I could listen to the ocean all day.
——
The ocean never sleeps, it’s always in motion. A rhythmic chorus of crashes, followed by the hiss of foam on sand. A heartbeat on the never still edge of shore. Another crash, another hiss, and another. And another. Speaking to me and asking me stay and listen… And another.
Lying in bed, ear against my pillow. Buh-dub. Buh-dub.
My heart beats in my head. Buh-dub. Buh-dub.
Soothing, calming, an orchestra of internal activity embodied in a single, reoccurring beat. Buh-dub. Buh-dub.
A primordial drum, beating in each of us. Buh-dub. Buh-dub.
Our personal metronome, our connection to musical beats. Buh-dub. Buh-dub.
Listen to your heart. Buh-dub. Buh-dub.
Listen to silence between the beats. Buh-dub. Buh-dub.
The spaces between the beats are what makes the beat musical. Buh-dub. Buh-dub.
Our personal connection between our thinking mind and our physical body. Buh-dub. Buh-dub.
Our personal connection to the universe, and our very existence. Buh-dub. Buh-dub.
I shift my head and can no longer hear or feel the beat. Sleep prevails in silence. I will forget the sound. I will not pay attention to my heartbeat again until my ear sits on my pillow in just the right way. Or when I vigorously exercise.
My heart will continue to work, to sustain me, to feed my cells with oxygen. I don’t need to hear it for it to work. I don’t need to hear it, but when I do it reminds me of how lucky I am. It reminds of how connected I am. It calms me and reminds me that I am grateful to be alive.
Buh-dub. Buh-dub.
Buh-dub. Buh-dub.
Buh-dub. Buh-dub…
I wrote this in my late teens, some time before summer, 1986, when I was still in high school.
___
Early morning I did wake
To gaze across a chilly lake
I then looked to the sky
That dropped a little lonely flake
The cold glistened in my eye
Though the furnace was nearby
My body felt what it saw
It made me shiver where I lie
The morning air, so crisp and raw
In its virginity was not a flaw
So pure and simple the day did start
That for a moment I stood in awe
This admiration is an art
That must come from your heart
This early morning I did wake
To watch this beauty fall apart.
I wrote this on March 11th, 1985. I was 17. I’m digging up a lot of old writing, and while I find it a bit challenging to do so, I’ll share the poem below without editing it… I think I’d rather have it sit as an old work, not something re-worked because I’d change so much if I started editing now.
A poem by 17-year-old me:
—
What’s Truth
Everyone sees you a different way
Yet you the same from day to day.
You always worry about what they think
You feel paranoid with every blink.
You tell yourself don’t worry ’bout it
But inside you know that’s really shit.
You really worry and that’s a fact
About what they say behind your back.
People say things when not at face
You do the same with them in your place.
So why can’t people just be true
And tell everything right to you.
This separates man, from other life
The ability for words to cut like a knife.
Man is inable to be perfect
Because of feelings of love and respect.
These protect us from each other’s fire
So as not to hurt, we all become liars.
“Do you like my hat?”
“Yes I like it a lot.”
[It should be ripped to shreds and left to rot.]
What purpose was man put on this earth
What are his feelings really… really worth?
He cannot live in full honesty
He won’t care about this humble plea.
You know as you read that this is true
But you ask yourself, “What can I do?”
And it’s at this point that this dream
Starts falling apart at the seams. ~David
David: Did you like it?
Reader: Yeah, it’s kind a neat.
David: The truth…
Reader: …It’s good.
David: thanks?
There is a quiet that comes from being still.
A silence felt with settled body and mind.
A calm that seeps in and starts to spill,
Over busy thoughts and plans left behind.
Stillness envelops, quiet reigns.
Heart rate slows, gradually slows.
Nothing bothersome remains.
The quite settles, like gentle prose.
Breaths deepen, eyes close.
Awareness of how the breath flows.
Stillness envelops, quiet reigns.
Only tranquility remains.
I wrote this in my Grade 13 year in Art class (‘Early 1986). It wasn’t an assignment, just something I chose to write near some doodles of a loon.
—
The beauty of the bird disguises the pain
But it’s call is not heard anymore
Unless you go north where it is slowly but surely disappearing there too
The pain is not that of the individual bird but that of the species
It cries out but nobody listens
The beauty is lost
Who can find beauty in a world of pain
Goodbye beauty
Goodbye bird
Goodbye pain
There is nothing left to feel the pain
Its life is over
The bird will not sing for our grandchildren
There will be nothing but a flying animal that they may some day read about in a book
An illusion on paper
That sings no songs
Feels no pain
Perhaps it may have beauty
But it is not the same
It is not the same.
Have you ever noticed that sometimes it feels like the days slip by. You follow a routine filled only with preparing for work, work, preparing and eating meals, your commute, and preparing for the next day? Sometimes there is a thin line between existing and living. This line separates what feels like a Groundhog Day from some simple things that make life great.
—
Crossing the Thin Line
A genuine laugh.
A shared smile.
A deep conversation.
A thoughtful contemplation.
A short walk.
A long reflective pause.
A delicious lunch.
A worthy cause.
A kind gesture.
A little surprise.
A random purchase.
A twinkle in someone’s eye.
It can be internally driven, it can be externally motivated.
It can be deliberately sought after, it can be accidentally activated.
It’s not a chasm to cross, just a simple fine line… Between a day lost simply existing, and a life sublime.
I was born near the ocean and when I hear waves, it soothes me. When I see the horizon over a body of water it calms me. When I walk the beach shore, I feel like I’m home.
I love to bodysurf. I feel exhilarated when a wave lifts me into its crest. I love the surge of speed as my body descends the wave. I even enjoy the feeling of the wave consuming me when it can no longer propel me forward.
The ocean calls me. It speaks to me. It tells me that when I’m near, I’m where I’m supposed to be.
Overstimulated, over stressed,
Anxiety heightened but not addressed.
Faces lit in a constant glow,
From a device, in hands, below.
Palms cup, thumbs type,
Or click, or ‘Like’, or swipe.
Acceptance measured by affirmation,
But never enough for self-appreciation.
Pressure builds to levels previously unknown,
From always being connected, yet always feeling alone.
I am not a slam poet,
too many stutters and ‘ummms’ would I make,
I could never recite this all in. Just. One. Take.
I am not a storyteller that captivates,
enthrals, excites, and engages,
I don’t have audiences that applaud me,
on pedestals and stages.
I am not an actor,
I don’t dream of the limelight,
I’d rather be the stagehand
working out of sight.
I am not, I am not,
I am not all of these things,
I can’t dance, I can’t play an instrument,
can’t hold a note when I sing…
It would be easy to go on.
To cut myself up critically.
It’s what ‘most’ people do,
and we all know ‘most’ is at least 51% statistically.
But for everything that I am not,
there is yet something that I am.
For every I can’t,
there are things that I can.
I can write a blog post,
and share it each day.
I can develop my ideas,
and put them on display.
I am creative,
I am thoughtful, and reflective,
I may not alway be right,
but I’m not afraid to share my perspective.
I am a writer, not a poet
though I may try,
I can still be witty, sarcastic,
and sometimes even wry.
I can share my thoughts,
I can express what I think,
For I am artist of words,
typing digital ink.
I am the thinker and creator
of this rhyming verse,
Somewhat embarrassed,
though I know it could be worse.
I am a blogger,
I express ideas our loud,
I am a digital writer,
often humbled, yet proud.
For I am a writer, daily,
and I publicly share,
My words start of private,
until I put them ‘out there’.
Out in the ether
goes my digital text,
and you’ll have to wait until tomorrow
to see what’s next…
