Yet the Sea

Photo by Adam Dustus

They say the sky’s the limit

But the ocean, yet your sky

Mirror, mirror

Glittering bright

The crystals on horizon blue

The winds upon your back.

Rest now ye weary masts

Float awhile upon your dreams

Soon enough the current

Will carry you home again.

This is a poem for One Shoot Sunday, from the poets that brought you the ever-popular One Stop Poetry. The poem is written in response to the picture prompt posted above. Picture prompt is by Adam Dustus.

Morning Elegance

Star-crossed lovers lie

Snoring in the sand

Waiting on the rose-tipped caress

Of dawn’s fair light,

But the sun catches like

Little crystals in the waters

And they are sleeping through

The glitter and the glare.

The runner’s smile

Warms the streets as they rise

Amidst the shadows of red glare—

Early to rise

And early to rest,

Not like the frantic typing around

Those battered tables—

Early to rise

And early to work,

A desperate cry for more coffee is

As much a sign as these

Gleaming starlets

Carried in the sunlight,

Shimmering in the haze.

Dew drops beneath the leaves,

The covers dip beneath the waves

Of majesty and trees

Swaying in the breeze.

Birdsong, so ponderous in sleep

Uplifted in the daylight—

Just keep away those woodpeckers.

The body screams,

The mind elates

To greet this

Morning Elegance.

Nothing is as it seems

I woke up early this morning and literally rolled out of bed with this one on my mind. If it was related to dreams I had last night, then it’s probably a good thing I don’t remember them. Anyhow, I hope you enjoy:

Nothing is as it seems—

The old die old,

The young die young,

One perpetuates the other

In waves of maddening

Disillusion not withstanding—

We are players and audience

The stage ours to watch

And ours to play.

But where is the director?

The play plays on in

Such maddening discourses,

There is a plot twist somewhere—

Is this how it was written?

Read somewhere that parents should

They should never have to bury their children,

But the children fight their wars

And the children fight each other

And the old have lived it all.

The mind reflects in odd ways—

Always they remember the old days as better

Days, but they are gone.

Where is the proof?

The mind is fickle, it remembers

What it wants to remember

So the monologue seems better—

There is no difference.

The old are tired.

All they want to do is to lie down,

But they are watching and waiting—

Am I to die?—

But the young are restless

And in their roaming the world

Every moment and monument is theirs—

But they hasten to sleep

And they do not arise,

And the old weep and laugh in terror.