Usurped Eternal Frame
Your vines crawling upon my constitutions -
a glove to the empty hands of my
insufficient quintessence decapitates
the imposition with a severe abandon
In a not so subtle larceny of flames,
I foisted an intrepid whuthering
equipoise my defeated brawls
slowly stone-freezing in naivety
Because this loquacious tableau
still jousts with your nonplus propositions
adhering to the mellifluous conflagrations
by the hands of your phantom's exodus
And still, the furnace of your skies
shears the shadows of your manifold nets
like a storm-troubled sunny day
passing with an undecipherable augury
And like a murder of crows
I malingered on your adamant frame
pensively waiting for an aeon to fluctuate
and succumb to your succinct eternity
The searchlights pried behind curtains
and the sieves of the persiennes
its vindictive glare snide on my face
when it caught my sullen stares
The intrepid percolation inveigles
the beleaguered privacy to submission
but why are the supercilious rifles aimed
with stifling danger on my chest?
And the jabbing of your trifle attention
scathes my assuaging beacons, and
I donned more metal, more ignorance
descried out of safety and out of bliss
So I rocked slowly in this limbo and
the cadence of saudade serenades,
obstinately waiting for the an iota of change
to dance in a binary rhythmic pulse
Because in this eternal frame -
a bad case of impassable musing
reality grew visions and they are
usurping my delusions ever more.
poem by Norman Santos
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Related quotes
Intrepid
Intrepid tiger, there you are,
Exploring yonder stream,
Each day you've wandered oh so far,
As if life were a dream...
Yet now a cool reality
Surrounds your mortal frame,
Seducing you with ecstasy,
That chills eternal flame...
Your nature isn't quite as strong
Within the water's hold,
As if to say, you don't belong,
With fur so hot, not cold...
Yet there you are, intrepid still,
To claim this next domain,
As if it were an act of will
And just for you to gain...
What creature dares to challenge now?
What creature risks his all?
Before your presence they should bow
And at your feet should fall...
Men cower when they know you're near!
Men gulp and dare not move!
Intrepid one, no need to fear...
You've nothing left to prove!
Denis Martindale, copyright, November 2012.
The poem is based on the magnificent painting
by Stephen Gayford called 'Intrepid'.
More Stephen Gayford poems here:
denis-martindale-dot-blogspot-dot-com
poem by Denis Martindale
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Darrel
On his shoulder
are the weight of his struggles,
his prostrate grief,
and esoteric quintessence;
the impending doom
that defeat riveted
On his hands
are burns from cigarettes,
an empty bottle
and everything else
lifeless and afraid
On his eyes
are shut persiennes
veiling the shadows that
love has casted
and its silver web
of emptiness
On his brittle bones
shivers the abhorrence
for ephemeral amities
and its affinity
which is the love
for weak beacons leaning
on tired sunsets
He traversed skylines
like arrows assailed
to the stygian flames
and to get out of his track
is a distraction from
the eternal malaise
that he is trying to chase
and escape all the same
He counted little deaths
and little details -
like felled petals,
and lambent sighs;
like the sequins
and tears evocated
Darrel was not his name,
because his existence
is but a fallen grain
in the hour glass -
he was jeopardized
a beau not,
a confidant not,
a wise not,
a luxury not,
a poet not,
but he was an eternal child
who knows not
but the home built
with monoliths
from scoured grace
And to be given
a home with walls,
frail constitutions,
a hearth for warmth
where nobody
had a name
despite myriad of
regrets and failures
that a man wouldn't
even surmise
was a splendid bliss
for Darrel
and Darrel
was his name.
