Life-Saving Drill

In empty waves the lifeguards drill

The entering with craft.   Between them
A vessel white as surf and blind,
Dumbly buoyant as they race beside.

Muscle of youth weakly points the hull

Into the green biceps of the wave;
Then the white chaos of its crash
Drives them back, the girl and the boy.

Once again, as lowering sun makes gold

Of them, her lunge aboard will tip
The prow above a wave.  A clack
Of oars, another running heave,

And he is on with her, but she falls out.

His hand outstretched lifts her into him.
The dumb boat only dances back
To shore.  They clamber out and haul it round.

Again they run their golden dash

And ply the waves.  Both aboard,
They then commence to rowing.
This summer their youth is what they save.

They reach and pull in tandem.  Far

Away they wait and turn for shore.
Next summer they will be the same;
The boat alone will age.

John Sevcik

New Found Land

To Arcadia, to Giverny,
Fontainebleau, or Arles;
To Brittany, or Fiji,
The Marquesas, or Morocco;
To Maine, the Hudson, or Cape Cod,
Truro or the Hamptons call . . .
Perhaps to Mexico,
Columbia, or Yosemite,
To the distant-most outlandish
Place, keep a bowl of soup,
A glass of wine, a Key West
Of the heart and mind,
Where art can grow on half
The cost, and half again,
Or less than that.
Or better still a newfound land,
A sandbar off Belize
Or Cannes, to while away, to paint,
To plan, the art utopia
No one can achieve in life,
But hanging dreams of it export
The beauty to which all resort.

John Sevcik