At Sea

I have lost track of the days at sea, 

and I have forgotten what dry looks like, 

and the sky and water meet edgeless and endless, 

and my eyes see the lines in the clouds and follow them like street signs.

My heart drives the sail of me 

and if my blood flows like the ocean 

then I must rise and fall with it too,

and try to find something solid to hold on to when the tempests swell.

If you were at the center then I could tell you that you need to move,

to be pliant,

that the tree that doesn’t bend will crack,

that there is no honor found in allowing yourself to splinter.

Even the ocean knows the moon demands its sway,

and under its pendulum finds rhythm,

 and the dance of water and light,

have become poetry for the ages.

Without understanding voices sing of it,

 responding to the call and pull even at a distance,

of time and circling seasons.


I time my breaths to the rise of the boat,

 its hard floor beneath my cheek and listen, 


for the beat of its heart.

And the lines in the clouds blur and re-form, 

 and I wonder what the signs would read,

and if I could have used them to point myself in another direction.

You warned me once you were not solid ground,

you warned me but with eyes so bright and a smile just for me,

that I swore I would learn to love the freefall,

but my eyes jolted open fearing the impact, 

even when awake.

And now the keening of the gulls remind me

that there are always more horizons to cross…

If the journey need be alone,

for this time of breath and sky and salt wind,

then I will hold to the moon,

hold to the center that knows it cannot hold,

and let my eyes trace once more the lines,

the shapes in the clouds that follow like the waves,

and learn to love the storm,

in all its destruction, 

for its own sake.

And listen, 


for the beat.



About chimerapoet

I write. I write a lot. A. LOT. There are times I am half blind with a sentence ricocheting off the walls of my stupid, cant be shut off to save my life, brain. I am miserable until I get it down on paper. Punch it up a bit. Usually cross out half of it. And then breathe. Relax. Only to do it all again..... But I just thought that was me. How I am. Not a writer....noooo...not me. Writers are.....writing people. People Who Write. REALLY write. Write things that matter. All grown up very important things. I am just a scribbler of sorts. And I was/am content with that....if it's true, well then....a scribbler am I. Until the thought wormed its way in to my brain (the furtive sneaky bitch) that maybe...just maybe...that is writing. My style. My strange way. But....still writing. So here I am at the dance. Not sure I know any of the moves and the music is entirely mine. But.....only one way to find out. Would you care to join me?
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