in Poetry 126 Words

solitary

Tonight the sea is a heaving black force
Clouds conceal the moon, showing no remorse
The horizon seems to have been shrouded
Slinking into the black, feeling morose.

I gaze into the beyond of expanse
The solar star has been put in a trance
As he slumbers through the measures of time
Night creatures swing in a nocturnal dance.

The cold night air takes me in its embrace
The dreams in my head set me on a pace
As nimble waves froth and brush at my feet
The moon comes out of hiding, as clouds race.

Luring the stars out into the open
Scuds give way to this glittering token
I watch the splendor of the milky way
As silver glints shine on waves and deepen.

76 thoughts on “solitary”

      1. yeah!! still got 3 weeks to go but lots to do. Yeah the sea is in my ancestors blood…you know the brits sailing about everywhere and subjugating peace-loving folk!! This is why Gandhi is my hero. Hope you are well Yasmin?..well and happy.

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  17. Again, you amaze. Why am I unsurprised. Our scud occluded all but a moonbow and peeks of shine shafting through Live Oak boughs as if to tease – but I know next full will be another of the supposed “Supers” and thus because it is my wont, I will wait chaised and if cold, comforted within and without. No nearby sea in which to gambol though. I shall think of this lovely, well-crafted work (and maybe carry a small foot-pail of salt water for to soak my tootsies). Thanks, Yassy for the smile.

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      3. Oh, my, what upcommance, dear Lady. Brucy (or is it ey?) is fine. I answer best to rocks thrown near (emphasis NEAR) my head and Early Four Dinner(s). You take (and spend) much time on so many who write – I scrit – and the good humor shines through and if the pun fits make it more like Baked Alaska than plain woodchipsoak fake vanillin. I most happily thank you.

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      7. That and applesauce…I make my (both) own, but I welcome yours. Do you some if not most days go about just tickled you are you? I do. Even when morose…I like my moosing about the shallow riverbanks waving imaginary antlers and muching what grows alongside and underneath. The photo (shopped) of a moose with mounted (and saddle-sitting) man with a rifle with the caption: Canadian mounted patrol for illegal Americans is just another joy to fall my etherway in recent days. Pain is God’s way to say: this proves you’re alive: quitcherbitchin! And while I love bitchin – a Marine’s earned right – it really is the pain that endorphinizes, though I have given up pursuit of punctures and suchlike and will settle for a small wheeze at end of long shovel and hauling heavies about either the garden or the woods-n-swamps.

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      9. sometimes reclined…and then I hafta reach for the notebook and pen. Or, as Spider Robinson writes “God Is An Iron.” When first I read that I said, “OK, but I still prefer to hang my tee shirts vice ironing” and then I read the chain…Gluttons commit gluttony; felons commit felony…God Is An Iron.

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      11. Yes, he is: I, however, just play a kind man in one or more movies in which I appear but sometimes the soundtracks get either reversed or fed in backwards and I go round cussin’ and stompin’ and sometimes toe-stubbin’! Bruce has a wicked sense of smile and desiccated humor – which fortunately makes deadpan blush. I treasure the rejoining of our threads this life.

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    2. Lola: I have no idea: I was tautologically taught one never uses the word one defines in its definition, and, mostly, I agree. But all my agrees come caveated: sometimes a word captures essence past grammar or rhetor. I like the conundrum you compound across my screen. I look at what Yaskahn66 writes and envy can not even begin to think of war with such supple shaping she carves. In my hubris I imagine your words, Lola, are for me; but in a greater sense for Yassy as well as thee. Anyone who breathes and sees (without regard to orbish input or olfactory stupefication and so many other ways to describe myself as of nature and not apart, how can I not love?

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      2. Lola: went to your blog and found it more than a meal. And the pretty part of your about: perhaps if your visage slipped seven levels it might broach “pretty” from above – you, young lady, are a stunningly beautiful example of the female form – and such a great pose. Too bad your writing outshines!

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  20. Ooops, Lola: I finally scrolled up and saw I was sitting in “Solitary’s” web and not one of mine own spinning. Somehow I knew I was in Yassy-World but pre-gushed and now blushed with neophyte newness. I agree with you: The lady rocks. And the world’s nature rejoices. Again, culpame!

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