All Christians live with fervent hope
That they would see their Lord appear,
This is the hope that buoys their soul
Amid the toils and cares of life.
But then they die before that time,
therefore, it seems they hoped in vain.
Death seems to be the hope-dasher
of Christians dear, in every age.
The skeptics point to this and say,
ages ago, Christ was to come
an absentee, he seems to be
All things exist as they have been.
But truth be told, all Christians live
the good life promised by their Lord
They then lie down and fall asleep
oblivious of the state of death.
The flight of time they know not of,
be it days or thousands of years.
When Jesus comes, and they are raised
for them ‘twill be just a new day.
There is no disappointed hope,
for those who in Christ do believe.
Their lives are held in secure arms
For Christ has sealed their destiny.
O dreaded death, where is your sting?
O grave, where is your victory?
Christ mocked you when He rose again
breaking the portals of the tomb.
Soon the trumpet of God will sound,
And all the dead in Christ shall rise
to meet their Savior in the air
and with Him joy celestial share.
as shockwaves chilled the tide, filled the water
on buoys where also my white face fell
would we remember this time, holding blue
in her deep cold blast, the ocean's eyes stopped
while salt drained what's left of an iceborn cry
invisible the shore moved, or footprints
in those sandals I still disappeared in
her frozen lap is everywhere to me
seagulls combing the green spray, but it's green
so you see the current left in the cracks
I beach on sea laying down, lying down
where shells in frost-dead surf core burned further
filled the water, as shockwaves chilled the tide
on buoys where also my white face fell
holding blue, would we remember this time
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The sails are spun from comet dust,
stitched with light that cannot rust.
The stars do not flicker-they hang,
constant, like distant buoys in a black ocean.
No wind here, only the pull of invisible hands
urging the ship through the dark.
Sometimes, a planet drifts by~
a stranger I will never meet.
The hull creaks, remembering Earth.
when held in that other side of night's beam
the breathing crest
over our eyes, the same sea
the pressure leaving breath
I scrape along your eyes' shores
for a goodbye; boat though pulling, stays, moors
when held in that other side of night's beam
over our eyes, the same sea
veins in my touch tell like knelling buoys
against feeling this drowning tide
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Why chase rhymes? Penguins don’t.
They plunge—black and white chaos—
into brine.
I sip lukewarm tea.
Words aren’t anchors. Mother once said.
They’re buoys.
Let them drift.
Let them drown.
Watch what surfaces.
No glamour here in the South Bay
where function and industry reign
just an occasional seagull is seen
gliding over steel grid power lines.
Daily westerly winds whistle
swaying a small fleet of sailboats
buoys bob along a mariner’s course
as he navigates the currents.
Ships of all shapes and sizes
quietly line the edges of the bay
docked or moored in place
patiently waiting their turn at sea.
An unearthly silence lingers
around the salt flats that arise
staking their claim at the south shore
a monument to the “bitter end”.
It is peaceful here…without pretense
where the hum of traffic is heard
endlessly moving along an offramp
while the random seagull flies above.
A child as grows enjoys rainbow of joys,
Many a marvel in a wondrous world,
Joys mingling with toys getting bouncy buoys,
A world of birds and butterflies unfurled.
As comes his youth that changes only toys,
Rewards of life so naïve staying no more--
Boys chasing girls, and girls giggly at boys,
And soon mid-age knocks at a blissful door,
Clay pots as if in kiln get to ripen,
Realities reel out nigh hard and keen,
The joys of old times no more enliven,
Time knocks, nudges him to kneel, look within,
In hope he grows old, fulfilled life to find,
But grows blasé, bliss of ere left way behind.
