Beach Poet

I find it hard to consider myself a writer, but writing, journaling and words are my way of navigating through the world. One of my favorite forms of writing is through poetry or essays. Am I a poet? Am I a writer? I don't know. But writing is the only way that I know how to be real, to be raw and expressive. With writing it allows me to think before I speak and gives me the space to be articulate, kind and the resolve, to brood, to bitch, to smile and to accept.
 **Some mild adult content may not be suitable for young readers  

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Waiting for God's sweet lullaby...
 
 I snuggle low, down, deep beneath-
my feather down, from which I peak-
 
At my window midnight creaks
A hush against the fallen snow-
Feet still chilly from the cold-
 
A flickering glow-
of candle light 
Slow breaths, a steady sigh-
 
Sandman is delayed-
Wandering in the dark-
Did you lose your way?-

A million images-
against my eyes-
Waiting for God's 
sweet lullaby-

Dosing, drifting-
Off I go-
But yet, I can still feel 
my freezing toes-
 

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Song of Siren 
****************
Song of Siren whispers through traveled winds
Dancing, teasing, and laughing amongst the ghostly cypress
The haze of the ocean spray christening 
the ancient flight of the brown pelican. 
Stout and confident, the flock soar
 into the shadow of the dipping sun.
With a shimmering wink our golden compass
offers a final goodbye.

To behold such power 
of this worldly abyss 
stirs within me a calmness of perpetual knowledge, 
a hidden whisper just at the edge of comprehension
 at the horizon of my minds eye, I see it there...
in the ocean's breeze, amongst the trees, upon the salty edge 
the beauty and touch of the grandest of 99 names.  


SWEETLY BROKEN

Sitting on the floor of my shower.
Hot beads of water mixed with tears.
Steam of such warmth
comfort I dare not leave.
It is here that I release such emotion 
the tile trembles.
Welling up from such a depth
 I realize that I am sweetly broken.
Lost and with out direction 
tho' only for a moment.
I hear him calling, I hear him 
in the mist of the hot steam.
I hear him in the cascading shower.
I hear him say get up, 
I will carry you, I will be strong for you.
I hear him whisper it's ok, 
you are but sweetly broken.
Cracking with the weight of life
Shifting under the explosion 
of all the gifts of trial
and tribulations 
the power of empathy, love
the crushing blow of humility and failure.
The ah inspiring visions of our planet 
all of which are given freely
from birth to death, 
becoming worn yet beautiful
with the encumbrance of time 
and experience.
Today on my knees with ignorance and foolishness
Someday standing taller and deeply wiser. 
Stumbling yet strong,
tripping yet still walking, I am but sweetly broken.
Guiding me up and out of the water, 
God hands me my towel
dries my tears, 
lifting the weight of my burden.
Sadden yet unbeaten,
Greatly fearful yet lovingly hopeful.
I will continue on
for I am only sweetly broken.

Sweetly Broken
*I wrote this poem in about 30 seconds flat after the words "sweetly broken" entered my head after a tough couple of days. Pardon the lack of technique...* 
I think the term sweetly broken is a metaphor for the powerful, painful and positive forces of life that only seems to break us, that only seems to shatter us and once you rise again against any painful moment of your precious life, one will find that yes damage has been done, yes with some very ugly and yet with some very beautiful, but  not with out wisdom and yes your spirit maybe cracked and dented from the roughness of life but we are only sweetly broken. We are all served the passage of life, a path that is not easy, but a gift nonetheless with tests and challenges of our humanity, of our spirit. 
We are all "Sweetly broken"  with deep meaning and (yes somewhere down deep and for unknown reasons)...all for a good intention.
***

Not within him
When will you leave? 
When will you go?
 When will I be able to breathe again? 
When will I know?

Like the stickiness of a dream, 
the haze of you follows every move.

I am better this is true. 
Not crying, not dreaming 
or longing for you.
Well at least not as much as I use too.

 O’ yes I can sleep, I can concentrate, I can move.
But now and again as if ghost smoke,
your face, like a hoax drifts by halting all work,
stopping my groove.
On these days, 
I will my concentration into focus
and cast you to the side
 with the ease of batting a fly.

I'm now able to listen to music once again,
O' thank God, for my lyrical friends.
However certain songs make me cringe, 
certain songs make me laugh with ill ease.
With sadness,
I often wonder if this too will ever leave?

While I move on and pick up the pieces of life once again,
I wonder what the hell I was thinkin’.
 "what was it that I saw in him"  
I secretly wish that your spirit is filled with thoughts of me
oh' yes I do
and that melancholy song causing you to wonder and long.
Causing you to skip a beat, 
miss a step, 
and wake from a dream with me in your head, 
starting your day with
 fantasy and dread.
It is senseless I know,
a long ago friend, a man I hardly knew
with words and eyes that I needed to believe in,
for what ever reason I held on.
Its taken a while 
and the pain still echoes and churns
but now I know that I've always had the words
 and belief that I needed, 
always there,
always within,
no, it was never there
not within him
those words, 
that knowledge 
and faith that I needed
 was always here even when I wavered, 
it was here, deep within me
***



Waiting on Morpheus
I lay alone in the stillness of the night, the crispness of clean sheets, the down softness of a feather bed, the haunting glow of a small television, the flicker of a single candle light.
*
In the stillness and solitude of midnight, Echo whispers in my home.
The creaking of old floors, the breathing of a lonely furnace, autumn pressing against my door.
*
A shift of my night shirt, a slight brush against my breast, the lingering lose of a lover, the sadness of a friend.
The sleepy stretching of my legs brings a tingle between my thighs.
I toss, I turn, I close my eyes
Keeping wandering hands and probing fingers at my side.
*
Ah'  Morpheus, my friend, you finally arrive.
Thankful to fall into nocturnal slumber.
I pull my pillow close, the distance smell of orange, the last of a lingering fantasy.
I drift, I sigh as Morpheus whispers "sweet dreams" against my tender lips.
Eagerly I await his touch, as sandman does his tricks.
My exhausted body finally lets go, becoming one with midnight, one energy, one dream, one soul.