Shore of Dreams
Date Written: January 9th, 2008
Summary: Well, this little poem hit me at about one at night. I wrote it down in an old notebook, then took the liberty of driving the worn notebook to its original owner (a lady, if you can't figure that out.) I'm not a poet, and I know I do not follow strict construction of meter, rhyme, or even stanza construction. It's more-or-less just free-form drabble. But, enjoy it if ya want. Also, it was somewhat inspired by Yeat's Sailing to Byzantium and Zeppelin's Stairway to Heaven (these references are very easy to find.) So, yeah, enjoy (if at all possible, since I am an awful poet.)
I fear I sail to lands unknown,
To skies that are unflown.
These are not barren lands--
Traversed by many before
And many will again
Yet I've not trekked.
I see horizons in front me...
I'm not a man of steel-plated will.
With less indoctrination
And further few sails.
Whence I go, I think I falter
Confusion fills like me like a plague
I welcome its soft.
Where do I go?
Less than I have known.
More than I have learned.
You've stuck in a brazen wind
Ferried to far-off beaches
Will I see them once more?
Not if settlement is in tow.
And, I wonder.
Such seas slap at my vessel's sides
Are they the tides of nostalgia
Or the squalls of new days
They do cast me afraid.
Leaving withered soil,
I am filled with remorse.
These hills have been cold and harsh
For so long I do not know why I tilled them.
Why did not the saplings grow?
Was it time? Was it distance?
Alas, the fields did not bloom.
For one season alone, did I gaze
On the century bloom
And I am grateful.
With plutocratic greed did I attempt
To hold the stem, hoping for another ripe day
Which has not come.
I've not seen your ripe red in too long
While other men have tilled lands to fruitful produce in my leave.
Once--if I run aground, I might stand for eternity.
Next I plant, I'll find a bloom that'll not wither.
I am not anticipating this discovery.
This Elysium is not peace. It's a mockery of ambrosia once tasted.
There might be my stairway in these lands.
I'll find a heaven none so pure and bright.
Where her words don't have two meanings.
Though, my spirit will always cry on looking West.
I see a man on a ship's stern, standing fierce in the wind and spray. He smells a dahlia from his lapel, then drops it into the sea, letting it float and wither on the frothy ebbs. I try and be him. But, I do not know what he thinks or how he feels, beyond travelling forward ever more. Does he retain the smells of his homelands, the hope of it growing once more, despite its open-arms for other settlers? Or, does he only look towards new fertile hills? They'll not produce such a sweet petal, and he does know fact in that. But, no petal is begot of purity--there is a lack of purity, trespassed by the unforigveable sins of flesh and isolation.
You sail with strength. I envy you.
Ferreting out new harbors and new seedlings.
You've been for no lack of century blossom.
I'm simply a past harbor on your manifest.
Can I be like you? I've tried.
My expeditions have not been tenacious.
Deep waters from harbor scare me. What do the depths hold?
I'll be forever lost in them should I sink.
You pursue with abandon to Abaddon.
I admire and loathe that.
I wish to be such a sailor, but I've not the steel-will.
Am I the sailor, or am I simply looking at him?
I feel I am not long for this world.
A world you and I had once made, or hoped to make.
I am finally being sapped of those dreams.
I didn't know pain would last this long.
With every day's drop leaking out.
Did it take so long to empty the challice?
It yearns for a refill from an empty jug.
Maybe I am the empty jug--
Once filled with sweet wine.
Drank quickly to forget the taste.
Left only for sour tongues and too-bright mornings.
There are so many shores on this sea to set on.
Why do none of them welcome harbor?
I must find new mooring.
But, I cannot leave the name branded upon my stern.
Is it a scar to remember, or a scarlet letter?
I pray for new harbor.
For revenge and happiness.
See me bloom once more?!
Feel my venom.
Alas, I've no poison to give.
I navigate by the stars. There they are.
Twinkling blue and white--such powerful silence.
Always will be. They never leave.
They've abandoned none of their admirers.
And, yet, they've never exclaimed reciprocated passion.
Watched from above as men loved and men died underneath.
Shining apathetic and distanced.
Where do they tell me to go?
There is no North in these black waters.
Do you look to them to guide you as well?
I know you do.
Where do they lead you?
Obviously away from old shores.
Have their tides washed away the relics?
I fear new shores.
Somewhere, I think these same shores exist.
Untouched and unraped. Stuck in time.
They're blinding and warm when I close my eyes.
Perhaps I am pursuing a dream.
I'd rather sail forever than find fresh lands.
I'm not for the right road--I'll smile on the wrong road.
At least I'll have a good story at the end of it...
If I can travel long enough to find my place
Before this shell gives out, natural or otherwise
And, then, perhaps I'll find that shore of dreams.