Prose by the Gulf

(A poem written from a condo balcony overlooking the Gulf of Mexico)

Nutty coffee. Blue water gulf.
Salty cool breeze. Sun-warmed skin.
Squinty-eyed bright.
Rolling waves crash.
Up and down in my ears. Up and down.
Aqua-tan sandbars submerged.
Beachcombers on a fifty-five degree day.
Most in sweatshirts. The adventurous
in swimming trunks, shirtless.
Thermal jeans on my legs soaking
solar rays. I feel peace today.
I feel joy right now.
This moment in time, an island all to myself.
Well, God and me.
A brief paradise of the mind.
A retreat in my heart.
Not so much a sabbatical, but for sure
a sanctuary. More than a siesta.
Freedom of soul.
My oldest son sits next to me.
What’s passing through his teenage mind?
I don’t know, but I know it’s good.
His dreams hover above the water
spread before his eyes.

Mountains and oceans have a way of reflecting our dreams.
Timeless. Endless.
They remind us, teach us, to dream bigger and beyond what our minds can see.
We turn to greatness to pursue peace and paradise.
We are turning to God.

“since what may be known about God is plain to them, because God has made it plain to them. For since the creation of the world God’s invisible qualities—his eternal power and divine nature—have been clearly seen, being understood from what has been made, so that men are without excuse.”
— Romans 1:19-20, The Bible

Flying Over Christmas Morning

Roads branch
into lanes
bearing fruit
of tiny farms,
a patchwork quilt.
Ten thousand feet.

Angels
blow smoke
over the hills,
settles
in ravines.
Twenty thousand feet.

A thin band
of yellow and red,
smudges
the horizon–
blue above, gray below.
Thirty thousand feet.

Angelic smoke
now covers all,
an untaut blanket
rippled with waves
frozen in time.
Forty thousand feet.

The white carpet
welcomes
His entrance,
too bright
in my window.
And holding.

 


 

Hope Is

My heart had died,
strangled, beaten,
desire eaten by disease;
black and blue, but crimson
seeped out.
Like fallen tinder on trace ember,
His gentle breath—
hushes turned rhythmic glow.
The threads of a cloud,
its weave pulled apart
by the light;
one ray becomes two,
two rays become seven.
Hope is.

Check out other great poems at this week’s One Shot Wednesday (part of One Stop Poetry).