I watched a woman
Dressed in jeans
A lavender blouse
And black flats
Walk straight into the ocean waves.
She did not hesitate nor flinch
Until she stopped when the waves
Peaked at her shoulders.
She dipped her head under a wave
Then flipped her wet hair back.
She stood and stared at the undulating horizon.
After two or three minutes
She turned around and walked back to shore
Never hesitating nor flinching.
As she walked past me sitting alone in the sand
Her wet hair dripped down her back.
She had lost her shoes.
Tag Archives: ocean
I want to write a poem
to the beat
of the waves dying on sand
tie it to birth
and maybe God’s breath
waves are so consistent
that the world
no matter how many times
I tell it to STOP
and here’s another wave
my voice reading this is too loud
endowed with my human pride
but the tide will keep pulling me down
pulling the sand from around my feet
back into the ocean
so any notion I have
of my superior humanness
is lost in a whitewater wash
of those whispers
maybe this is about birth
and even God’s breath
and life moving beyond
my yells of help
and how the cycle continues
and I’m less than that whisper
I know I need to stop writing this
needing this to give me
a sense of who I am
or how I fit
it’s time for me to quit
philosophizing on what the
means to me and everybody else
Waves don’t care about death
Even when they change
push up onto the shore
and slowly thin out
until only a glistening on the sand remains
they are still part of the greater whole,
to form the base of another wave.
Waves don’t care about failure.
As loud as they crash
they are still stopped by sand and rock.
And while sometimes they can harness the power
of a tsunami or a hurricane
even those, too, eventually lose
to the power of the earth.
But they keep trying.
Waves don’t care about numbers:
how many fish
how much of the earth’s surface
how many miles of shoreline.
Waves are the voice of the ocean.
Humans, like me, try to give it words and reasons–
To quantify and philosophize.
Waves, rightfully, don’t care about me.
He sees the ocean
And remarks how wide the water is
Compared to his dreams.
She offers to walk across
Golden Gate Bridge with him
To show him how two lands connect.
Somewhere in the rowboat of their love
He lets his dreams drown
And she crosses the bridge without him,
Tired of throwing life preservers.
Winter, Torrey Pines (new)
Two old men slowly walk
Inspecting rocks and bits of shells
Dinosaur bones, maybe,
Or shards of colored glass
From unlit areas of the ocean
Or maybe just perfect shapes of something
So when they grip
Them tightly in their hands
The shapes will leave an indentation on their palms
That will remind them
Of why they exist.
Out in the water
A surfer sits on his board
Waiting for a wave to come–
A wave started in the depths of the ocean
Pushed by the moon and the wind
Toward him and toward the shore.
His eyes stay always on the horizon.
We are all searching for something:
Reasons to move
Or reasons to stay.
Bits of shiny glass.
An older couple
Stops to chat,
Inspect what the old men have found–
Little treasures in waterproof pouches.
Nothing, yet, to fit their palms.
The surfer finds a wave
To bring him nearer to shore,
Paddles the rest of the way.
He sits awkwardly on the sand
And stares back toward the water.
We are all searching for something:
High tide (new)
You can not imagine the world
being swallowed by the ocean
(your eyes see nothing but horizon
and breaking waves
don’t make you sad
But I speak
in the language of seashells–
abandoned on the shore–
and yesterday clings to me
like seaweed strands
When waves attack the sandpipers
picking in the wet sand
you laugh as they all scurry up the beach
and I quietly hope
that one of them
chooses to just fly away