Let me
breathe
this once
without thinking, no tears
falling from scrunched up eyes
or lips salty with memory and regret,
the waves having crested …
Published on Medium: P.S. I Love You for Poetry Sunday
Find the complete version here.
:
© 2020 Christine Kelly All Rights Reserved
Photograph: my own
The older I get,
the more I realize
how like the sea I am.
That liquid expanse of horizon –
always blue to me,
melancholic with longing,
a churning, churlish mass of feeling;
everything happening beneath the surface,
much like my own insides.
A soul at turns calm or chaotic,
but as quickly as it is stirred,
it bellows forth, a tempest of emotion
releasing and gentling itself.
Changeable tides,
ebbing and flowing as response,
some inner metronome
keeping a steady beat
like my heart.
:
Copyright © SirenSong1208
All rights reserved
Photograph taken from White Noten, unsourced
I sat upon the sand
watching as he played amid the waves,
catching each swell as I’d taught him.
With every rise and fall,
and every smile and laugh,
I could see the past years
and the pain and stress he endured
melt away
and for those few carefree moments
he was a kid again,
one who had no worries in front of him
except for whether he might swallow too much
of the sea…
:
Copyright ©SirenSong1208
All rights reserved.
Photograph taken by SirenSong1208
Click here for audio
In anticipation of my imminent holiday, a sea themed poem by John Masefield
I must go down to the seas again, to the lonely sea and the sky,
And all I ask is a tall ship and a star to steer her by,
And the wheel’s kick and the wind’s song and the white sail’s shaking,
And a grey mist on the sea’s face and a grey dawn breaking.
.
I must go gown to the seas again, for the call of the running tide
Is a wild call and a clear call that may not be denied;
And all I ask is a windy day with the white clouds flying,
And the flung spray and the blown spume, and the sea-gulls crying.
.
I must go down to the seas again to the vagrant gypsy life,
To the gull’s way and the whale’s way where the wind’s like a whetted knife;
And all I ask is a merry yarn from a laughing fellow-rover,
And a quiet sleep and a sweet dream when the long trick’s over.
(John Masefield, 1878-1967)
:
Words by John Masefield
Voice by SirenSong1208
They will go without me, to this place I grew to love. Rugged and wild, it spoke to my deep-seated need to be by the sea; to feel her power and her fury, watching her in awe from a distance.
My children will hike to the top of Bray Head and sit and marvel at the Irish Sea, knowing I am across the water looking back at them from my own perch. But I will miss that hike, through the woods, cool and dark but dappled with occasional sunlight. Eventually we’d make our way out into the open, looking down at the town and looking up to see the cross at the very top of the mountain. A place of pilgrimage.
These memories are vivid, stacked upon each other from each year we created them. A tradition. Each visit different and yet the same. The path was well-worn and my feet knew every inch of it. I never looked down to see where I was going, my eyes were far too busy looking around me to see if anything had changed; drinking in the view as if it were the last time. Two years ago it was. I knew it then and every moment was bittersweet. I devoured those days and I hold them close now. I might return, but not in the same way. This year I will not sit high atop that mountain with the sea hundreds of feet below me. Draped in blessed silence and reverence. White tipped waves rushing over the blue green like horses. I will not take the path along the cliff walk to Greystones, my heart swelling with every step as I am bracketed by the sea to my left and verdant hills alive with gorse on my right.
I will not make those memories this year. I will make new ones. My own.
:
Copyright © SirenSong1208
All rights reserved
Photographs taken by SirenSong1208
The time spreads before me,
shining and restless.
I count the days left in my head,
my smile widening as I think of the plans I’ve made.
My adventure.
Will she be everything I anticipate,
the smells,
the sounds,
that my soul hungers for?
I think she will.
She waits for me,
eager to embrace me once again.
It’s been too long since I’ve felt her touch,
heard her voice,
and been reduced to silence by her beauty.
Each day will be rendered with a luster
I cannot find elsewhere
and which I will carry with me when I leave,
leaving a part of myself
on her shores.
:
Copyright © SirenSong1208
All rights reserved.
Photograph taken by SirenSong1208
The older I get,
the more I realise
just how like the sea I am.
It was always blue to me,
that liquid expanse of horizon.
Melancholic with longing.
A churning, churlish mass of feeling,
everything happening beneath the surface,
much like my own insides.
A soul at turns calm or chaotic.
But as quickly as it is stirred,
bellowing forth with a tempest of emotion,
it is released and gentles itself.
Changeable tides
that ebb and flow as response,
some inner metronome
that keeps a steady beat
like my heart.
:
Copyright © SirenSong1208
All rights reserved
Photograph taken from White Noten, unsourced