poem by Norman Santos
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Metamorphosing Into Poignancy
There upon the soughing coughs of
the interminable vacuum of gravity,
the poems sprawled intermingling with
a desire to be read along with tatterdemalion
tragedies awaiting for the fall of Troy's defenses
to succumb into the unsolicited succors
cloyed upon your generous hands
Bibliophilic remedies only revives the flowers
felled in your gray-faced mausoleum
along with the bard's crooning to the
marigolds prancing for rain and sunshine;
The reflection in the blood-spattered tiles pries
for a sangfroid perchance that barters treasures
for these despondent malingerers' desire
Defenestrated with a roll of tobacco-lust,
the effluence of smoke carrying your faint
ambers crawled into the sky before it fecundated -
skin to soul inward-fulmination, and gave birth
to a phantasmagoria festooned with the veritable
pangs of misery protecting the frailty of
a white rose's calculated corolla of petals
There is no backdoors waiting in this labyrinth
so I roamed with dove-feet sunwards
donned in a raiment of shattered glass, I kneel
before the moon's phosphorous jeopardy
and prayed a succinct and embarrassed plea
to be taken in the cradles of your lost lullaby
But the cacophonous propinquity of the
dungeons where I abolished my only wish and
the suppuration of your tender pensiveness
toppled in a gravid dyslexia of niceties
and the entropy of empathy succumbs
to the larceny where the mindless
dandelions gave up their roots and family
What is more austere than the grief in wanting
something as perilous as a freefall in a gully
of fatally abundant-coloured finches is to
tether one's desire to the sullen bliss of
an empty tableau that ousts every blood
etched upon its obstinate ashen skin
The windless sand caught the fire seething
with the raining lances and the insinuation
of naivety personified, and in that cold war,
haplessly naked to the merciless conflagrations
I permitted my shriveled hands to percolate
through the infinite quartz, probing for the lost
end of a shapeless thread that shall fit the
ajar eye of my needle and perhaps resume
the weaving of my already sun-washed tapestry
Metamorphosing endlessly, shifting is a fix
below the grandiosity of chandeliers and
inside the cravings of a lurid vanity
mirroring the grotesque aftermath,
on and on, I debilitated my perfunctory mouth
to spill the simple soul into the garish light
without any rational purpose at all.
poem by Norman Santos
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Sometimes, I
Sometimes I lean on sunsets
like a mildew perched
upon a serrated grass
deadlocked in an eternal frame
catching fire balls
to my conflagrations
Sometimes I go astray
into your color-contrasting skies
like a familiar kite
unfettered from the sculls
of the winds generosity
but I never sojourn
to corrupt its beauty
Sometimes I set fire
unto your hapless downpour,
and sometimes I burn
with your gilded sweat
and succinct wisdom
ardently begotten,
flummoxed quintessence
Sometimes the mausoleum
holds the bones
and sometimes the bones
holds a mausoleum
and the home
dreams of remorse
Sometimes it feels
like the same old hole:
a bottomless pit
but on the rifts
is a sliver of hope -
a bullet electrifying
the rattles on our bones
Sometimes it is a lie,
our adamant departures
but if it is the verity
upon this idiosyncrasy:
If you have truly gone
before I left the room
then I am bedazzled by hope.
poem by Norman Santos
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Unfinished Poem
In this unfinished poem
your empty stares
still lingers to pillage
every mellifluous words
and the superfluous revelries
malingered on its way
to be spewed and
to pierce the veil
And the memories,
they osculate to brew
the bitterness that shall
wear out the young bones
that remember every shudder
of your melancholia
The persiennes remained
shut down and afraid
and I can never pull them up;
this will be the crowded room
where the tarantula
feeds on itself
poem by Norman Santos
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Lightning Thief
These intrepid hands caught
the descending forks of light
and subdued the harrying cloudburst
like how a child grasps things
out of instinct - from hunger, for safety
with a dire silence in lieu
of the inevitable cleaving
because jeopardizing eyes delve
in the lattices of injured acceptance
for the gnawing pain that scored pride
and the unpaid obeisance
These flimsy hands are burned out
as it steadfastly held unto
the arrowheads of lightning -
the soldering bell rope of alarm
And the treacherously valiant soul,
cautiously and vigilantly, weaves
the heaven's spilled fire of blue
to craft a pall of false pretense:
a gradient of varied palettes
that shall suppress the black hole
siphoning all the scintillating lights
In the limbo of these guzzled suffering
lies an immeasurable abyss
where darkness devours darkness
fecundating the filigree of mistakes
and lost perchance of corrections,
these hands fell suspended
from its larcenous struggle to knot
the ends of heaven's unwoven tassels -
these hailing lightning that
crackled with a shattered frame
and dangles blithely from a tattered tapestry -
for my desire to redeem the casted crown
is deemed futile every time
the blue electric wires slip away
from the pleading grip of my thieving hands
Wuthering for the weeping cicatrix,
these sorry hands vied against
the inertia of predetermined sequence
and still, the old ailing bones
and progressive states of senescence
defeated all the pure endeavors
The sky hurled a riling fist
and stabbed the glassine walls
of these somnambulistic eyes
and the bellicose mangling
was no different than the lightning
I stole in the most intimate privacy.
