Plans

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I have a map.

It’s vibrant,

Dotted and streaked

With bold, adventurous plans.

I have a boat.

It glides and nods,

Cuts through waves,

But takes me on a new path,

An unknown trail.

I have a compass.

It flits and flirts with the wind,

Wayward and difficult,

Points to directions I haven’t framed.

And there is no lighthouse to lead the way.

I have an anchor.

It’s been on the mast since I set sail.

I hop onto it to brave the weather, uncertain.

My map is a criss-cross of contrasting inks,

I’m questioning,

Re-thinking,

Scared.

But in for the ride,

However it fares.

I am navigating through life.

Photo by Oliver Cole via unsplash.com

Midnight snacking

In a dusty corner of a small mezzanine is a scrap of paper scribbled with poetry. Sea Fever by John Masefield – is a friend that is around when it’s  hard to sleep. So here goes:

I must go down to the seas again, to the lonely sea and the sky,
And all I ask is a tall ship and a star to steer her by;
And the wheel’s kick and the wind’s song and the white sail’s shaking,
And a grey mist on the sea’s face, and a grey dawn breaking.
I must go down to the seas again, for the call of the running tide
Is a wild call and a clear call that may not be denied;
                                And all I ask is a windy day with the white clouds flying,
And the flung spray and the blown spume, and the sea-gulls crying.
I must go down to the seas again, to the vagrant gypsy life,
To the gull’s way and the whale’s way where the wind’s like a whetted knife;
And all I ask is a merry yarn from a laughing fellow-rover,
And quiet sleep and a sweet dream when the long trick’s over.

Possibility

7

Every day she hiked up to her favorite spot, twining about the chartreuse green path she knew so well as a child. There she dreamed about all the things she wanted to be. There she waited till the swollen red Sun dived between the hills just like it did in the waves of the sea, in her dreams, that she wished to cross one day. There she lay on her back, staring at the leaden sky that she craved to light up with a million stars one day. There she yodeled, escaping the yokes of a cruel society. There she read her books, and played noughts-and-crosses, always winning against her own self that deviously thwarted her. For a while she forgot the way to her sanctum, only to return one day—to a sky clear and solitary, and a day full of possibility.