To this day, he waits on the sand. Staring out over the waves as the white foam rolls in and tickles his toes. The water's coldness registers in a small part of his mind that isn't consumed with the memory. He could be standing on hot coals and still, he wouldn't move. He wouldn't even shift from foot to foot.

There was once a pattern to his vigil. Each day, he stood on the beach at the same time, peering across to the horizon. Watching. Searching. Waiting. At the same time every day. Five o'clock, regardless of the season.

That's what time it was when she first came to him.

Three seasons have come and gone since and as the weather cooled, he decided to vary his guard. He's been there at dawn. At noon. At midnight. He's charted the cycles of the sun and moon with his patient pattern. Shooting stars have dropped through the blackness at night. Clouds have darkened the sky and rain obscured his vision. He's even been there for a lunar eclipse. But he wouldn't know. These are superfluous.

Tomorrow, he'll go there again at night. Eleven o’ clock. He might catch her then. He sighs and turns to walk away from the water, looking back, and looking back. Just in case, hoping for just another glimpse.

"I chose you," she told him that first time. "I knew you are for me."

And he knew too. He would walk to the beach and stare out to the horizon until the sea became a glittering blur in the foreground. He knew he was waiting. Searching. Asking.

On a June morning she came. As the sun slipped down between the pale and deep blues, she saw him come to the shore. She watched a smile play at his lips as the waves broke gently and swirled at his feet. Her heart swelled as she prepared to meet him.

Blinking in the confusion of that time, he noticed a stirring of water midway out near the island. A breeze whispered at his ear. He tasted the fine layer of salt left behind on his mouth as his gaze stayed fixed and he waded further into the surf. Adjusting his eyes to the steel blue haze of early morning, he watched as the slippery vision rolled in with the next wave.

Her golden hair swam in the shallow water and caressed his calves as she knelt in front of him with an arm stretched up. A shudder surged through his body as he took her cold hand and helped her to her feet. She came up to his shoulders, this tiny, blue-skinned sea nymph, and laughing gently at his puzzled look, she answered his silent question.

"These legs appear when I will myself to the shore. What use is a tail on land?"

"Do you know that we willed this to happen?" She asked, as they sat on the sand.

He wanted to nod in agreement. He wanted to let out a self-assured "yes." Instead, he stared out to the blackness. But he did know this but yet he didn’t.

There were long silences in their togetherness. There was so much he wanted to say. So much she already knew. She touched his face softly and traced around his mouth with a finger. "Speak," she beckoned without a sound.

He didn't. Instead, he sighed and slipped an arm around her waist and drew her closer to him. They stayed this way until the moon was high in the sky. Casting his eyes now and then over her delicate form, his heart was full with something he felt was love. His head heavy with thoughts he could not express. The silence was broken only by their breathing.

And then she left him.

"Tomorrow, at dusk," she said. He nodded.

The next night, he was there with a dress for her and a towel to dry her wet skin. Again, the tide rose and she swam in to him. His own heart swelled as she again stood before him. She smiled warmly, touched by his thoughtfulness, as she tried on the aqua blue gown.

"It matches my skin!" She giggled, bringing a smile to his lips too. He wrapped his arms around her and held her for an eternity, feeling her coolness fade. Soon, her skin softened into a golden tone. "Please stay," he thought.

"I'd like to show you my world," she sighed, looking deep into his eyes. "But I wonder if you are ready."

Startled by her frankness, he was again struck silent and returned her searching gaze. He shrugged.

"Try?" She asked.

And again, she left him.

"Tomorrow, at dusk," she said once more.

On the third night, when the tide was highest, she came in with a wave that rattled his frame. He laughed nervously as salt water sprayed his face. His feet had sunk deep into the sand and he tried to free himself as she langoured invitingly in the shallow surf. For a moment, he was seized by a resistance. His own world beckoned him. His mind still wondered if this was right or wrong. He stood his ground, ankle deep, against the pull of the undertow and she was drawn out deeper as the sand was dragged from around his feet with the tide. He hesitated. He debated within. But when another wave brought her closer, she touched him, and he let go.

