when the words don’t matter

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Sitting by the shoreline,

the water fairly calm,

a sharp breeze enough to

suggest only the time of year.

 

watching seagulls swift past

the eery history of the mast

wondering just when waters

would ever tell me a secret.

 

I could listen for hours

while the sun began to dance

along soft waves of yesterday

sounds around me airily fast.

 

the birds, their legacy staid

by waning summer’s crying lead

in the autumn of these days,

the ones reminding time away.

 

I listen to Bob Dylan, a surreal croon

speaking of wanting ways

wishing time would forever sway,

‘Blood on the Tracks’ seems to say …

 

Inside this visual macabre

Our surreal horizon rob.

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The Gathering Mist – A Sonnet a Day

fog

Shrouds veil our rise within the morning’s mist,

like pure raindrops suspended in cool air

we are reminded certain moments missed

will walk our day, must we believe it fair?

The mind, a wandering vessel of hope

battles sea worthy giants of despair

with each walk, we tangle a fierce strung rope

that clings to every fiber; hanging there.

We want to believe our hearts are so true

to love, to have compassion, a spirit

in happiness can achieve such sky blue

authority upon our angst’s regret.

With human dignity we walk in shrouds

of mediocrity whilst He sweeps clouds