Poetry Collection

Vantage Point, View of a Beach Wanderer

Iles-de-la-Madeline

The beach near the hotel seems forgotten in time. An old log takes the shape of a large whale bone, dead and spit out by the sea. Shards of driftwood litter the beach, it has yet to be cleaned by the small fishing boats that pass by each dawn. Yet I know it is not abandoned, because I can't find any good skipping rocks.
If I stand in this gazebo long enough,
Overlooking the tranquil beach, I see things.
Observing.
The small shore bird glides
through the small breath of air atop the waves,
scanning.
The seal who's poked his head out,
It's been waiting beneath the waves,
Watching.

I looked out the window today, and saw a beautiful sunrise spanning the horizon, and a fisherman in his row boat not far off the shore, waiting for his morning bite, to eat later. It made me feel wonder, and I felt a moment of pure blissful peace. My writing is inspired by the present, my experience, in moments when I can ground myself. 

Once the writing begins, however, I write and write until I get into my flow state. My mind is off in a distance, I can't see the page, only the translation of my fantastical imagination's movie being brought to the physical world. Though, the English language is so direct and concise it is sometimes difficult to translate my meaning. I can describe and show to an extent but can never seem to find the right words. I edit as I write when it's formal, and get so stuck I can never seem to finish—- but, when it's for me, I wander all over the page. I walk off its edge and dip my toes in the cool pond of water I'm sipping on and wander for a while. I hop down and land in a muddy puddle of soup. The soup that I imagine a Heidi like character would enjoy. I trace the lake and the mountain girl's soup back onto the page, traipsing my tired feet through the blue lined maze.