With its fallen-arched leather-soled feet,
The knees and elbows spotted with
Various growths of undiscernible nature.
The big belly, the Buddha belly,
Getting in the way, having to be
Maneuvered around whenever
Flight of motion is called for. And,
The sounds: the stomping, stumbling,
Groaning, moaning, sighing, slurping
Sounds. And that special tuneless,
Toneless whistling between half-closed lips.
Not that any of this really bothers me,
But, given the choice…
I choose to be a sea sprite.
A delicate, willowy, semi-transparent,
Possible to see out of the corner of
Your eyes, beautiful Ethereal Being.
Taking flight, oh so briefly, off the wisps
Of sea spray twirling on the tops of
Angry roaring waves. Then blissfully,
I plunge into the depths of tidal surges.
Down. Down. Soaring along the seamount
Of volcanic crust. Deep. Deep. Under
Kick’em Jenny, across the strait of water
Between Grenada and Carriacou;
Where the boats are now heading
Before the sun goes down, and the
Green Flash can blind them with its
Instead, I’m free to fly above and below.
There is neither. There are both. Except now
When there is only the cold of a ship’s grave,
The heat of escaping lava, the exhilaration
Of dancing along the breath of this seemingly
Endless expanse of sea landscape.
Ahead a storm looms… I turn and rush back,
Head on, into the turbulence. The chaos.
It's mine. It's me. It's what I'm meant to be.