poem by Norman Santos
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Broken Constellations
Days stretched
but its light kept waning
until the pallor is the same
with a dead star's flame -
a prostrate miasma
of saudade iridescence
that only divulges
in beleaguered musings
and I wonder
if I am the only one
who can see its gossamer fractions
and the only one inveigled
by its fecundated vacuum
Somewhere,
in this prostrate flummox
of a fulminating constellation
our eyes opened
into different horizons
Your furtive vision
basked in the quiescence
of star-spangled oceans
measuring its depth
and usurping the reflection
and the resplendence of this
emporium of modest afflictions
stifles the echolalia
of a quasar's scream
I remain suspended
steadfast to my ponderous insularity
played by godly tethers
of delinquent abandons
stifling with frantic inflections
as the doors of the galaxies
revolved in a riveted motion
and in this eternal frame
of constant recuperation
from constant withering
you are ubiquitous amongst
the broken constellations
The universe wouldn't halt
for our subtle rupture
but the fusillade rages on
while you resigned into your aurora
and a bereavement ailed
cicatrizing with the superfluity
of my blackholes' etudes.
poem by Norman Santos
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Until My Valkyrie Arrives
Assiduously, the gears pirouetted in their waltz
and the pendulum swayed with my inebriation
careening with all the lonely bones
and ephemeral montages and letters -
camouflaged in stone walls and iron eyes
like a gray madhouse without windows,
without doors; just a cage sheathing
the holocaust dislimning every breath
The cicatrix ailed and one by one
the hands of day reached out -
The rain soundlessly pummeling into sand,
the gyration of black figures in a storm,
the awakening of tulips on the lifted spring,
the stars promenading their diadems -
Life was blossoming at its best
because death is arriving like a thief
One by one, the world left
the labyrinthine cul-de-sac and
assailed into an empty saudade night
and one by one, my little hands
let go of your manifold vines and
swayed into the currents of dementia
Inside the wound of a lonely soul
I go gently, unfettered, unto this goodnight
where slumber is a luxurious peace
and remembering is an immovable feast
I shift, like constellations adrift the pensive sea
counting crows, feeling nothing
dreaming of being alive and the enviable,
bliss of being cradled in someone's dream
until the air let down the gilded stairs
and my Valkyrie arrives without a song.
poem by Norman Santos
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Capitulated
The daggers pointing up in our skies
are like hands praying for tranquility;
they jeopardize the hands in our waist
driving us to fractioned states
We rummaged through this holocaust
gushing fast like wounded blood
we assailed our hopes to war
and bludgeon our fears in celestial seas
The quartz devoured our steps
so we lose our ribbons and rivulets
and with every mile we take
we grew closer to the flames -
we thaw, we morph, we change
There's a steel in your eyes piercing
the velvet sheen I held complacently
but I stared on behind this veil
steadfastly, until I shut my persiennes
unto your pictures and absent stares
The path may repent but what can it do
when we have forgotten the shades of blue?
Whilst the sky rages on above us
I surrender to this dreadful taste
poem by Norman Santos
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Waiting
===
Just one short life
No second chance
To make of ourselves what we can
The moving hands again advance
& mould me into what I am
Waiting, waiting
Well understood but not controlled
Forever here anonymous
Whats present now
Already past
In retrospect so obvious
Waiting, waiting
Such a short space of time
But time passes quickly
Learn so little so slowly
As each moment is mine
The hope never fading
You will always be left waiting, waiting
Such a short space of time
Learn so little so slowly
As each moment is mine
You will always be left waiting
song performed by by Xentrix
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Waiting
===
Just one short life
No second chance
To make of ourselves what we can
The moving hands again advance
& mould me into what I am
Waiting, waiting
Well understood but not controlled
Forever here anonymous
Whats present now
Already past
In retrospect so obvious
Waiting, waiting
Such a short space of time
But time passes quickly
Learn so little so slowly
As each moment is mine
The hope never fading
You will always be left waiting, waiting
Such a short space of time
Learn so little so slowly
As each moment is mine
You will always be left waiting
song performed by by Xentrix
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The Winter Of The Sun
Glacial sighs mantled the breaking light
in a soft dislmning abrasion
Like whispers lifted from the frost
that sheathed the slumbering sun
behind the solace of our sequence
and tedium of our shenanigans,
but the austere silence it brought
had drifted with a lack of euphony
and calm for macabre had conquered
the prying eyes and mangled with
the atrocious affliction brought
by the premature winter of the sun
The ice sheets that I meander started
to shatter and thaw, but the kingly fire ball
remained suspended on his veracious
gesture of absence, his superfluous fingers
pointed with a jeopardy through
the unlocked and opened barricades
where the black embers futilely honed
its red eyes like devils lurking inside
the curtains, and the veil was ripped
to divulge what weeps soundlessly
behind the tatterdemalion tapestry
There was nothing but a lifeless smoke
climbing the svelte ladders of time,
Smoke that seethes with anguish and
wrecks and lusts for the shallow heaven
that the cinders spat and denied;
Smoke from incinerated hands -
hands that wrought words feigning valor,
hands that rocked its own trembling cradle,
hands that grew iron from caliginosity,
hands that are empty and flimsy
where everything sifted like a formless wind
indifferently passing through the windmills,
hands that can only quell the warmth
of the sun when it tries to break from
the winter inside its eternal frame.
