Walls Of Tarpon Springs

I dream of dolphins on the evening before my arrival.

At the airport, in a van, Katho greeted me.
Her voice was the first sound of a friend's familiar voice
from far away.
Ernesto, soaking the coast in hurricane season,
was a sign that authorities blamed the
torrential rain on chance and bad luck.
I know it to be true that for many years, traveling time hit me,
hit me like a long train.
Now as the scattered 'pour' turned to sunny,
flat, rich green landscapes, square plots of land,
I felt elated.
I was back again, in the Gulf stream waters,
hugging William in sand, alert eyes awaiting our
destination toward the deep, blue sea.

It was a flight that sent me to Katho's potatoes,
steaks & hot peppers, chilled water.
I lingered out on the second-story porch, later
gazing down to notice princess palm trees,
a boat across the street in a driveway.
Magical frogs in the middle of the front garden.
Yellow lantana. Tree of life. Wild yam. Plumbago.
Pink hibiscus. Mexican petunias: raging
flowers and plants.

One particular Tuesday we took a river boat tour
up the Gulf waters,
departing from the Dolphin Gift Store.
A tour guide talked non-stop as my big binoculars
scouted for all kinds of birds in the grassy marshes.
I focused in on white egrets.
Up in a dead, high tree, an eagle's nest, gracing the
ominous sky proved our journey would be
a warning for me.
The world was changing at that very moment,
even with it's wildlife.

The boat stopped, and we were suddenly snapping
photos of dolphins, lifting up to breathe in the air,
surrounding our boat.
I am getting older, and the glorious sun felt soothing
in glorious weather country.
There were other tours.
Men deep-sea fished in Tarpon Springs.
Rod, reel, bait, Florida fishing license included, keeping
their catch.

Dolphins' sleek bodies, whirl in my mind,
on beautiful pink clouds, joyfully jumping in the sea.

The first time I walked through the Sponge Docks, busy
crowds streamed through to buy seashells and more
seashells, glowing hats, pretty jewelry.
A Greek cafe sold cappuccino and baklava.
I took in an evening at Santorini's off of Athen's Street,
a Greek Restaurant which cooked grouper fish.
Then a tour of historical houses
--a ride on a trolley, that went out through
town and which whizzed past Christopher Still, the painter,
who painted 10 foot murals and who even placed
canvas in the Governor's Mansion.

Ah!
But, yes, the famous canvases of Tarpon Springs.
Artists at Work. The Walls Of Tarpon Springs.
Foropoulos, known for his vivid paintings of underwater
marine life.
Julian and Karin Mesa fashion glass creations, make
tabletops, gifts and doors of intricate glass design.
Mitchell Lee Kolbe, once living in the studio of a renowned
painter in the city 1900's, George Inness' son, painting
vistas of Florida (George Inness, a landscape painter
who's famous Early Morning was history).
Art On Display.
Rattner at the Leepa-Rattner Museum of Art.
A collection that included works by many of his friends.
Pablo Picasso, Marc Chagall, George Renault, and
author, Henry Miller.

Off to the Olive Garden in Tampa with Aysha,
Katho's lovely daughter. My friend. My confidant.
There, having a Mediterranean shrimp scampi dinner,
bread sticks, lifting a fork to a huge Italian salad bowl
in the middle of the table for six.
John, the Hungarian painter looked my way, appearing
weary, gaunt and tall. His paintings must have been
expressions of love while painted,
I think.
For things he knew, with strange shapes and form,
impressionism, colorful and massive.

I dream of dolphins that night,
caught in the mist of sea salt.

William drove across the "Little Shaddock Street",
his blonde hair enmeshed in the sweet air blowing
through our beings,
steering the wheel with precision,
his eyes distantly anxious for the seaside.
He parked across the street from
St. Nicholas Greek Cathedral, the Epiphany Diver
Statue by Kolbe, stark and glowing bronze in the front
courtyard of the church.
I opened the huge wooden doors.
Walked in, signed the register.
Thought to kneel below a huge chandelier.
I prayed with the signs of the saints, the divine glass, the holy
Catholic Church at home, and finding God.

I could not weep
and I would not weep.
I rejoiced.

I was at the seaside. It was a miracle journey
to a different planet. The grand sunsets appeared
strangely with the vision of artists' blurred eyesight,
as breathtaking as souvenirs like Socrates
soaps in gift shops,
revealed by friendship,
three steps away from higher ground.