Caught between the bluegreen sea and her eyes
Lucky man, to never have wonder
far from your side. Long after you leave this beach
and its tireless sunblue tides
the perfect snapshot lingers
in every turn of her head,
every blink of her eyes.
Countless ships have sailed
for the like of her, many men
no doubt have died. Our legends
speak of this. But you have but to turn
to her and hypnotized read in her green irises
the book of eternity, the sea that falls and rises
and gives birth to life
and all things good, wells up
and fills your old heart with wonder,
and bids the soul sing sea shanties
in that wobbly but steadfast voice
that always makes her smile.
Harry Calhoun has had work published at odd poetry whistlestops for the past 30 years. Last year, his poems were published in the book The Black Dog and the Road and his chapbooks, Something Real, Near daybreak, with a nod to Frost and Retreating Aggressively into the Dark. Life has been rather sad lately, with trips to the hospital, a seizure, broken ribs and broken faith. But on the bright side, he has recently had two Pushcart nominations and a Sundress Best of the Net nomination and publications in Chiron Review, Abbey, Orange Room Review, Gutter Eloquence and others. His heart, and hopefully his liver, will go on.