once i had a dream
of the wide blue sea
sialing so far, water splashing me

i love the little *****
they remind me of fancey restaurants

when i was growing up
i dreampt of fishing, fisheries
sciences and mainagement.

then i got lost in the big cities that
were land loocked, and i missed the ocean
where i felt so at hom

kelp swayeing in the waves
and poiporsoies jumping from the salty

so then i ran away
from the sad montony of city life
to get lost out at sea
in my hapy place.

I went down to the sandy bay
Just to watch the water sway
I chased the tiny ***** at play

Sitting on the sand to enjoy the view
***** closing in, quickly withdrew
Dimonds twinkling on a field of blue

Sea gulls screeching a hello
Eloquently they ride the winds flow
As off to the sea they go

The small waves start to dance
Sun and water have such a romance
Everythings perfect at first glance

To speak of this is quite taboo
Even in paradise things are askew
There in the waters deep deep blue

In the darkness or brightest place
Monsters of all kinds still give chase
They inhabit every single space

There's no heroes, they've all died
There's no need to wail or cry
No comforting that can be applied

There's no one left to intercede
Come and have a seat by me
We can witness the ocean bleed

We'll sit and watch the scene unfold
As they munch down soul after soul
We've all been bought, we've all been sold

©Pauline Russell

was it the ocean waves calling?
or was it your heart beating?
was it the little ***** tingling?
or was it your fingers tickling?
but it didn't matter which was it
cause I fell in love with them all

I declare my home to be tucked within the wreathed *****
of the Blue Ridge Mountains,
where I know them as my silent guardians
watching over me;

til I taste saltwater on my tongue,
and find my taste buds alight
with the spread of steaming Blue *****--
doused aplenty in Old Bay--
spread atop disheveled newspaper on the kitchen table.

Suddenly, water becomes "wooter,"
and wash becomes "warsh,"
and I laugh and skip rocks along the waters
that baptized me in my infancy.

That is, until the Old North State
wraps me in her misty shawl,
where I find myself barefoot on grassy acres--
wild dogs running in packs amiably--
and I race makeshift boats of sticks and water bottles
down the ole crik.

I close my eyes and feel faint and brisk breezes
caress my face like a mother's hand,
gently guiding me through dense woods
where imagination and reality forged an alliance.

So where do I call home?
Well that's entirely up to you,
whether you send my head into an ear-popping,
mind-whirling dizzy spell--
euphoric in higher elevations and getting lost in the foliage;
or you put a plate of steaming ***** before me with saltwater kisses on your lips.

I am the Oriole of the Blue Ridge,
and the Cardinal of the Chesapeake:
The White Oak and the Longleaf Pine.

Grabbing *****
in the New Jersey sand
demands quick hands.
Creeping deep
they dig down under

away

from the wind
in their seldom seen shells,
but my brother has a shovel
and can ****** them
even in the midst of sea foam
from small waves climbing the shore.

And at cousin Barb’s pond
Our hands swipe swiftly,
But stealthily enough
In brisk Michigan winds
to grasp and capture
the frogs lingering
near the edges.

Hardest to catch though
are cicadas
in our back yard
hiding in the trees
calling out to play.
My brother and I,
ages 8 and 10
cast our fingers
and clench only their wings
enough to fill two milk jugs.