That night, he went with her to her world, where his breath didn't matter. Feeling safe in her cool embrace, the ocean welcomed him with a depth of promise and for a while he lost himself in trusting her. But the deeper they went, the dizzier he became. Dizzy with the pressure of the deep. His thoughts tore him apart. A confusion that frightened him and when she saw this, she let him go, seeing him safely to the surface.

 "You answer questions I haven't yet asked”, she said as he stood looking at her

 "When you're ready, I'll return," she promised, with sadness in her voice.

"How will I know when that is?" He asked aloud.

But she was gone.

 

I gather my confusion and my things

My steps

And the remaining illusions

Of my body.

I run beyond time…….

Beyond the vacant air

And space.

 

Yesterday I drew my open space here

And dreamed a lot,

I sowed shade, and fruit, and crops around

And with flames I wrote my poems . . .

Yesterday

I had plenty of time

To embroider space with words.

But today

I am left with nothing

But my dejection

And the crumbs of yesterdays gone by.

 

Thus I gather my things

Mt earthy belongings,

I wrap myself up in my own confusion

And I run

I run beyond time.

I propagate into the distance

With neither shade

Nor sun…….

I am out of context.

 

 

 

High above on the mountains I see our house

I tread in carefully into the room

And see dreams that have gathered dust,

Some those have never come true.

 

In the corner,

On a desk sits a letter.

That was once started,

Years ago,

But never finished.

Its recipient never knowing,

What truths and feelings lie within.

 

On a dresser,

Lays a necklace.

Once worn out of love.

But now sits alone,

With no one left to claim it.

The love it once inspired.

Almost lost for all time.

 

On a shelf lies a book,

That sits un-completed.

The author having given up,

After losing inspiration.

Dust replacing the thoughts.

Time washing away the words.

 

A door opens to the outside.

And I look  out in eagerness

Waiting for someone to walk in

Someone living now in hopes and dreams.

 

My eyes turn their attention away,

And come upon the pair of eyes

That is looking my way.

And smile in recognition.

And almost walk towards them.

But they are pulled away,

And the moment is lost.

 

I smile in reflection

smile out of love.

And the person who they belong to,

Turns and re-enters the house.

For they know it is time.

 

 

They return to the room.

And sit alone.

Among the hopes, the dreams.

The trinkets, and  the special moments

And they sit and smile inward.

Alone in their thoughts.

Alone in their house,

Remembering the time I was there……..

 

 

 

 

I fall…..

 

It is not a desire for something higher

that drives me into new found depths,

I still rise from under the ruins

Climb my pride
and reach to the surface . . .

To the zenith of my pain
from my memories I build up a fortress.

Evenings, when the light dims
and I lie hidden in bed,
I gather outlines of ideas
that flow over the silence of my limbs.
It is here that I must weave my
thought's tapestry,
arrange my own strands
use myself to draw my own being
to evoke my deepest thought's form,

I’m rather unprolific, the poems

I have wandering in my mind would reach

from here to earths end

So moving, so filled with

and sometimes emptied of all suffering,

so steeped in the softness of a faraway voice

yet speechless before the truth,

The poems I have not written,

the life I have not lived, the life
I’ve failed even to imagine, and still

I so perfectly describe.

 

 

I wrap myself in all expectations

Before I resume . . .

My falling.

 

Yes, I do feel like a visitor,
a tourist in this world
that I once made.
I rarely talk,
except to ask the way,
distrusting my interpreters,
tired out by the babble
of what they do not say.
I walk around through battered streets,
distinctly lost,
looking for landmarks
from another, promised past.

Here, in this strange place,
in a disjointed time,
I am nothing but a space
that sometimes has to fill.
Images invade me.
Picture postcards overlap my empty face
demanding to be stamped and sent.

‘Dear . . . ’
Who am I speaking to?
I think I may have misplaced the address,
but still, I feel the need
to write to you;
not so much or your sake
as for mine,

To raise these barricades
against my fear:
Proof that I was here.