Sea. Ocean. A stir.

Bask in it's glory, it's spray of hope, adventure, and poetic dreams.

Seasphere

Just a poem about the sea, and my brief desires.

Seasphere

The water doesn’t belong to me.
I wish I could reel it in, a mass of crisp
bubbly air, and disintegrate the
dots of green,
here and there,
the spots where humanity has
let go of its fury, wrappers floating
or pressed down by the weight of
a rock. I could level the gallons of water
out so that they would pool around
my ankles, never rise above a section of
my neck, walk around for hours
in the vast pool, where not
one spot is higher than the rest,
where not one area has as much
darting fish, or stalking sharks
as the next, and when a boat passes
by, skimming the water so shallow,
a sailor fixing the fabrics of his compass,
I could use him as help, asking this man
the way back home.
When he has told me,
there is no other option than
to continue forward, waves only
the air fanning itself, and spying under the surface,
for a distinct species of algae.

-CS

Organ- Poem

Just a poem I wrote today. Inspiration arose from nowhere.

Organ

Allow the sunlight, streaming, into
your home, for it will be of
great help in the morning, illuminating
the corridor that winds to the bathroom,
and shining itself on your stomach,
the skin of yourself, a sheet
of parchment, where the dark outer
lining of a lung is visible,
and a heart, moving slightly
every second, as if sick
of the sights you take in,
every day, the familiar scents you
breathe in,
and the heart will stop complaining,
once you are standing, and stretching
full of the light and your inner workings,
which the sun has taught you
to take care of.
-CS

Lugging a mass

1.
I carry the weight
Of myself, through the
Land, alive and burning,
I hoist the pack steadily,
On my back, to decode the
Grass,
The prairie,
My fire spreading through the dirt, and on,
I must stalk the orbiting sun.
2.
Night, when it paws in,
Curious, my pack will reveal the
Hardship I have dealt and
The dreams
I have left, in alleys barren,
To search another pursuer.
3.
The burning orb, descendant of light
And fire, does not
Want to play hide and seek.
-CS

A poem about life, about trekking on through the obstructions and obstacles and encumbrances.

Cap in a sealed space

The building was there,
For a few
Years, and the doors stayed put,
Obedient slices of wood,
Watching time play, and keeping
To themselves, as any door should.

The front room,
It peered at itself,
At its plaster arms, and when
The ceiling caved in,
The walls stopped talking to themselves,
And allowed the kitchen to enter
The conversation.

When the vines, they sneaked in,
From an exposure in the left corner
Of the collapsed slate,
Grew into the walls, touching them along,
They didn’t complain.

Neither did the cap,
Of a drunken bottle, which lay beneath the
Fallen ceiling, crushed and
Still pulsing.
-CS

Thoughts. Coments. Feedback. Whatever.

Currently reading update #1: Billy Collins

Billy Collins.
Poet Laureate.
Of what years?
I don't know.
All i do know is that his poetry is observant, wryly funny, and sweetly simple. Really. This guy's in a category of his own. I've read two of his poetry books. Well, actually one. The other i'm currently savoring. Whenever reading a poetry book, you don't want to gulp everything up at once.
Take it slowly.
No rush, no need to expedite.
Billy Collins poetry is so tasteful, you just have to read it three times in a row, each poem that is. The first time, you think to yourself: this is clever. The second time, you find yourself liking it more, find the poem itself a bit more pleasurable. The third time, you feel envious. As if, i wish i had written this.
That's the charm of Collins.
The one i'm reading right now is 'Nine Horses' and it's a gem.
Any of his work is worth checking out.