The Sea Within

Introspection ~ riddled in holes
In that abysmal depth 
rests abject verse, stuttering
in profound exhaustion
of meaning. The hull
was riddled in holes
of a debilitating
and she is simply
a sunken vessel,
now, sea within a sea,
someplace the spirits
of the deep find
passageway through a once
air filled hold and
portholes of existence
lining those catacombs
of a saline poetry.

We were at the Assateague Island National Seashore last evening and it was the sound of the sea perhaps or the tiredness of an otherwise lovely day, I thought of sunken ships and also of the dead tree riddled in holes that I took a photo of, at Fort Lee Historic Park. It all came together in a poem that I wish to dedicate to mental health awareness month in the US.

Old memories good and bad are like sea creatures that move through the sunken Titanic of our minds. There is no forgiveness nor forgetting, just a momentary watery disillusionment knowing that the vessel isn’t contained, except in the arms of the sea. It is great to be a ship which sails yet be aware, that the ability to bob above consciousness is available to mere flotsam and jetsam too. Some vessels sail to fish food, others to the destruction of war or the appropriation of conquests, some are simply ambition of harnessing the naturally buoyant, some are ghost ships. There are all kinds up there and down here. Making peace with the darkness of the depths opens ones eyes to the beauty of seeing a buried universe, differently. No one but oneself in the amnion of Gaia, entombed or enwombed, a matter of perspective, I think the illusion lies in floating on murky depths. An eclipse brings about an adjustment of vision to actually see what the light blinded out for a couple of years, melding into the pandemic.

We can’t hope that this world will be anything than it actually is but we can choose to swim or float where we may and hope we never encounter often, that which may be a dangerous lesson.

Given that it is Mental Health Awareness Month in the US, I thought also to share this essay I received at Aeon today. It is about the warped self, on how social media makes us feel terrible about who we really are. It discusses aspects researched in Neuroscience and how the knowledge can be used in an empowering way.

On my playlist:

Meu amor sem Aranjuez by Dulce Pontes. The song seems written for the sea like most Portuguese fados are. Perhaps the sea exists for fados ๐Ÿ™‚

Rocky Rose Trails

Rocky Rose is a shade of Essie nail colour. I happened to notice the name after I painted my nails and thought it could spark a poem. The walk was through the Chincoteague National Wildlife Refuge, famous for its large variety of animals, birds as well as its ponies. The Refuge is 14,000 acres, primarily located in the Virginia half of the Assateague Island. Only about 3% is located on the Maryland side of the island.

A morning feels like walking 
no place on a wildlife loop,
marked for a mind in fetters
under a monstrous wind,
through trees having
a verdant conversation in a crowd.
The sea breeze always finds you, 
crawls under your windcheater,
in chilly clairvoyance
of a rain to come in that
copse of corpses that shed
phosphorescence in a deciduous sorrow.
She sighs a soft breeze 
through the trail.
It finds refuge over a mudflat
like a bated breath, halting for succour
in a rhinestone moon.
When the water returns, it will shimmer

of passions she painted
on her nails, a hue
of rocky rose, a shade more modest
than the ponies of Chincoteague
that gallop away on sand, hooved
in pungent ungulate hearts.

Sometimes, I am not sure if it is the world that is so lacking in love or it is the vacuum within that desires, incessantly. Our self worth is tied to our abilities, out accomplishments, our possessions, our self sacrifice, our service, our purpose, and there is never enough even for a wooded marshland, with trees and grasses constantly clambering for space and I enjoyed the tussle ๐Ÿ™‚ My nail colour in fact, made me supremely happy ๐Ÿ˜‡