2007-07-29 15:38:07 ET|
It seems that between work and life I can only drift through the land of space during an occasional moment in time.
I have often thought and even tried on a seriously motivated basis to keep a journal. Then I realize that perhaps I do not want the journals floating with my thoughts. Have you ever wondered where to put the inside of you so that you can actually read it back? Sometimes to laugh with and sometimes to cry with and often just to remind you of things that have gone before.
I found a book of my poems once. Poems written of the sea. Poems of the majesty and loneliness of sand and sea and girl. The beauty of sunsets coloring the waves. Colors reaching out and tinting the sails of boats going where I longed to go. Poems of Asian fishermen patiently waiting for the lines to draw tight as they watched the sandpipers playing along the shore. I remember the poems now, I remember the sadness of that particular time. I remember feeling at one with the sea. I remember how the sea called to me, her voice gentle in the wind. All this I remember from finding my book of poems. All these words are so filled with life that I can still feel the emotions of the time.
Is this not what life is all about? Simply a poetry of hours which turn into days and then years. Sometimes the poetry is filled with laughter, sometimes with desire. Poetry racked with sadness and alone with the wind. A movement of words covering the feelings of the moment or the contentment of age and all that is still to be.
I hope that the poetry continues to fill my soul with words yet to say of all that has been and all that is yet to be.