Stands every headland upon
Each, seaward facing
If but felt a-twirl
Outlines a young girl
Diaphanous-gowned.
There, beneath, rising up on
Whose frolicesome air
Made of whom, wave-high
Or just teased in by
Delirious sound.
Inspiration:
Inspired by the “Footprints in the Sand” tradition—the enduring idea that when only one set of footprints remains, it is because the Divine is carrying us through our darkest hour.
—The Weight of Mercy—
I turned my years back down the seaward strand,
where joy had once impressed its double trace;
But when the dark unloosed me from its hand,
one print alone lay solemn in its place.
I deemed that single furrow spoke of doom,
and read Heaven’s silence as a sealed decree;
Yet grief, self-crowned, within my inward gloom,
arraigned the unseen for what mine eyes could see.
Then came one night when one brief sentence fell
through all the citadels I built so strong,
and where my failing breath could scarcely dwell,
I felt a strength that bore my soul along;
till, looking back, the furrows seemed to shine:
My feet were mine—the strength that bore me, Thine.
We hike the trails where emerald silence grows,
The forest hums beneath the morning light,
The mountain breathes in rhythms nature knows.
The beach wind plays with gulls in seaward flight,
We splash through waves, our footprints wash away,
The forest hums beneath the morning light.
By lakes so still they mirror skies all day,
Canoes drift slow like dreams in midday sun,
We splash through waves, our footprints wash away.
Through wooded paths, the deer and foxes run,
We pitch our tent where starlight softly lands,
Canoes drift slow like dreams in midday sun.
A fire is born from our own weathered hands,
We share our tales until the embers die,
We pitch our tent where starlight softly lands.
We hike the trails where emerald silence grows,
The mountain breathes in rhythms nature knows,
The beach wind plays with gulls in seaward flight,
We share our tales until the embers die.
s
d
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w i s p s l
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seaward
b b i g
o b n colours
CLANKING MASTS
empty
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t
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p o t s
Solitary seafarer sings sea chanties,
salty sea breeze serenity,
sea birds skim waves,
suddenly, so many sailors' souls
of the sunken WW II ship USS Indianapolis
started singing sonorous,
soaring from sea sepulcher,
stirring sacrifice so sacred,
such sorrow,
souls still scintillating, still seaward,
servicemen shipmates solemnized,
seared, sealed in spiritual solidarity,
salute. ~
On the morrow ships will sail
To roam beyond the hidden veil
And brave the stormy seas to see
If ships holds carry destiny
Yet here we will to seaward keep
The watch that holds our wandering feet
From paths and fields and trees and thought
Believing in the lies we've bought
Waiting here on well worn quays
To count the line of endless days
We lie and wait and lie some more
That hope awaits on distant shores
And wind borne sails in misty skies
Will answer all to that which lies
Slumbering within our breast
Awaiting lifes first step to test
The migratory mind indomitable,
the spirited surfer on surging waves of life,
creates the curled crests of fractured moon,
and the dark troughs of sinking fallen stars.
The swell recedes with the ebb of time,
seeking the secluded depth of the past.
The shifting sands etch the seaward footprints,
contoured as the corroding design of decay.
The time arrow finds the destined course,
seeks the serene topography beyond the shore,
away from the eroded wilderness abandoned,
where emptiness engulfs the hues of hope.
In the weed-webbed terrain deep within,
piles up the wreckage of life unlived,
turns the flushing garden to template of wasteland.
The pathway paved outside its frail fence,
waits to be walked fascinated,
reach the mesmeric meadow of tomorrow.
The innovative memory then invents
the arcane acumen of alchemy,
glitters gold in the rusted existential ruins.
Marigold blooms in the aureate junkyard
on the scrap stack of the bleak being,
with the touch of the Midas mind.
?The air gently rises, I'm called, I'm called
"Spread now your wings, fly free, into the sky"
My wings impatient to ride the wind soaring
Softly call me to take the rising thermals
I spring away and fall before my wings
Gracefully open wide and strong
And bear my weight and break my fall
Spiral, around, around, rising on water
Driven air, rising from plunging water
Gravity fuelled, spring driven, seaward bound
It powers me up on wide spread wings.
I climb up, toward the vast blue sky
Lifted by the rising air column
I'm grace, perfection, control, ease
And above all master of the air
The ground recedes, the dry earth
Expands, stretches, and soon
Way above I fly because I can
Not because I must but
Because I am lord of all I survey.
The resolute mind indomitable,
the feisty surfer on the waves of life
of curled crests with strewn fractured moon
and dark troughs of sunken stars,
recedes with the ebb of time,
looks out for the shore of the past.
The rolling sands etch seaward footprints,
contoured as the crumbling pattern of decay.
