The sea is the land's edge also..."
--T. S. Eliot
It's a sand-castle in morning tide
slowly constructed
for the first time; and the horizon
sea-blue, distinctly separated from sky-blue
with a razor fine-line
liquid running steadily
into time.
I saw a small boy, ankle deep
in steaming sand
building illusional dreams of
Kings and Queens and Knights
because he can
do anything he wants,
while dolphins dive and dance
in the sunrise crystal morning
with his tiny, growing hands...
And when the seagulls circle by,
above hearty, browning palm trees,
eating as they please,
the kiss of water hits the shore
invoking a magnificent mystery music
just before
I
realize as certain memories arise,
that beyond this circumstance
lies connectedness,
an ****** wavering consequence,
leaving me to forsake
alone
ness:
When I wander along this temporal shore,
flying, sometimes falling
through these storms:
like the sea I am in many ways
so sometimes slowly dying
without pain,
and in a certain collectiveness, she reaches
forth her foamy hand,
blistering my cheeks in colours crimson, sweet,
erasing that child's castle
in the sand.
Jun 2, 2010
Jun 2, 2010 at 2:05 AM UTC
The sea is the land's edge also..."
--T. S. Eliot
It's a sand-castle in morning tide
slowly constructed
for the first time; and the horizon
sea-blue, distinctly separated from sky-blue
with a razor fine-line
liquid running steadily
into time.
I saw a small boy, ankle deep
in steaming sand
building illusional dreams of
Kings and Queens and Knights
because he can
do anything he wants,
while dolphins dive and dance
in the sunrise crystal morning
with his tiny, growing hands...
And when the seagulls circle by,
above hearty, browning palm trees,
eating as they please,
the kiss of water hits the shore
invoking a magnificent mystery music
just before
I
realize as certain memories arise,
that beyond this circumstance
lies connectedness,
an ****** wavering consequence,
leaving me to forsake
alone
ness:
When I wander along this temporal shore,
flying, sometimes falling
through these storms:
like the sea I am in many ways
so sometimes slowly dying
without pain,
and in a certain collectiveness, she reaches
forth her foamy hand,
blistering my cheeks in colours crimson, sweet,
erasing that child's castle
in the sand.
D. Conors
c. April 1997
This was the last poem I had officially published in 1997. I had been awarded the honor of Northeastern Pennsylvania's Poet of The Month for National Poetry Month.
I read this and several other poems before a packed crowd, finished my reading, packed up my poems and said, "I'm done."
I haven't read aloud in a public venue since. Nor have I published any of my works until now on this website.
I hope you enjoy.