Poetry | Stories | Photography
“The stories she told! I don’t see ‘er so well now, yet she’s in my heart still telling stories.”
“She must have been an interesting woman.”
“My Lasse, she was no woman unless women are made of water and shells. No, she’s the sea! The sea is the best storyteller.”
A wild wind howls,
cold and free
from your aching.
The sea is freezing,
ice boulders
sit lining the shore.
A green windswept
set of ancient
mountains far away.
The sea is so loud,
calling you
to stay the course.
You fall to the sand,
free again
on your island home.
A sea smell drifts across the street, into my room, and I am called towards the waves.
Drifting along with my favourite thongs and my togs, off I float away.
The sea sounds sing a song of waves, boats, humans, and the thrill of another day.
Dipping a toe, then a foot, then my whole I am lost in amongst waves.
Sitting on the couch
Music plays you to sleep
Slumped on the couch
You drift towards dreams
Sleeping on the couch
Sea Water moves over you
Salty sand on the couch
You wonder where you are
Mayhem grows as the boat splutters and growls.
Dark plumes escape from the engine.
Something wet touches your foot.
Nothing is left for you to love.
The water is rising fast.
Panic grips your heart.
You consider certain options.
No one will remember your writing.
Dark plumes will be mocked forever.
Mayhem lingers as you swim for the shore.
I dreamt of the absent sea.
No saltwater stirring the waves,
no moon or sea for you and me.
When I awoke in the night,
there was no morning light,
yet the moonlight was bright.
I dreamt of the absent sea.
No saltwater stirs the waves,
no moon nor you, soon no me.
A wave breaks the sadness
you feel looking at the sea.
Young hearts shouldn’t hurt like
yours hurts under a perfect sky.
Another wave crashes into
many pieces of aquamarine;
water gems breaking and
moving back into the sea.
You take a false step forward,
not grasping the consequences.
A wave misses the target,
failing to deliver the blow.
Your heart moves you to stay,
so you remain standing
on the shore, heart-pounding;
shivering at the thought of
what could have been:
you, the aquamarines,
the sea none the wiser.
Sitting and standing,
painting a still life of fruit.
The right light moves in today. Fruits
once alive become immortal on the
canvas, as part of their being, will
forever live in the paint, the brush.
A calm moves through the studio, as
this place has the right feeling today.
The last stroke taken, the canvas is
something new;
pieces of fruit falling from an
unknown place in the sea.
Rain falls,
a springtime chill.
The hills green,
your heart is happy.
The sea tells no
lies; you miss her.
Yet the hills feel
the rise and fall
of the winds that
touched the sea.
The rain, just like
the sea shows
reflected truths;
you only need
to look and listen.
To sail my ship on your churning waves,
feeling the turbulence of your will, the struggles.
Weathering the storms to enter your port,
sailing wildly into your heart to never sail again.
