3 poems

by William G. Gillespie

sunset in Guanacaste 

In the quietness of the peninsula 

I listen to the waves turn white 

against the cliffs 

against the sun brushing the porcelain sands with gold 

there is no sail in sight 

save the frigatebird

rising like an angel 

above the bay 

taken on a current 

I will one day know   

toward the mountain veils of green 

winter

I see the last of the plum leaves fall 

as a gust of wind whistles the end of autumn 

soon the shivering window hums 

with blue adumbrations of snow and solitude 

I chew my mandarin 

and listen—    

when I gather in my arms 

the cold winter winds

I rock to sleep 

the promise of spring

desire

The fisherman 

plucked a grape 

from the crown 

of a white wave 

but the grape 

round and sweet 

shriveled 

in the salt of his hand 

William G. Gillespie lives and writes in Brooklyn, NY. His poetry has appeared in Olney Magazine, Red Eft Review, and The Drunken Canal.