Delta40
02-21-2011, 05:53 PM
This dull blue ocean is a mere reflection
of my poor appreciation
for Nature.
I have never cared for an
ultramarine current,
how it laps gently on the shore
thanks to the pull of the sun
or is it the moon?
Either way it moves like a mother
rubbing lotion on a baby's writhing body.
It is supposed to calm me
but I am hampered by scavenging gulls,
jellyfish stings
and hair whipped cheeks.
A pelican pays no heed when my net is tangled
between his titanic webbed feet.
He launches himself free
as I yank the wiry mesh
away from the feathery brute.
He will take my tiny share of fish, no doubt.
I grumble salty words that are
lost on the breeze
to sink beneath the waves.
They whisper to the whales
my exact feelings about blueness.
I eventually tune to the motions
of the sea
but not without protest.
This is a back and forth story
I am here, I am not, I am here....
The wood adds to my paltry shelter
A layer of manure will seal the draughts
of my home
my soul.
With winter looming,
I keep still like an ancient menhir
and dig my toes into
pasty shells while I count the pieces of
beachwood drying in the autumn sun.
How much longer must I live like this?
of my poor appreciation
for Nature.
I have never cared for an
ultramarine current,
how it laps gently on the shore
thanks to the pull of the sun
or is it the moon?
Either way it moves like a mother
rubbing lotion on a baby's writhing body.
It is supposed to calm me
but I am hampered by scavenging gulls,
jellyfish stings
and hair whipped cheeks.
A pelican pays no heed when my net is tangled
between his titanic webbed feet.
He launches himself free
as I yank the wiry mesh
away from the feathery brute.
He will take my tiny share of fish, no doubt.
I grumble salty words that are
lost on the breeze
to sink beneath the waves.
They whisper to the whales
my exact feelings about blueness.
I eventually tune to the motions
of the sea
but not without protest.
This is a back and forth story
I am here, I am not, I am here....
The wood adds to my paltry shelter
A layer of manure will seal the draughts
of my home
my soul.
With winter looming,
I keep still like an ancient menhir
and dig my toes into
pasty shells while I count the pieces of
beachwood drying in the autumn sun.
How much longer must I live like this?