So stay away and leave me behind
The wind blows your sails
But you don't know what treasure I'll find
Cause I'll walk and I'll swim and I'll run to the ocean to find

You
Baby, it's true

The wind blows my sails
Faster and powerful than ever before
The gust fills the breeze and I'm back looking at the trees
And the land I once knew before

But know I've found you
In the breeze
A place I never thought I'd get to know
It's here a story so old
And a place so new in my heart
A place to start

The wind in my sails pulls me forward and I will not depart
Because I feel the breeze taking me where I don't know
I need to go
And I will find it
The sky above me
The waves the sails the sea
And I will find a place to call my own
A place on the sea
I'll find a place to call my home

when I was sixteen the only
three things
on my mind were : alcohol , Charlie
and a boat
to have a boat and swim away
be lost
surrounded by water
drinking with orcas
still
thinking of
Charlie

Love is a tidal wave
that one alone
cannot brave.

Unless it's a boat for two,
then the ocean is made
for the both of you.

The Little Bessy  molts its white chipped,
dull letters out to waves it cannot use.

Capsized on the rocky Maine beach, where  
it once fished for lobster in richer anchors,
the peapod displays its tattered nets on its hull
while the Man O War, filled with a haul of tourists,
bruises the gentle waves of Penobscot Bay.

Its oars are mounted on the lobster shack wall,
its sails framed in the nautical museum.
Abandoned are the days it was pulled
from its moorings on the wharf and sailed
through Penobscot air or spilled weighted circles,

days that were longer than any of its old parts,
times when old hands  hoped for better ways
never knowing they’ve come and gone.

Its broken, rusty anchor once met the spent waves,
the hands holding and releasing it down
to mate firmly with the mount, the moment
when the old lobsterer father firmly grounds
The Little Bessy’s wanton desire to push out to sea.  

Betrayed and exposed every day, run by no one,
Bessy drifts into beauty she never desired:
the pretty postcard in the wharf gift shop,
photos  taken by others rushing by in other boats.
when she was always meant to be the secret  
memory of the lobsterer hauling up his lonely pots.

Love is like an ocean...
Its swimmer must be proficient in all art...
Than life boat will be survive in deep ocean...