He stands. Eyes closed, Bare chested to the sea. Wind playing with his hair like a lover. Salt spray stinging his flesh But he does not feel it. The mighty roar of the waves A mere whisper in his ears. The anguished cry of the seabirds wheeling overhead An echo of his own distant pain. Slowly he exhales, And gently opens his eyes. For a moment he surveys the turbulent horizon: The rolling sea, White-tipped waves that crash repeatedly Above the churning depths. In a voice of ages past Eroded like a cliff by time, He sighs, and quietly says, “Bugger it’s cold – I’m off home.”
Yet again My mind is blank. Unspoilt some might say. The vast expanse of nothing Threatening to wash all hope away. To write; or not to write For fear of lesser quality The nerve plucked at the core of me. So I choose to write Hating every word Sure readers will despite it (me) A notion quite absurd. And yet impossible to shake. Confidence is a seedling That never takes. So I write about not being able to write: Well aware of the irony Although the subject is not the best And therefore seen as a crime by me. But time is short As is my fuse I’ll take any collection of words to use. Stuffing rhymes like clothing into a bag Dangerously close to imagery that’s really bad. Poor meter too In constant flux Which adds to the “just not good enough” And yet, here I find myself at the end: Chanting empty promises to make amends.
W Is For Duck 