poem by Norman Santos
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Waiting For The Light To Change
Brazen is love's redeemer
When you have so far to go
It loves the true believer
For the innocence they own
Life is good Life is grand
When you're sittin' on top of the world
Life is good when it's in your hands your hands
And nobody can change your world
I'm just waiting for the light to change
I'm just waiting for the light to change
I'm just waiting for the light to change
I'm just waiting
All my prize possessions
That I thought I needed so
Dragged me down on a razor
With a heaviness they tow
always searching for a love that's in bloom
it's a warm and soft embrace
Hoping you'll never be lonely again
It's a fear that you just can't face
(Chorus)
Life is good and life is grand
When you're sitting on top of the world
Life is good when it's in your hands your hands
And nobody can change your world
(Chorus)
I'm just waiting
song performed by by Tonic from Sugar
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Limbo
Written: kylie minogue/ dave ball/ ingo vauk
I see them all smiling
Those all around me
They tend to my wounds and alert my senses
And it would be nice
But Im not here
Im dreaming holding on
Time has no meaning
All of it wasted
It smothers me til theres no more air
When will it be
That I can breathe again
Im waiting in the void
(limbo)
Lost in limbo
(limbo)
Limbo limbo
(limbo)
Lost in limbo
(limbo)
This notion of needing
Has held me to ransom
And all I can do is avoid my mind
Dont make me speak
Or hear or look
Because Im hurting help me out
(limbo)
Lost in limbo
(limbo)
Limbo limbo
(limbo)
Lost in limbo
(limbo)
Im in limbo
Im killing time
Im killing time
Caught in the crossfire
Nobody gets it
Im finding it hard to contain myself
Take all my trust
And faith and hope
Until I need it once again
song performed by by Kylie Minogue
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Turning Thighs to Diamonds - Alchemical Passes For Father and Son
.
Or what man is there among you, of whom if his son
shall ask bread, will he reach him a stone? - Matthew 7: 9
*
No blame shall stain us now, father.
The heavy ball you hit to me is never caught.
A floppy glove always falls from a hesitant hand.
Mars in you still storms the makeshift diamond.
Each base of cardboard weighted with stone is still our house.
A bat, a ball, a mitt, hard rules of the game,
undo all lust for dark heaven shunning shining girls.
**
A lavender boy early
befriended by crows.
A softball between
the eyes guides.
Diamond thighs
everywhere waiting.
***
Before you, head down,
focused on 'Lion's Teeth'**,
I am a hard mystery,
and soft, not so fast for I
am fat and cannot round
the bases quick.
I, your inherited meek,
am a burden to shake,
a sliding man
furious for home.
*****
I pluck wild strawberries,
You, all authority and
accidental grace, reveal too much,
dew wet, still sticky to the touch.
Opening sourness deserves a frown.
Sweetness slowly yields
surprise for what always
unites father/son -
untended desire
gone to wildness
brought low
beneath branches,
slow embrace of
cradle-gentle boughs
entangling legs and
light between the
greater shadows.
And shadows shall win the day.
******
Planets arc
and comets rare
trail lovers.
Meteors are
not appointed
permanent stars
allowed to some
men's hands,
and never to the fallen
caught for mostly
wasted days.
