This is a very old poem, meaning I was very young when I wrote it.
THE SURFER'S SONG
For Christ's sake, don't get hung up on the weather. It's calm, it rains, it storms you know who's boss. When it comes, it's going to be a mother.
Surf's up, and you're in forty feet of water Without a board have faith He'll come across; For Christ's sake, don't get hung up on the weather.
The sky looks like a city or a father, Heavy over the ocean, damp as moss. When it comes, it's going to be a mother.
He takes you by the hand and leads you further, Where whitecaps curl around your legs like frost. For Christ's sake, don't get hung up on the weather.
You dance upon the ocean, like a feather, The land hangs on you like an albatross. When it comes, it's going to be a mother.
You'll see it, as you sink beneath the breakers, A vision of Our Lady of the Sauce. For Christ's sake, don't get hung up on the weather. When it comes, it's going to be a mother.
Sue - I hadn’t thought of it that way, but I like it. I’d thought of it more as being about death, sex and death have always been closely related. The French call an orgasm “le petit mort” - the little death. And W. B. Years said there are only two subjects worth writing about - sex and death.
memory aromas linger in my mind I stand from my position pulling weeds the wet of sweat rolls down my brow the breeze cools and soothes I smile at the essence of childhood memories the fragrance of sweaty children running, waiting for rain to wet their hair and makes some puddles in which to splash cooling off the heat like my garden plants anticipating all of summer’s joys...
This is an older poem, yet I have been so busy...I wanted to at least put up a poem, so here it is.
Tears
Under a tree for whose shade I feel most grateful tears rise like the tide into my eyes, running down cheeks caressed by a gentle breeze. I am thinking of my friend.
My tears flow, directing me to remember all that I wish to forget: that life is brief, that pain is a fact of life that no matter how brave or cowardly how soon or how late, we all face the end.
Here by the sea it is easy to let salty tears flow, to release them into the salty air to fall and mingle with the sea, to lose themselves, to become one with its ceaseless motion.
Happen to have a kid poem handy. I hope to write a new one too, but let's get this started.
ReplyDeleteRAIN
a tanka
lawn sprinkler twirls out
rainbow arcs kids run through but
I like rain showers
where I twirl mouth toward sky
feel rain taste rain hear rain joy
Awesome kid memories.
DeleteWhat a vivid image of something sooo familiar to any one who remembers it.
DeleteI liked it because it has all the senses and rain employs all the senses! Great description in a small poem!
DeleteThis is a very old poem, meaning I was very young when I wrote it.
ReplyDeleteTHE SURFER'S SONG
For Christ's sake, don't get hung up on the weather.
It's calm, it rains, it storms you know who's boss.
When it comes, it's going to be a mother.
Surf's up, and you're in forty feet of water
Without a board have faith He'll come across;
For Christ's sake, don't get hung up on the weather.
The sky looks like a city or a father,
Heavy over the ocean, damp as moss.
When it comes, it's going to be a mother.
He takes you by the hand and leads you further,
Where whitecaps curl around your legs like frost.
For Christ's sake, don't get hung up on the weather.
You dance upon the ocean, like a feather,
The land hangs on you like an albatross.
When it comes, it's going to be a mother.
You'll see it, as you sink beneath the breakers,
A vision of Our Lady of the Sauce.
For Christ's sake, don't get hung up on the weather.
When it comes, it's going to be a mother.
I love this. A villanelle to boot. It's much more accessible than your usual fare. You SOUND young. LOL. I picture the you in the old pix I've seen.
DeleteI feel like its about sex/orgasm
DeleteThe weather is male
The ocean is female
Making the ocean a mother
Forty feet of water/drowning in bliss
Lady of the sauce—— sperm
Am I wayyyy off?
Interesting, as always, and as a well written extended metaphor it really strikes a good note.
DeleteSue - I hadn’t thought of it that way, but I like it. I’d thought of it more as being about death, sex and death have always been closely related. The French call an orgasm “le petit mort” - the little death. And W. B. Years said there are only two subjects worth writing about - sex and death.
DeleteAwesome Tad, it held me captive from beginning to end
DeleteMatters
ReplyDeleteFrom the billowy mess in the sky,
pulled by gravity,
tiny sparks of sensation
land on my exposed arms.
My mind wanders like the wind
considering how clouds are accepted
for who they are:
grey or straight or monochromatic.
Splat! splat splat splat-splat
I watch with the privilege
of doing nothing as
the deck wood gets blotted.
The spasmodic clouds chatter
with jailed droplets as
the sky gets heavy and blue
Bang! Bang!
Steam rises from the ground.
I smell the hot stink in the air
and continue rocking
as my mind floats with the clouds.
Sky tears and cloud shadows increase
as the pitter patter marches faster
demanding to be noticed
wanting its presence to matter.
I can’t deny I am soaked.
My mind was always open
and I could have done something
but my umbrella wasn’t.
Wow! Love the plethora of metaphor and the galore of images!
DeleteYour poems keep getting better. I love "sky tears". And once again, I love the surprise ending.
DeleteWow, Sue, this poem it terrific! I loved "Clouds chatter with jailed droplets...I liked all of it but that was extremely descriptive...
DeleteSo evocative and disturbing.
ReplyDeletememory aromas
ReplyDeletelinger in my mind
I stand from my position
pulling weeds
the wet of sweat rolls
down my brow
the breeze cools and soothes
I smile at the essence
of childhood memories
the fragrance of sweaty children
running, waiting for rain
to wet their hair and
makes some puddles
in which to splash
cooling off the heat
like my garden plants
anticipating all of
summer’s joys...
This is awesome, combining your current garden with memories of days that smelled like that.
DeleteThere is no delete button that I can see. I tried to publish under my gmail account and it came up UNKNOWN...
ReplyDeleteI deleted it but you should have been allowed to.
DeleteA sweet poem, thanks for sharing.The sensuous effect was excellent.
ReplyDeleteThis is an older poem, yet I have been so busy...I wanted to at least put up a poem, so here it is.
ReplyDeleteTears
Under a tree for whose shade I feel most grateful
tears rise like the tide into my eyes,
running down cheeks caressed by a gentle breeze.
I am thinking of my friend.
My tears flow, directing me
to remember all that I wish to forget:
that life is brief,
that pain is a fact of life
that no matter how brave or cowardly
how soon or how late,
we all face the end.
Here by the sea
it is easy to let salty tears flow,
to release them into the salty air
to fall and mingle with the sea,
to lose themselves,
to become one with its ceaseless motion.