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Beyond This Horizon - Beyond This Horizon

Poetry in the Modern Age - Beyond This Horizon

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Bon Secour And Shrimp Boat Bliss

July 3rd 2009 04:27

Took a quick trip down to the shrimp docks in Bon Secour, Alabama to get some fresh shrimp today. I love being around water and boats! It doesn't matter whether its an ocean liner or a two person fishing boat, the sea is my first love. I guess it's the freedom of being away from man's laws with only the size of your boat and your will dictating the destination.

I'm sure that my chosen occupation should have been a shrimper, ferry boat captain, or even pirate.

I think Joseph Campbell was right when he spoke of "Following Your Bliss" that you would feel as if you were being guided by a gentle wind at your back, like you were on a invisible rail leading you toward the sunset.

I have seen people who have found their bliss, happily doing the job that they were destined to have as if it were their weekend hobby.

If you are miserable in your life and job, it is never to late to find what your inner soul is thirsting to experience.

It just takes focus and a little courage to take a chance to become all that you ache for inside.

I think my fellow sailor Mark Twain said it best:

"Twenty years from now you will be more disappointed by the things that you didn't do than by the ones you did do. So throw off the bowlines. Sail away from the safe harbor. Catch the trade winds in your sails. Explore. Dream. Discover.”

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Posted By: Steve Gann - Category: Poetry in the Modern Age

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Death Deciduously

June 20th 2007 01:02

Dry as the welted dust
They have been waiting so long
That now it is like a stranger to them.
Greedily the earth opens its pores
And drinks
Deep into the hidden valleys.
The rain is incessant for a while at least
Beating unceasingly against the windows and tiles
It is relentless running in rivers over the roof
And down the gutters.
There is a rhythm – a cadence to it.

The splashes speak to us in ghostly voices
Memories clamour within our minds
Taking us back to childhood days.
Wrapped in blankets
Grubby faces pressed against the glass

The smell of dampness married to the cold
That seeps within our bones.
The dog has been rescued
Sad eyes accusingly stamping
The blame for his misery upon us.
Now towelled and fed, he seems
More inclined to lay by the fire
In a pose of forgiveness.

But these images are memories –
They are not current to the moment.
The children are long gone
The dog too has passed to yesterday.
Only a shadow that wanders through
The patterns of existence
That mark the boundaries of the present.
Outside the birds are silent as the rain thrashes
And the wind turns and swirls through the branches.
The hands of the trees turn and point
Flailing the leaves in patterns of emphasis.
Some escape into fissures and streams
Carries by the gusts and rivulets
To rest in crevices where they dissolve
And become one with life again.
Within the house, the face peers through curtains
Quizzical, an almost smile
Lined with time and puzzled by her fate.
She lifts a pale worn hand to peer towards the light.
The rain marries the fragments of her vision
And for a moment, all is calm.
Then within the stabbing energy, the rain
Begins to storm again.
She turns to watch the patterns
In the dust, on the pathways, the trees and windows.
And still she waits. ----------------------------- ------------- 30.5.06

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Posted By: JohnH - Category: Poetry in the Modern Age

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A Bright Summers Day

April 30th 2007 17:24

Waves thrash
Among the rocks
Spumes of mist surround me
On the cliff face.
As I climb down through
Ebony boulders that hold the shore
Sentinels, barriers against the wash
Of tide that shifts mountains
In drifts and flows -
The sands of time.

The beach is mine
Alone. I begin to run.

The rhythm of the waves
Washes over me
My legs stride across the flatness
Salt wet sand glistens
Stretching out in the distance.

First there are only the gulls,
The sky
The waves and the sand.
Then
Tiny dancing
Hazy In the distance
I see a a figure
Coming towards me.

She walks and skips
As much as she runs
Picking up sticks and shells
Dashing into the shallows
To skip them across the belly of the ocean.
As I come abreast of her
She darts away from an approaching wave.

