wave

A Poet Afloat

Folder: 
Simple Thoughts

"Find out

exactly what it is about,

what words flirt around;

being inspired. 

 

Seeing, 

hearing 

a piece of art,

hardrock rhymes

 

that tell what has transpired,

what had rambled on by.

Hard times,

or that feel-good story

 

that is too cliche for news

nowadays,

no love to be found.

Between then and now,

 

after everything that has happened,

still trying to climb a side of a mountain.

Reach up above and find purchase,

pull yourself onto the ledge,

 

overcome that edge.

Inspirational,

overcoming what supposed story

has made times get harder.

 

Determination

denotes what is to be,

or what can be deemed

a possibility. 

 

So is it inspirational,

it being anything, 

just because it had been done

by one who downplays the feat?

 

Nay,

it feels good instead,

the rushing feeling

of creating, being

 

involved in something more than me,

kittens and puppies,

dogs too,

more than you,

 

inspired to make a difference

because I had made made one 

to your day, 

or so you say.

 

As long as what is being inspired

doesn't bring the end

of art,

of love and life,

 

I'll do it every day,

I'll inspire,

unintentionally,

that's the point.

 

I think.

 

Nothing in this world compares,

being lost at sea;

tidal waves won't let me be.

 

So poetry,

a release to me,

inpires others?

I can live with that,

 

be it the truth."

Author's Notes/Comments: 

Having written poetry for a little more than a year now I see a lot of comments about how much people can relate to my work, mostly due to how some can read it and feel a sense of vulnerability, or truth. I never try to write a piece to just one person but time and again more people feel that some of my work is almost made out to just them. 

 

I'm okay with that, since I get that comment more than once. Ego on high, I suppose.

Creating Space

After a late dinner I took a walk down to the dock by the lake,
Lying down on the dock, outstreched, I could feel the coarse wood on my legs,
A warm breeze wisps by, grazing it's breath upon the nape of my neck
As I hang my body down off the dock to reach the the water,
The smell of fresh cut grass permeates the air, and the lake is black as coal,
It is smoothe and shiny in the moolit sky, so calm and quiet,
I gently touch the water to form a ripple
That continues outward into the lake for yards and yards
Until my eyes can no longer see it as it melds with the stillness,
Consumed by the tranquility of the water,
And the resounding effect of my own vibration returns to me,
Refreshed and renewed, expanding my awareness
Into my own well within,
While I lift myself up into a sitting position,
And enjoy the subtle romance of the night.
I walk home, with nothing but the sound of my tennis shoes
As they pace me onward down the dirt path,
The distant streetlights forming tall shadows that shrink as I walk by each lamp post,
As I pass the lilac bushes, now in bloom,
The smell is so fragrant and it contributes to my placid mood,
So I pluck one of the flowers to place under my pillow.

I am asleep within minutes and awaken to the songbirds outside.

I like this.

 

8:26 AM 5/4/2013

Author's Notes/Comments: 

creating space.

View nightlight1220's Full Portfolio

Ondine: A Tale of the Sea

Folder: 
Narrative Poems

Deep oceans dwelt in her soft cadenced
breathing, and the song of the seagull
strained in her hair, and her eyes had the hues
of the sunset as they sank in the distance
in hazel-brown skies.

She came unexpected, entangled in weeds,
caught in the net of a sad-eyed fisherman,
and her song had the call of the ocean,
and the call of the wave, and was heard

by all creatures that live in the deep:
the fisherman's nets now are crowded galore!
Bass, salmon, and lobster, bewitched by the song
of the girl who came from the sea!

They made love in his cabin, off the west coast
of Ire, the girl from the ocean and the sad-eyed
fisherman. And her sighs were like magic,
like the surf on the beach, and her moans were
like breakers that broke on the cliffs of his heart.

He was caught in the foam of her spell-binding
songs, caught in the strands of her sand-colored
hair, caught in the breeze of her lips, and the fish

in her mouth, as they loved in his cabin off the west
coast of Ire, and the tide of the ocean, and the wind
of the sea, and the sighs of the girl stole right
into his heart.

Now the cabin lies empty, struck by the wind,
and the waves of the ocean, and the tides
of the sea, and a song that bewitches

can be heard in the distance, in hazel-brown
skies, which glow like the eyes of the girl
who came from the sea.

(c) Copyright Jim Valero, 2012.

Author's Notes/Comments: 

This poem is written in ballad style. It employs cadence, rather than strict meter, to create evocative rhythms. As you read it aloud, you will notice the cadences and the textures built by sound effects like assonance, alliteration, and so on. Repetition works to create a longing, melancholy feeling in this ballad about a mysterious love by the shores of lovely Ireland.

WAITING

Awaiting the wave
that’ll wash away empty hours
and endless longing
in this dead silence at sea
I pull down chunks of sky

--R.K.Singh

View profrksingh's Full Portfolio