Ocean

I'm staring at the phantom pen strokes and the little lines devoid of meaning.

Staring at these pages, marked up, full of ideas.

Promise?

I'd certainly hope so.

And it's my poem I'm staring at.

Staring through, more like it...

Staring so hard that I can't see what's in front of me,

What is needing to be fixed and edited and made lovely.

Commas that must be banished, hyphens added, lines rearranged.

But I simply cannot see these things.

And those little pen strokes,

Not quite taunting,

Helpful,

But still menacing, are staring me down,

In all of their fury.

(I really think I'm making the fury part up though)

So here,

I'll let you have what I have,

And I'll let you read it and see what you think.

And you all will remain silent.

And it will be just as it was.

Phantom pen strokes.

Post-it notes.

And my own little scribbled notes,

Jotted to fix things.

Here.

On the Sea as a Muse

Waves hurl themselves relentlessly

Upon grey and shifting sands,

The boundless Sea,

Horizon no limit,

Only to what the eye can see,

But so stretches on,

The Sea.

The edge of the sea,

Where blue laps at grey,

Where sea glass washes up,

To rest in worn glory,

Spit out from the sea,

Its own pearls,

Treasures of the years,

Prisoners of tidal currents,

Swirled about in salty tear-water.

Depths, treasure troves cast in shadows,

Far from grey shores.

Meant to be shrouded

Meant to be plumbed.

As the depths of the mind,

The sea holds all secrets,

Safe, in dizzying extents.

Heels sink into sand,

And sea foam laps onto toes,

Whispers as the sea sucks its teeth,

And the waves make the sound.

Wisdoms, whispered in sea spray

From where humans cannot sail.

Gnarled driftwood,

Twisted, paled,

A once-was tree, where dryads slept

-Entangled in the wood grain-

Now freed into sea,

As drifting souls,

Keepers of the profound deep.

The Muse,

The Sea,

A torrent of grey-green,

Where winds whip waves across the slow-glass surface.

Winds stir hair back,

Instill salty scent deep into gasping lungs.

Fill mind with its own waves,

Thoughts smelling of the sea.

A white-capped, grey challenge

To fathom soul whispers,

Whispers like sea spray calls,

That strike ears

The Muse speaks,

And I listen.

Lift arms to embrace

The aura of Muse.

And The Sea calls back

-In the taunting way-

It has, to keep one guessing.

The Muse ebbs and flows

With the tides,

As the winded waves swell towards the shore.

There.

Adieu.