Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
island poet May 2018
“Moby ****,”  Herman Melville

<•>

~for the lost at sea~

after a year of saltwater absence and abstinence,
return to the island caught between two land forks
surrounded by river-heading flows
bound for the ocean great joining

the Atlantic welcomes the fresh water fools,
bringing with them hopefully, but hopeless gifts of obeisances,
peace-offerings endeavoring to keep their infinite souls

sea accepts them then drowns the
warm newcomers in the unaccustomed
deep cold salinity, which
sometimes erodes
sometimes preserving
their former freshwater cold originality

I’m called to depart my beach shoreline  unarmed,
no kayak, sunfish or glass bottomed boat needed,
walk on water and my toes, ten eyes to see the bottom,
no depth perception limitation,
reading the floor’s topography,
millions of minion’s stories infinite,
many Munch screaming

god’s foot, heavy upon my shoulders,
a daytime travel guide, hired for me,
not a friendly travel companion,  nope,
God a pusher showing off a drug called deep water salvation,
designated for the masses, can handle large parties

my in-camera brain  eyes,
record everything for playback -
the lost and unburied, bone crossword puzzles

walk shore to ship, on soles to souls,
is this my new-summer nature welcome back greeting?

puzzled at the awesomeness of vastness,
conclude this clarification for me of the occluded-deep,
is a stern reminder of my insignificant existence,
my requirement to walk humbly, spare my sin of vanity, and
forgive my trespasses upon the lives of others

perhaps then the infinite of my soul perchance restored,
older visions clarified and future poems
will write themselves
and sea to it my predecessors
be better remembered

Memorial Day 2018
acacia Mar 2
Here is the one time I will use a wide toothed comb through all my kinks and my knots. Some shed strands fly off onto the white tiled walls, while some fly down -- spiraling down, as if freediving mid-air -- to the drain, where they all seem to unite. Shampoo, condition, soap ****, dead skin, impure thoughts and actions clutter around the drain, eager to rub each other. As eager as the thousands and millions of water atoms that hit me like pebbles hitting a well; I see it every time I look into the eyes of the shower head. It’s all I need to keep going, detangling. I still need more conditioner, more slip. The water likes to take the conditioner and travel from my hair to my neck, draping down from shoulders like a robe. Before the conditioner and soap can wind down into just memories of the Old Me, the steam, like an old friend, covers me in their veil. The steam covers the window in a smoke screen, shielding me from the Moon’s eyes, and the Star’s views. The wind can’t hurt me in these tiled walls; but this means the walls can see me. My skin, it blushes, and looks away, shyly continuing. My skin reminisces to more good times, when I’m held in this small cradle of a tub. The water and soap bubbles are my blankets, the loofah and the sponge are my pillows. I keep the lights off so that no one has that obnoxious gleam in their eyes while we all rest. The vents hum lowly, so not to wake the huddled curtains. Yet, when I get out of bed, I stretch, and I anticipate the sunrise of the water to spray watershine to jolt my body awake. When I am awake, I let the vents follow, I let the world see. I make the water hotter but then I make it colder, never letting the hues from the water slip from my mind. For I  know, meditation and water are wedded forever.
catch the title's reference?
Mark Parker Jun 2015
I'm firing a canon in D.
D for dastardly lullaby.
I dare not the tale
of the other six fails.
My pipes will wail
in the seventh sea's gale,
I search for the white whale.
"Call me Ishmael". The first line of Moby-****. Then again, everyone has their white whale. Mine seems to be love.

— The End —