*******
That wild sweetness is a stolen base.
That the tongue is an untended garden.
That there is a burning soft hands can know.
********
Finally runs something headlong
sliding for home
inheriting circles latter-day.
Glad sons (are)
berries from
shadows gathered.
**Dandelion
poem by Warren Falcon
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Ousted
In this madhouse world
Where the beacons are blind
And the canopies succumb
My eager sprouting vines
I tend to escape away
Engage in a subtle espionage
For the quintessence of life
Does not crawl in the skin
Of this moiré perfection that
Idealism vied to wrought
Under our noses and
Beneath our roof beams.
A tatterdemalion meanderer
Of agog sole and yearning,
A goaded and fragile arsenal
Of words and contours
Slurring in surreal slopes
To defy and to define
My voraciousness for hope
A touch on its sterile skin
Chaste, clean and deceptive—
A blinded scheme of beauty
I am a stain, a blotch of blood
Like a maladroit red pyrotechnic
Scintillating eloquently in
The undulations of the water
So I trampled in a rendezvous
With the stale grandiose of bitterness
Ensconced in the trance and
Inveigles of cheap panaceas
To desperately dab the wounds
Of the flagrant destitution
And to extol the fumes that
Will hide the desiccation
Of an unrequited contending
And no one will have to know
That you are ousted from
The sunset of your own funeral.
Everything shriveled,
Darkened and crunched
And putrefied without
A chance of exoneration
Because I cannot mourn with you
And dissect my lamentations
In your hands, for you have
Superfluous wrists of four
But only a single pulse
That cannot alter the beating
For a klutz waltz of death
If another wrist shall bleed
And the sun went down
Dripping with a red star
Ousted from the sky.
This is how it works;
This is how we'll subsist
When the Gods sequester
The bones and the morsels
From the aptitude of spirit
Ousted from their schemes
Their lives tight-roping seams
To live on without it and in
Solitary confinement.
poem by Norman Santos
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Home For Summer
It's hard for me to comprehend
Holding on with broken hands
But who will understand
Wallow in the acid rain
What's in store for us today
It's never gonna feel the same
I'm waiting for an angel now
To carry me above the clouds
Cause it's a long way home for the summer
And it's a long way up without a ladder
It's a long way home
And it's a long way down
Swallowing the bitter taste
Trying to find a remedy
Before the crystal breaks
Looking at a picture show
Frame by frame you see us grow
To something you don't know
You're trying to find a reason now
Behind a face, you see a child
It's a long way home for the summer
And it's a long way up without a ladder
And it's a long way home
And it's a long way down
Life's a picture show
Frame by frame we grow
song performed by by Feeder
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The Drab Splendor Of A Gargoyle
The dark came generously
with storm-troubled wings
The stars are all quelled
and the wind hangs purposelessly
There is a streak of verdigris
on the cicatrizing vault
A corolla of change dangles,
a shifting moon unfolds
and my imposition remained
a lackluster glacial metal
The weather was still as gold
and voracious as greedy kings
the crooked hands of the day
basked in luxurious rendezvous
Whilst I dreamed in hues of gray
weaving poems to the blasé moon
stitching the tatterdemalion tapestry
that mantled the ailing wounds
I found myself waiting
in front of a riddling mirror
with words unspoken off
If you knock, it will echo
If you burst, it will find tempo
My penetralium convalesced
nauseated from a peremptory vertigo
and my wallflower's petals
are paper-thin no more
thorns spangled its sleep
because it will never uncurl
under the searchlight's whim
I picked the felled letters
harried by the erratic gyration
of the ponderous atmosphere
I watched it turn to ash
as lips burned from their harangue
but the lions remain asleep
with the phantoms of their dens
and everything passed by
with deaf-mute miscalculations
To slur in the banquet
of manifold palettes
is a one-way ticket
for a subtle gargoyle
watching cold fountains
rise and fall, dance and topple
and on the gray clouds
lambently walk without
leaving scars and without
knotting prostate ties
Tonight, I rivet back
into the walls of my cathedral -
A pivoting turret that hisses
for the giant's intimidations.
poem by Norman Santos
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Two Alchemical Passes for Father and Son - Turning Thighs to Diamonds
FIRST PASS - The Flying-Away Boy
Or what man is there among you, of whom if his son
shall ask bread, will he reach him a stone? - Matthew 7: 9
No blame shall stain us now, father.
