Waves move into sands,
which the shoreline inherits
but only after a long journey
This is not just a wave –
This is a wave that’s been years in the making.
I am here now (of course)
staring out at a nighttime sea
The moon is full and beaming,
like a big blue, glowing pendant
hovering above the rolling waves.
I love this . . .
Long shafts of moonlight
mix in the ripples of the ocean’s surface,
bright as ever, – the moon, I mean,
which I can only see so much –
but I can hear everything.
I can hear the waves.
I can hear the slight pause once they crash
and then I can hear a slight hiss
and the waves return to sea.
When I close my eyes,
this is the equivalent of two hands
clasping beneath the chin
as if to describe a person on knees
addressing the heavens in a moment of prayer.
I breathe before I digress.
Everything in this body of water is connected.
I understand this
But the sea moves
and the waters are like life
because even the oceans face distractions
Separations from an oar perhaps
or a rudder from a sailboat
a ship clears its way and then
segments get separated
and connections split
or move on to someplace else
(by the way, this is one of my fears.
To be separated or disconnected
to wither away without control
or be forgotten)
I think of an old piece of driftwood
that has been washed upon the shores
of say,
Long Beach or Lido Beach
or Point Lookout, perhaps.
I think of the tiny remnants of proof
which proves that life exists in so many ways;
yet, these items we find are
these things that were discarded
or tossed overboard or somehow
the items we find eventually washed ashore –
these were somehow separated
from their initial intention
a tiny yellow raincoat,
made for a baby’s doll
a little shovel left behind
and stuck in the sand
(can you see where I’m going with this?)
I used to walk the beach on New Year’s Day
with hopes to build a new connection,
to let go of the year behind me
or to welcome something between myself
and my Father, The Old Man.
I suppose this is where it all began
this is where my first concepts of the beach
or the old remnants of life
washed upon the shore.
A bird’s nest of fishing line –
An old treble hook –
Or the driftwood –
These things were once intended for something else
and yet,
there they are
washed ashore with a story behind them:
an intention, a meaning,
an initial purpose, which may
or may not have been completed.
But dig it –
I say this is the embodiment of symbolism
I say this is the master of all metaphors,
because this is life.
This is the epitome of life;
this is an analogy of what some people face
and yet,
this is also a parallel
a correlation
an illustration
of how some people might see themselves
washed-up, done, uprooted or forgotten
or even worse –
weak and meaningless.
I love the ocean at night.
I swear, she understands me.
I love how the moonlight dances between the ripples
I love the sounds of the waves
which is uninterrupted
I love my moment here
and the minutes of introspection
I love this because I can think freely
and speak freely, if the need arises
But often, times like this
they don’t need words
They just need us to listen
In other words,
I just want to be valid
You know?
I don’t want to be separated
I don’t want to be washed-up somewhere
I don’t ever want to be like an old man,
drooling on himself
sitting in a bathrobe and pajamas –
waiting for nothing on the porch
fading away at some old folks home.
But age is inevitable.
So, if I am to grow old,
then let me be graceful about this.
Let me grow old with dignity
Let me be aware of my meaning
or be aware of what I’ve done
or what I’ve meant to you
or what I’ve meant to the world
or to everyone and anyone
or to one and all – either way,
if I am to grow old
then let my memories
and moments like now
here (with you)
Let this be the comfort
which tucks me in before I sleep.
Let me have the memories
of when I was able to howl
or dance and shuffle
or carry my weight
or carry anything –
Let this be my story.
Let these notes carry me far, like the waves
and when I rest,
then let me be like the sea
ongoing and unending.
Let me be enough to build and crash
just like the waves along the shore
and then return to the sea.
Or better yet, let me be ever-connected
like the ocean is because this way
No matter how far I may seem
I will always be connected
To you –
The Written Addiction 