Best Places. What is the best place in the world? Impossible to answer but we can understand the beauty of all of them. How about Florida? Read David Cooke poem ‘A Florida Morning’ and feel how marvelous Florida can be.
The author David Cooke has recently been in Florida. He has written several poems about that land. Enjoy them!
Yareah magazine next issue is going to be titled ‘Best Place’. Different artists and authors are just given their opinions. Think about Florida, David Cooke’s poems will help you. Have a nice Saturday!
A Florida Morning
Going downstairs to set up our breakfast
in the late morning sunshine out on the patio,
we are spoiled by the choice of what we can eat
– the brightly packaged cereals, the pastries
we bake for ourselves from a tube of dough,
or chilled cubes of fragrant melon,
pale yellow or pink, mixed with a yoghurt
we carve from its tub with a spoon.
And laying down the day’s foundation,
I drink my coffee, its dark warmth winding
through me when, on its sticks of legs,
I notice a heron stalking the edge
of the pond: all the way round
and back again without a scrap to eat
among the bobbing soda cans
or a long-abandoned, half-deflated ball.
Higher up on a rooftop the second bird
who, for all I know, has feasted well
elsewhere, strikes an ascetic pose –
as if to say sometimes it’s good
to rise above your hunger and make a shape
against the sky, its raised beak
a calamus poised to inscribe an abstract
word on some precious parchment.
All around the harbour its sprawling map
of islands in what was once a mangrove swamp
makes little sense to us whose eyes
are drawn to palm-occluded channels
and where, off limits, we merely gawp
from our cocky tourist launch at ostentatious
privacy. It might be Venice stripped
of history before the rot sets in,
an absentees’ playground, where once
or twice a year a movie star, a garbage man,
or a junk food mogul, touches base
and makes the most of a sky he’s paid for.
And how inert the quietness
of those mausoleums whose phantom staff
maintain and watch high-tech interiors,
the sprinklered lawns, where sculpted herons
or wall-eyed, ironic gators,
are all that’s left of chaos. Chugging past
the ramparts of each ocean-going yacht,
their iridescent blues and greys, a blaze of white,
we head for open seas, then turn about,
alerted to the presence of a solitary
manatee, whose indolent form eludes me,
however hard I look across the shifting water.
Here, where no one seems to walk,
they couldn’t give the name of a bird
whose loosely gathered congregation
sweeps the mild midwinter sky
between Miami and Boca.
And so I noted down the details
to help me find it later: the lightly
coloured head it’s hard to see
beyond its dark expansive
wings, the blunt edge of its tail.
The one time I saw them grounded
I sensed how even they were anchored
to necessity, their trailing wings
the robes of Rembrandt scholars
around some broken thing;
and stripping out its sinews
in a clueless, botched dissection,
they had their fill and rose again
into the swirl of the air
like charred scraps above a bonfire.
Best Places. More about David Cooke