OCEAN SONG


I.
Sitting on the bay,
watching the ships go by;
Where they are headed,
I don’t know, yet
my soul yearns to be
likewise swept away
with the outgoing tide,
the undulating waves.
beneath blustery clouds.

Let the extended bellies
of white sails carry me
across new horizons
beneath the crested waves,
where the mermaids sing
sweet siren chants of,

“Come with me. Come with me!”

The baritone bellow of a ship’s horn
blasts out:

“Come with me, Come with me!”

II.
Icy winds caress my weathered face,
each wizened line
etched like a nautical map,
soulfully directing me
toward tomorrow’s fortunes.
The salted air fills my aching lungs
with a hope I have not known
since childhood.

In my shoreline reverie,
I am carried across
blue-green oceans
kissing distant coastlines.

“Turn, screws, turn,” 

let the waters churn
beneath your tired
and weathered hull.
But do not leave me
dry standing here.

III.
I yearn to drink, to be filled full
with the white foam of stormy seas
beneath a blanket
of heavenly constellations.
I do not care today
for tomorrow’s sorrows
so long as I can castaway
in the iron belly
of a eastward steaming long boat.

IV.
I am now lost in the maelstrom of
what is and what is not. Indifference
upon these sandy shores, and my eyes
are filled with the tears of a sailor’s regret
for having missed the outward tides.

“Carry me out.  Carry me out!”

and let the fish one day
dine upon my happy bones

It Is The Season


Image

 

“God talks in the trees.”
— Thomas Merton, The Sign of Jonas

It is the season of sleeping late
while dreaming of red-orange trees
shuddering in the evening breeze.
These are the short days
when the thirst for warmth suborns desire
and Eros kisses summer love goodnight.

It is the season of crimson sunsets
pouring slowly, like thick molasses,
over church steeples and frozen riverbeds.
When snow-pregnant clouds float lazily
across flower-less meadows
and lovers seek shelter beneath heavy quilts.

It is the season of naked trees,
with branches like fingers extending
toward the setting sun, tracing delicate arches
across the rose autumn sky.
Those days when the blackbird flies southward
into the night beneath crystal constellations.

It is the season of surrender,
when burdens, like the yellowing leaves,
fall silently to the frozen earth
and tired bones warm themselves before tended fires.
It is the season of dying in the palm of God’s hand;
comforted in the knowledge of spring’s resurrection.

Do Not Be Afraid


Do not be afraid
to lose yourself in me.

My hands are strong,
yet gentle
and, if need be,
I shall carry you
within the calm shadows
of my love.

Do not be afraid
to laugh with me;
the warmth of my love for you
I gather from the
rainbows of your smile.

Do not be afraid to cry with me
when life overwhelms you;
I will gather your tears
within the well of my understanding
and pour them carefully
upon the fires of your fear.

Do not be afraid
to live with me;
I will build for you a home
with floors of tender mercy,
Walls of compassion,
ceilings of hope,
and windows of promise.

Do not be afraid
to die with me;
I will lead you through
the dark forests of your doubt
until the bright meadows
of forever rise beneath our feet
and the cool waters of eternity
swallows our souls, together.