I am the ocean,
And you are a boy upon the shore.
You love my waves,
And the shells I flow out.
Entertained by ripples,
But fascinated with my depth.
Yet you float in shallow waters,
Too terrified to take the plunge.
Too terrified to swim.

Another shore,  another age
I walked those sands, searching...
Some shells,  some foliage,
I ran at the waves rushing.

Beyond the third white wave,
Curled against the fourth...
The brittle crab shell swayed,
Bobbled,  speeding forth...

My heel firm and grounded
The waves raised with a crisp honk..
The catamaran,  I spotted,
On the wall, seated a white conch...

Staring at the conch, I dreamed,
My fingers traced the tiny lines...
The lines circled edging for release,
I placed it near my ear,  it whined...

The song of another shore,  another age
I hear you now,  calling me
I hear clearly,  my voice interlaced
I stand here,  it's you I feel...

Looked up at the sky,
Looked at the sand,
Looked side ways,
Looked beyond...

Without a clue,  where to move,
I followed your voice from inside,
Another year,  another month,  or forever,
But,  one day we will meet,  soon enough

This day we will recite those lines,
For another shore,  another age,
Your words will still beckon,
I will follow your words,  till there is no return.

We wrote our names on the beach in animal bones
as a vivisection, on our love.
there, she’s whispering into shells
into their Fibonaccian, trumpeted, dresses
and full-cheeked into a razor clam flute.
I, too, gave my blood to grease our domestica
and hung names on stars over the nighttime sea
always accompanied as I were
with the shark-eye, death, of her looks.

We dressed up the walls of home in black and pinstripe,
filled the place up with lit and lightless places,
Shadowboxed, shadowfucked, and silently argued.
Spent hours inside, laying floorboards
and then laying on them
to stare at the sodium lights
and discuss the inkblots on our eyes.
We vivisected our lives,
and splashed it on the walls
and carved it into the carpets.

We set alight to christmas trees
when the kids were sleeping upstairs.
We dressed in each-other’s reddening horror
and answered the door.
Valentines day was full of bone bouquets,  
the gripper rods grew through the carpet
so on them we danced.
I prayed for the first time in the first year
and every one hit me subesquently
like I was its anvil.

I should have gone to war.
Because it makes forever shorter
things can only happen right now.

I watched everything in our domestica,
like when the static moved off the television
and played on the window
gutting me of my escape.
The smiles hung on our faces like lupus,
We had people round,
we cooked and coughed and choked
And their faces peeked round from the doorframe
and laughed.

The domestica lives
only to be a bit of fun,
but in the very same span of time
that decided to **** the birds on my windowsill
and my children’s love for me
and my dexterity.
We’ve happened to the whole world too
I promise you, my love,
my little hospice fire,
my flat tire at night at nowhere,
the lie you recognise means it’s over,
A field of a thousand three-leaved clovers,
the brightest night when you’re hiding,
your heart attack on holiday,
your bloodstained bed sheet
And sleep, whilst outside
the sleet and snow makes every emergency
harder to get to, and still the morning
much more beautiful.
I, you, we happened.

---

the small frail child
runs in and out of the surf
she bends gracefully and stretches her hand out for another shell

working the waves
she delicately turns her find
over in her fingers with appreciation
before placing it carefully in her pail

a dedicated sea nymph
she works the morning hours
through, her job is delight in nature

and she is paid in sand dollars


soulsurvivor
(c) 5/30/2015

Mr. Golden sun casting long shadows
Salty breeze hitting across
Acres of sand lying beneath our feet
Ups and downs like craters on the moon
Crows cawing, horses galloping and dogs basking in the sun
A straight line of ocean doodled below the empty sky
Gigantic ships appear like miniatures farther away
Hushing sound of waves
Four feet amidst frothy tides creating footprints
Carrying back some rustic soil on the toes
A little dirt never hurt
A bag of sea shells
Small, big, coloured and white, all with a coat of sand
A bag full of sea shells
The sun sets down
The radiant moon creates a guiding path in the dark shore
Following us back home
After a long evening at the beach
With my dear son

All eggs were in one basket,
so no wonder you're reserved ever since they broke.
Shells are messy and hard to work with.
She gave you eggs the last time. But I'm not her.
Let's not give each other eggs.

Let's give ourselves bread instead.
Because all your bread in a basket sounds warm,
picnics in parks on sunny days warm.

Or fresh out the oven still steaming hot.
Frosted and sweet, or sourdough. All your bread in one basket,
there's so much to work with.
Even cold bread, and stale bread.
Because at least when molding bread falls out
of your metaphorical basket you can pick it up
in one piece and put it back.
Or make more. You can fix it.

Eggs aren't that easy. They shatter. They're messy.
So my dear let's not be eggs. Let's be bread.