Friday, February 24, 2017


Thoughts, braided like a tangle of seaweed, litter the shore of my mind,
along with disordered piles of stony shingle, briny spray opined;
my tread briefly marks the sand with my small journey to find
whatever peace may be encountered at the shore strand.

The ever-present howling of wind is like the thousand tongues raised
to the infinite powers of nature, exposed before all, praised
beyond the buoys’ gong; even the depths be upraised,
where all the naked truths are bursting to expand.

Turning these eyes out to the light that over watery depths coldly burns,
blinded am I, humbled to the core of a soul that still boldly yearns
to skim the distant calms with the great heron and least terns,
flowing through airstreams, released over water and land.

Love is like this, I ken; the crashing of angry waves, an outpoured release
of all the turbulence and strain, that all that is pained, pent and part surcease,
giving way, capitulating to completions, resolutions, stillness and peace,
while yet must continuous dilate and contract on demand.

Though mountains have moved and prophecies've been spent, parts hallowed
into whole and dismissed to a moment of reflection and rest, even wallowed,
by the momentary bubbly delight of spindrift spun and shadows followed,
even so, still and stillness is not completion, merely cessation unplanned.

© 2017 by Elisabeth T. Eliassen

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