The old man and the sea
Startled by words silently soaring
over dark covers of fine snow
the old man finds himself in disarray.
A host, of long lost images, plunges
through the windings of his presence
demanding to be named and dear.
The sea that gently rocks the day,
this tender echo that flees the light,
rolling beneath dark distant skies.
The old man stands by the water,
the horizon bleeds invisibility,
suddenly, a last gull cries his name.
Solemn like a Sunday morning;
the eyes that raced are still.
Glorious peace that eats the heart;
all of that and burning with regrets
that no man ever went for lack,
nor ever for not wanting.
For a moment he dangles;
bait for the hungry and ignorant.
No sweet aroma meets the starfish
surfing on dark water's curve.
Death has no say here,
he alone is the enchanted dance.
The cod tolls for the old man,
for the fallen squid at his feet,
for the grey clouds of shrimps,
for the clams wet and weeny secret
and to the mad eddy of water.
Snowflake lips moves the sea.
Poetry by Bob
Read 1261 times
Written on 2006-03-03 at 09:52
Save as a bookmark (requires login) Write a comment (requires login) Send as email (requires login) Print text
|
Zoya Zaidi |
| Texts |
 by Bob Latest textsI seldom walkthere’s a rumor there will be no full stop so many regrets who am I |
Increase font
Decrease