple flavored sand.  Watch how the sailing
bloats play gently on this giant waterbed
of finesse.  Maine has awakened
if I wasn’t a poet, I wouldn’t be able to translate
the language of this beauty.  I am lucky to be here today
as this sign reads Marginal Way
© 2011 Tarringo T. Vaughan