In the discovery of the moment
She catches my eye
Pretending it was an accident
For almost half a second
Then bites her lip and smiles
In guilt at being caught out
So transparently.

She knew that she was wearing
Temptation
A dress so light
As it caressed her
Neck and shoulders.
Breasts swung unrestricted
Pressing against the muslin.

Around her head she had contrived
A lei of flowers, tiny daisies
Tendrilled and swathed in hair that seemed
To drift and change with the passing air.

From waist and thighs and sandalled feet
That winked at me in conspiracy
As she passed me this day
I can't forget
Filled with sighs and promises
And yet - I never knew her name. ----------------------------- ------------ 28/4/07

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Posted By: JohnH - Category: Poetry in the Modern Age

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Chimes at Midnight

April 14th 2007 06:06

Two things I miss
The sound of the sea
And the warmth and comfort

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Posted By: JohnH - Category: Poetry in the Modern Age

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Old Friends

March 16th 2007 11:04

As my head touches the pillow
I leave behind
Images of glass and steel

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Posted By: JohnH - Category: Poetry in the Modern Age

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Soul Seeker

March 16th 2007 01:40

As your voice curls through the beginnings
Of the night,
Air lifts and shapes

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Posted By: JohnH - Category: Poetry in the Modern Age

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Two Poems

January 16th 2007 15:02

The Olde Debate

We share something in common

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Posted By: JohnH - Category: Poetry in the Modern Age

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In Celebration of Friendship!

December 24th 2006 03:21

Wind Across The Water

She was angry. Not with me in particular, just angry

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Posted By: JohnH - Category: Poetry in the Modern Age

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The Fabric of Imagination!

December 16th 2006 08:14

The Dream Maker

I am transparent drifting in the paths of rain and wind

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Posted By: JohnH - Category: Poetry in the Modern Age

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Poetry is the Voice of Passion

November 29th 2006 12:47

Poetry - The Siren Call
Poetry is the voice of passion and we are losing our ability to experience it. We are losing our ability to appreciate it, to love it -- to let it lift us up and take us to the extremes of our existence. I am a poet by happenstance. I have been putting it down now for over thirty years. The thing is though as a child and then later in the bloom of my youth I kept colliding with poetry -- not mine, other peoples. And my life was richer for it. If there is one thing I miss in this changing world of ours, it is our ability to reach out and communicate. We are afraid to show our feelings. We no longer feel the drain of being compassionate. We are too bound up in containing our energy, making safe choices and following the latest trends in this age of instant gratification. I don't like it. So what we do to change it?

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Posted By: JohnH - Category: Poetry in the Modern Age

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From Baghdad to Babylon -- Where Lies the Difference?

November 28th 2006 13:19

By the Still Waters of Babylon

Remember the call of your fathers, the voices spoke

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Posted By: JohnH - Category: Poetry in the Modern Age

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In Celebration - Two Daughters

November 21st 2006 09:31

Out of Africa
Watching a Bob Geldorf special on Africa I watch children in danger from insane predators who believe they have magic powers and I think of my two daughters. One passed away in 2000 and the other is at the moment in Xalapa in Mexico. My younger daughter sends me fantastic emails of her travels through South America. There are pictures of Mayan ruins and shooting the rapids, her face split by a grin a mile wide. She is supposed to be studying but I'm not sure if it is her first priority. Sometimes she tells me stories which haunt her and disturb her a little, her time in Cuba and watching kids in some of the villages.

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Posted By: JohnH - Category: Poetry in the Modern Age

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Living with Ghosts

November 17th 2006 13:24

At Philippi

I climbed the hill with nothing but the wind

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Posted By: JohnH - Category: Poetry in the Modern Age

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The Healing Wound

November 14th 2006 23:48

Watching Enough Rope with Andrew Denton on Monday night I was taken with Robert Hughes wrestling with the loss of his son and dealing with it in such a public forum.

In 2000, I lost my daughter then 19 yrs. As a poet I was able to think of her in this way

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Posted By: JohnH - Category: Poetry in the Modern Age

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