The Ocean
The ocean calls me as it always has. It compels me to speak. To utter words which it knows too well as I walk alone. Yes, even in silence as the waves cast themselves lifeless and wait the next swelling surge. I have prayed aloud to God in the stormy night, hurting and alone the stormy winds caught up my words and threw them back in my face and beyond mocking me and carrying them where the winds will, resting only when the ocean currents permit. I have walked along the shores of Nantucket and smelled the weathering docks at the baser tides. I have walked the cobble stone streets of Block Island and I vow there is no equal. New York harbors and the icy winters of Montaulk Point further feed this lust for the ocean calling.
Connecticut shores to old Key Largo, Cat Kay to Eluetheras outer banks I have witnessed the changing of the seasons.. The tides, the winds directions as they blow, the oceans swell, the flow and on and on it goes. Miami’s hot sandy beaches and sand bars in continuous change. Blow you North Easterly wind. Warn of the winter chill to come. while the gulf of Mexico sits in idle calm waiting for another picturesque sunrise. Caper Hatteras Carolina ferry ride to take me to the shore to land and to once again return to the beckoning of the shore.
Lighthouse towers wink approvingly, calling to the lost at sea. A haven again soon to be reached. Myrtle Beaches madness and the graying dying Hudson warms of the calamity that man has brought her, though she’s ancient and we’re infant she shall outlast us. She will resist and she calls continuously this thing we call blue. For she is an alter and she can’t be subdue.
San Francisco icy shorelines to Mexico’s warm sunny climate, this ocean is in me and I’m certain always will be. She beckons me daily and give in to her will. I must. From volcanic arising and Hawaii’s living breathing reefs that cuts razor sharp and has cut deeply. It will cut again of this I am sure.
From England’s bloody cold torrent and crossing to Frances rainy shores to bask in the sunlighted Gondola’s of Venice ghosts. The deep blue waters of Greece and Corinth shiny pebbled colored beaches again to call to greet me to her I must go from black sand to sponge reef, from white sands to grieve. My only true passion is to greet the morning winds that kiss my forehead, the afternoon suns ocean drenched soothing to the sun setting horizon and late evening crying. I will wait on thee ocean crest to curl. And in my passing and dying call me once more.
Written by Stack Jones
© Copyright 2010
