And Words Are All I Have

Time to put off the world and go somewhere
And find my health again in the sea air...

W.B. Yeats

My Heart's Home

footsteps in sand
The ocean is this beautiful unexplored place.
Why on Earth everyone isn’t down there, I don’t know.

~~ Graham Hawkes

Poems seem fitting to my subject this week, a befitting way to mark my return to this tiny out island.

The closest land mass east of this outcropping of limestone rock and coral fossils is Africa; 7600 miles, give or take, if you set out from where I am standing. When the winds blow on to this shore they can carry with them the sands of the Sahara Desert.

I love thinking about that as I stand and look to the horizon. How we are all part of something so much more. So much greater, so much of it imponderable.

While Swimming

Do our spines remember gills, our bellies
the cool ocean floor?
Can we conjure ourselves in
the cavernous deep,
amid the ocean’s unknowable chambers,
resurrect what it was we carried,
as we slithered ashore?
I try summoning
my watery DNA that surely lurks
When my arms tire,
and all too soon,
I imagine myself armless,
sleek again, fins as my rudder.
designed for just this.
Forced to the surface for air,
is my resentment simply
the helix,
rebelling from memories of diving
deeper and deeper,
skimming the vast reefs,
skirting wide the beaches,
circling all islands,
until the light finally left the surface.
Expectantly, resolutely,
I dive deeper


Don’t let fear fuel your choices. Live fearlessly. Run towards life.
Don’t worry about what people will think.
Trust me, it doesn’t matter.

~~ Kerri Grote

Keep the luxuries, the extras,
the heavy cream for coffee,
the Frette linens,
the cashmere; it itches anyway.
Return to me this,
This view.
The expanse of cerulean sea
that deepens to wine dark at the horizon,
the delicate frame of palm fronds
lofting against the wind.
The surf breaking hard off shore
on a reef I've come to know well.
Include that lone broken shell
lolling at the water's edge.
Bathe it all in the luscious lavender light
of the late afternoon.
And please, just a hint of yellow oleander.
Keep the rest.
All of it.
Return to me

tricia handwritten signature
I am here, listening. Share your own stories with me, gentle reader.

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