Time arrow finds the destined course
to the topography beyond the shore,
away from the eroded wilderness abandoned
where emptiness absorbs the hues of hope.
In the weed-webbed terrain deep within
piles up the wreckage of life unlived,
turning the flushing garden to wasteland.
The corridor paved outside its delicate fence,
waits to be walked spellbound
to the sanguine meadow of tomorrow.
The innovative memory invents
the arcane skill of alchemy,
glistens gold in the rusted crust of ruins.
Marigold blooms in the junkyard
on the scrap stack of desolate being,
with the touch of the Midas mind.
The cobalt mind of ancient mariner of the seven seas,
the surfing sailor tosses on the waves of youthful life,
rolls on the curled crests with the splintered moon,
drawn into dark agony troughs of the drowned stars,
spread pearls of joy on shore embroidering exuberance.
Crushed sands sculpt the trail of the seaward footprints,
designed by the crumbled contours of transient decay.
Time arrow points to the turquoise terrain ethereal,
away from the wistful wilderness abandoned,
where the chasm stratifies the collapsed hopes undying.
The weed-webbed wasteland defined deep within,
piles up the shipwrecked splinters of life unlived.
Withering garden garners tinny bleakness, yet shining,
as the path paved outside the obscure familiarity fence
waits to be walked by the mesmerized wanderer
to the marvelous meadow of tantalizing tomorrow.
The invented alchemic aptitude of the mystic memory
makes glittering gold on the rusted crust of the ruins.
Marigold blooms on scrap heap with steadfast sanguinity
in Midas touched shipwreck junkyard of the metallic mind.
waxing gibbous light
and crashing surge collect us—
the moon moves the tides
pause in wave-action
you, me, equilibrium—
the moon moves the tides
receding sands run
seaward, erasing footsteps—
the moon moves the tides
Stormed on, midst life, sinking
And confused in
Through its depths, dismal, grasp
For your relief:
Each thought is winged uplift.
Petrel's, adrift
O'er that which churns, coldly
Composed of grief.
The mobile mind of the indomitable mariner,
the resolute sailor floating on the waves of life,
rolling on the curled crests with splintered moon,
drawn into dark agony troughs of drowned stars,
spread to oblivion breaking on the shore of past.
The crushed sands carve seaward footprints,
designed by the crumbled contours of decay.
Time arrow points to terrain beyond the shore,
away from the abraded wilderness abandoned,
where the chasm consumes the collapsed hopes.
The weed-webbed wasteland defined deep within,
piles up the washed out wreckage of life unlived.
The withering garden garners metallic bleakness,
as the path paved outside the familiarity fence,
waits to be walked by the mesmerized wanderer
to the mesmeric meadow of tantalizing tomorrow.
The invented alchemy aptitude of mystic memory
makes glittering gold on the rusted crust of ruins.
Marigold blooms in the scrap heap of abiding hope
in the Midas touched junkyard of the metallic mind.
_________________
February 19, 2023
For Brian Strand's Your Choice Again Contest
The migratory mind indomitable,
the spirited surfer on waves of life
of curled crests framed by fractured moon
and dark troughs where stars have sunk,
recedes with the ebb of time,
seeks the shore of the past.
The shifting sands etch seaward footprints,
contoured as the corroding design of decay.
Time arrow finds the destined course
to the topography beyond the shore,
away from the eroded wasteland abandoned
where emptiness engulfs the hues of hope.
In the weed-webbed terrain deep within
piles up the wreckage of life unlived,
turning the flushing garden to debris dump.
The pathway paved outside its frail fence,
waits to be walked fascinated
to the mesmeric meadow of tomorrow.
The innovative memory invents
the arcane acumen of alchemy,
glitters gold in the rusted crust of ruins.
Marigold blooms in the junkyard
on the scrap stack of bleak being,
with the touch of the Midas mind.
________________
June 25, 2022
For A Brian Strand Premiere Choice Contest
Where have all the raindrops gone
Spilling from on high?
Which once would fall about my head
But now my head is dry.
Where have all the snowflakes gone
Ambling down from space?
Shivering in the winter wild
And melting on my face.
Where have all the rivers gone
Dashing to and fro?
They once would splash across the land
As seaward they would go.
Where have all the oceans gone
To crash against the shore?
All that's left is salted sand
Upon a seabed floor.
Where have all the rainbows gone?
They lighted up the days.
They once would bow and bend and reach
So far the eye could gaze.
Where have all the sundrops gone
To energise the rain?
Absent now, without a trace,
And never seen again.
And where have all my brothers gone?
Each walked the earth with me;
O'er moor and mountain, here and there,
From clifftop to the sea.
And where have all my sisters gone,
And all the loves I've known?
Disappeared, just like the rain,
So, now I'm left alone.
Alan S Jeeves
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