by Ricardo Zegri

Arms raised like cobras

charmed by the zurna,

she conducts the waves,

all cymbal crashes and timpani drums,

tubas, basses, cellos,

until the treble of flutes and bells


rise on the foam,

and the death rattle of vibes crescendo.

Fingers reach


towards running legs

retreating to dry land.

Those too slow


fall into the music,

tumble with seaweed

to be spit out on shore,


to spit out salt and laughter.

It is there, with sand in her hair

the spell is cast

and she breathes along with

the lung of the world;

the bellows of god,






operatic, in harmony.

Never has the water

sung just this way,


with these rhythms

and it never

will again.


She finds a gull feather quill

and writes a poem

in a secret language


known only to her

and the ocean.

She scoops up the words


in two fists,  

lets them fall

through her fingers

into the surf,

a soft rain.

Each grain,


the beginning

and ending

of a song.

Ricardo Zegri is a SF bay area native, writer and musician. Ricardo's writing has appeared in the Welter Literary Journal, Paragon Press, Rum Punch Press, The Gyroscope Review, and Mind Equals Blown.

Tip The Poet.png


October 2018

© 2020 by The Esthetic Apostle