“Poems Like Waves”

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

building momentum

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.

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