I heard of a poet once
who said that her poems
rolled in like a crack of thunder
over the vast prairies of the land
and she would have to run home
to write them immediately before
they stormed off into the distance.
I feel mine are more like waves
formed by distant winds
which roll over my mind’s ocean
before a reef causes them to curl,
pitch to perfection,
then crash onto the rocky shore.
It’s not that different really:
I still try to catch them at their peak,
perhaps in a single line,
leaving the rest of the words
like flotsam in swirling eddies
which recede swiftly
into the indigo bay of my dreams.
Waves sound like muted thunder
for there is no difference in the truth,
only that I am sitting in Stingray Bay,
she in the American Midwest.
I feel her now in the rhythmic rumble
and know that thoughts create experience
as much as experience makes us think.
Life is poetry for those who write,
music for those who play,
artwork for those who draw,
equations for those who question,
a symphony for those who listen.
It exists now, in my rockstrewn bay,
waiting for those who will,
while the waves roll in, roll out, roll in.