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Ira Desmond Dec 2018
Last night,
I dreamt that the friend of a friend had died.

His body floated lifeless on the surface of the Pacific,
tossed about between the Bering Sea whitecaps

like an orca’s seal-pup plaything
while the Arctic wind whipped

and beat the freezing cold water
across his pallid face and through his chestnut hair.

Then his body
began to sink,

its silhouette appearing
against various monotone

canvases of blue
on its trip downward:

a vivid cornflower,
a pelagic cerulean,

a chasm of cold cobalt,
a starless twilight,

a forest of indigo,
a velvet curtain of navy.

as it reached the deepest possible shade of midnight—

only a quantum away from black—
it stopped sinking.

There, in that void,
where daylight and color are considered but outlandish theories,

strange fish of all and shapes and sizes
began to surround the decomposing corpse:

Greenland sharks hailing from the frozen arctic,
mantis shrimp from the mangrove labyrinths,

eyeless electric eels from undersea caves near the Galápagos,
vampire squid rising cautiously up out of their World War One trenches,

scores of spindly ***** and pale worms that had ventured far beyond
the safe familiarity of their alien geothermal worlds.

At first, they approached the corpse gingerly,
nibbling only the tips of its hair and fingernails,

and then suddenly, voraciously,
they consumed it—until not even a skeleton remained.

Now, only a single point of light was left
there floating in the void.

And from this single point of light,
where just a moment before the corpse had floated,

a brilliant white lattice structure emerged,
unfurling as would a fern across a forest floor.

It fanned out onto the seabed
and then swept upward, upward

back toward those reaches of sea
where color is known

and fresh air gleefully permeates
that foamy outer membrane that skirts the base of the sky.

Scores of familiar fish began to lift up the crystalline structure—
schools of shimmering sardines,

stately, dignified manta rays,
skipjacks, bluefins, and white-tips,

brilliant cuttlefish, humble pufferfish,
shifty barracuda, gargantuan whale sharks,

all of them
beating their tails in concert

to carry this lattice away,
this measure of a life,

this husk of a soul
at last freed from its earthly bindings.

The fish were carrying it somewhere deeper,
somewhere darker,

to a place that I understood—
even from the inky depths

of my dreaming mind—
that I could not enter.

But then again,
I knew that someday

I would.
Juniper Zed Oct 2017
What rises at night but calls to me
That cymbal-crashing, moaning sea
Draws me through the humid air
Woe is me, again nobody is there.

And in the water that I can see
Reflects the moonlight back at me
“Murky Mirror, call me close,
I love you though I am morose.”

And then the ocean whispers so slight
Its voice is silvery, quiet at night.
“What love is this, from your heart?
Words mean nothing, they’re empty, ****.”

“But I am more!” Cried I to the sea,
“And I came here to set you free!”
And so the sea sobbed a mist,
“Your eyes are dark, love you twist.”

Then I again yelled to the nighttide,
“Why fight then, if you just subside?”
So the irate waves get loose
“My soul desires your water’s sluice!”

“If that is your wish, then so be it.”
And for the sea, my life I quit.
Like a raft, I drift away
From my dreams, I’ll opt to stray.

I do not know where I’ve come to be
In my pelagic life on the sea
But while I drift here alone
I can no longer hear that wretched moan.
Jahanvi Goyal Jun 2014
The beauty of  this expression,
Makes a difference in any situation.

An alternative to voiced words,
A weapon against the sharpest swords.

Panacea for the painful heart and tearful eyes,
Connects to the soldiers under other land’s skies.

Exchange of feelings between lovers,
In tough times, one inspiring peace, sobers.

Under the spell of rain, flows straight from the soul,
Always successful in covering those doubted holes.

Fills the silence with its devices,
Holds the power to fill the crevices.

It helps in the appreciation of the serenity of nature,
Although boneless, full of life and soul, it indeed is a living creature.

Yes, poetry is this electric and colourful magic.
Captivating all hearts and minds, its effect is so pelagic.

— The End —