Symphony of the ocean waves
A poem about ocean waves
The ocean, an ever-changing dance,
A symphony of waves that advance,
A vast expanse of liquid blue,
Where creatures swim and currents sway.
The waves, they rise and fall,
Like a lover's gentle call,
They caress the sandy shore,
And then retreat once more.
They speak a language deep and true,
Of secrets only they can rue,
Of tides and currents, wind and tide,
Their rhythm, ancient, never hides.
The waves, they roll and break,
A show of power they do make,
Crashing down upon the shore,
Their spray a salty kiss before.
They race each other to the beach,
As if in some great leap they'd teach,
Their frothy crests like foam agape,
A sight to make the heart elate.
Oh, ocean waves, how beautiful you are,
Your beauty knows no equal, far and near,
You move us with your might and grace,
A reminder of the cycle of time and space.
About the Creator
Michael Burns
I'm a father with a learning disability to two very intelligent artistic kids and raising them right.Im married to a very beautiful woman with a learning disability.I like writing on free time to get stuff off my mind.
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making space
Since the only thing that might pull us back up is caring, it only makes sense that here, long after I’ve let my anger born of heartbreak and grief misplace, multiply, misdirect itself, let the enormity of my solitude turn into something I don’t know how to dispute with, something thick and heavy and suffocating, let the coldness thrash and fight under my skin, deeper still, in between the arches of my organs; here where the ground is always close and the fall is easy and I surrender to it often, lie without purpose for hours, it only makes sense that it is here, I decide to show up and surrender to the possibilities of the night. Show up to those who I deserted. Drawn to the sense of accomplishment, something I haven’t felt in a while, to memory of finished dish sending its aroma into the world and with it, wrapping the room with a strong sense of sweet nostalgia, I get up and decide to cook. I pick up my phone, type a message that reads “Dinner at mine @ 8PM, don’t bring anything” and before my courage deserts me again, drop it in our friends’ group chat, the way one would do when diffusing a bomb in the movies: one eye closed, snip at the wire, hoping for the best.
By Mesh Toraskar4 days ago in Feast
Comments (2)
it's beautiful.loved your poem
Stunning! Loved this!! You sound like a thinking person! Good job!