The Ocean I’m not going to make it! I won’t last the night! I don’t feel that I have got what it takes to stay upright. I feel as though my boat is leaning ever further towards the trough, and the crests are coming faster than my oars can alter off. The ocean’s getting higher… Oh, it is so high! My boat is sitting lower beneath the darkening sky. My body aches a million pains. My hands are cracked and sore. My face is chapped, and my toes are numb, and I only have one oar. The struggle begins to take its toll, and my mind begins to cloud. I no longer hear my thoughts for the roaring wind’s too loud. The situation has such presence, and the danger’s oh so clear. My thoughts go blank… time stands still… and I no longer fear. I grab my oar, I dig it deep, and I pull with all my might. I feel as though I’m dreaming as I row throughout the night. I no longer hear the wind, nor feel the cold nor rain. I no longer note the sea nor waves nor feel the pain. There’s only one thing that my mind will allow myself to see. It’s not the waves, nor rain, nor clouds, nor boat nor even me. There is but only one deep, dark patch of this colorless sea where next I shall thrust my oar which enters my reality. To most the ocean is a place to swim or sail or sun, or, perhaps, to fish or surf or ski, or maybe some other fun. This vast expanse, of which I speak, is where the seagulls soar. It’s where the summer hoards do crowd… and it’s where I dip my oar. October 8, 1987 hawksblood/poetry/mypoetry/TheOcean.htm
Posted on: Mon, 22 Dec 2014 13:34:49 +0000
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