___________________________
Sonnet | 08.09.2014 | life, reflection, childhood, youth, joys, old age
Note: As one grows old he tends to reflect on his past
numb butterfingers
need inflatable buoys
attached to their phones
to stop the silly slip dips
to which dumb users are prone
tuckered and tucked in with him
ebb and flow of pillow head
personalities have dreams
we walk on the sea
we see no sun, with eyes shut
lily pads and no frog legs
and the sky’s a blinding blue
our feet toss and turn
pebbles rise into the clouds
a curious sight, indeed
even in the darkest night
distressing whale song
whistle salts breeze into face
we walk our separate ways
sleepy fits of temperament
hopeful peppermint
a couple buoys apart
harbor of port and starboard
ahoy, matey…don’t walk plank
drop splash to the deck
wakey…wakey…the seas wake
the blasting siren alarm
no one cares less where wave crests
it rests on the bed
that is the crumpled bed sheet
only need to straighten it
a boat left in the harbor
the sea’s now placid
If I was an Ocean
Tour my calm waves and feel the balmy breezes
Become at ease
Far and wide would be my waters
Water of reflections and see through bottoms
Breathless Visions would be what my ocean would be called
The welcome of all boaters and Surfers
Happiness throughout
Light houses alert during the uncertain eventful storms
Horizons as far as the eyes could reach
Education through my seas
Once again capture the breezes
Photographic moment
The Night stars and Moon crystalize my waters
Pure cool fresh ocean
Sea to shining sea
Everything added what an ocean should be
Embrace and let it be joy
Through my oceans, and buoys along my oceans
Sea life of splendid
Swim and observe as you enter
The aroma of my fresh water
Shear Delight
Just don’t swim at night
No lifeguard will be in sight
Peaceful mind and soul
Clear thoughts
I am the ocean
Anchors away
The blues you squeeze into your song.
Without the grays, you don’t belong.
The saxophone tonguing your grief;
Downward, the tears’ a scathing relief.
Turquoise battling the heavy waves.
The flautist, grave, somberly braves
The crashing shore of lighthouse lore.
Sudden widows - the sea keeps score.
The notes of navy grooves and plays
The composite of the ships ablaze.
Without the grays you don’t belong.
The blues you squeeze into your song.
The cobalt reed, a salty taste.
The blues strum strings around your waist.
The drums continuous throbbing;
Aperture of buoys sobbing.
Downward, the tears’ a scathing relief.
The saxophone tonguing your grief.
The blues you squeeze into your song.
Without the grays, you don’t belong.
Within my joy there is no hidden sorrow
No sense in mixing opposites I see
Don’t want to rediscover gone tomorrows
I’m superficial, from the signs of depth I flee
Knowing that troubles could be easily incurred
In magic of the nature I’m involved
It saves my time, and helps me to endure
The anxieties of this deceptive world
To swim beyond the buoys is not for me
When splashes of the tide awash this land
I’m there with my wine to watch the sea
It writes away some wave marks in the sand.
It isn’t yielding much result,
I’m still living below the bread line,
I don’t get a full night's sleep,
I still haven’t gotten the desired reap.
I come home after a hectic day,
Behind a closed door is a gloomy ray,
My kitchen gives me a cold comfort,
Nothing there commiserates my labour.
Not a star I see in you my father says,
I worry when I think about you,
I want to shut the door to my muse,
Believing it’s not a worthy fuse.
I pour myself into my art,
Amidst my turbulent part,
My father doesn’t see a serious son,
He sees the least of his children.
I almost tossed it out,
But for the joy it still brings,
But for its swift wings,
It’s a river that flows to me.
At night I still see the sky’s yellow eye,
I think it isn’t a lie,
The man outside may not be the one my father wants,
The one inside buoys the one on the outside who is on the path to a blooming meadow.
October 17, 2024.
A surfer who suffered a fall
Found a float and for help he did call.
As the drama unfurls,
It seems that curls* will be curls,
And buoys will be buoys, after all.
*INCYDK (in case you didn't know): For all you non-surfer dudes and dudettes,
a "curl" is the curl or flip that forms as the top of a wave breaks.
What buoys the Harris campaign?
Trump’s stench with an orange pee stain
While Walz is revered
J.D. seems too weird
And Kennedy has a wormed brain
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