Mars in you still storms the makeshift diamond.
Each base of cardboard weighted with stone
is still our house; a bat, a ball and mitt, hard rules
of the game, were meant to undo my lust for dark
heaven shunning shining girls.
The heavy ball you hit to me is never caught,
a floppy glove always falls from a hesitant hand.
I was reaching for god then - it's not your fault -
a lavender boy early befriended by crows,
already resigned to what was given and what
was to come, a softball between the eyes,
your attempt to guide me toward those
diamond thighs which you often repeated,
'were everywhere waiting.'
I blinked before you, head down, focused on 'Lion's Teeth'**.
I was your hard mystery, and soft, not so fast for I was fat
and could not round the bases quick. I was your inherited
meek, a burden to shake, a sliding man furious for home.
At four I plucked wild strawberries you pointed to,
all authority and accidental grace, revealing much,
still dew wet, sticky to the touch, opening sourness
deserving my frown. You laughed at my dawning smile
for their sweetness slowly yielded, a surprise gift for what
would always unite us, your fear that I would suffer, too,
your fate, untended desire gone to wildness brought
low beneath branches, slow embrace of cradle-gentle boughs
entangling legs and light between the greater shadows,
and shadows shall win the day. In them my yearning
grew yet, remained for that of edges, what is beyond
them, or beneath, for planets arcing and comets rare,
trailing lovers to come but meteors, not the appointed
stars of permanence allowed to some men's hands,
and never to the fallen.
Grounding balls is the only thing to do so I did,
repeatedly. Still, these essential things were caught
for our mostly wasted days of practice,
wild sweetness is a stolen base,
the tongue is an untended garden.
There is a burning that soft hands can know
which shall finally run some headlong for
an inherited circle home at the end,
a latter-day glad son gathering berries from shadows.
**Dandelion
SECOND PASS - Glad Son Gathered
Turning Thighs to Diamonds - Alchemical Passes for Father and Son
.
Or what man is there among you, of whom if his son
shall ask bread, will he reach him a stone? - Matthew 7: 9
*
No blame shall stain us now, father.
Mars in you still storms the makeshift diamond.
Each base of cardboard weighted with stone is still our house.
A bat, a ball and mitt, hard rules of the game,
the heavy ball you hit to me is never caught.
A floppy glove always falls from a hesitant hand.
**
A lavender boy early
befriended by crows
A softball between
the eyes guides
Diamond thighs
everywhere waiting
***
But before you, head down,
focused on 'Lion's Teeth'**,
I am a hard mystery,
and soft, not so fast for I
am fat and cannot round
the bases quick.
I am your inherited meek,
a burden to shake,
a sliding man
furious for home.
*****
Wild strawberries,
all authority and
accidental grace,
you reveal too much,
dew wet, still sticky
to the touch.
Opening sourness
deserves a frown.
Sweetness slowly
yields surprise for
what always unites -
untended desire
gone to wildness
brought low
beneath branches,
slow embrace of
cradle boughs,
entangled legs
and light.
And shadows shall win the day.
******
Planets arc
and comets rare
trail lovers.
Meteors are
not appointed
permanent stars
allowed to some
men's hands,
and never to the fallen
caught for mostly
wasted days.
*******
That wild sweetness is a stolen base.
That the tongue is an untended garden.
That there is a burning soft hands can know.
********
Finally runs something headlong
sliding for homeinheriting
circles latter-day.
Glad sons (are)
berries from
shadows gathered.
**Dandelion
poem by Warren Falcon
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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The sea within
My world
static now.
I am dead to everything
except the sound of the sea
that is within me.
No more calm
but raging with a storm,
the angry waves lashing
against the high cliffs.
But the sea is deep,
down in my heart.
None can witness
the tumult from outside,
the impregnable stoical exterior
bearing no sign of the inner trepidation.
A voice calls out to me
above the howling sound of the sea.
Slowly I raise my head
and see myself, calm and intrepid.
Am I the weary sailor
waiting to be washed ashore
after my ship sinks?
My spirit will no longer languish
but ready to override
the storm than wait for it to subside.
For I love the song of the sea
that is in me,
the soft murmur
when it is calm and when the billows roar.
The heart recognizes in them the melodies
and whispers the both tones.
poem by Aimanu Begum
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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