he sea oh the sea

In my dreams imagining sailing the cosmology, a heart alone in love with it all the sea of stars. A sailor born to be, planted four thousand feet above sea level, an oar become a tree for the simple glory of being alone in ecstasy.

He whose vessel I helmed lays now deep in the North Atlantic in a jar, his ashes there placed in honor by the U.S. Navy. And from sleep I arise having visited him again and again for he is the only other who witnessed we sailing through a pod of whales far off the coast of Boston spuming us for having not a collision but been awakened by our passage across the midnight sea sharing.

Zig, Zag and Zig again guided by intuition. A primeval forest of ferns fetid aroma rose; soaked in celebration of life, magnificent, the gift of it.

They, the sea of stars and we upon it.

And the devil-may-care boy with a girl sailing the angry Ohio before the wind with an Indian blanket for a sail uncaring whether, or when, return. Disremembering the girl remembering the feeling of glorious indifference to harm or hazard or how or why we ever returned from the sandbar destination. An island in an always remembered summer.

Dream catapulted from slumber by once again sailing fantastically fast. Surrounded by rich white boys who laughed in glee while I meditative said merely; ‘must be at least fourteen knots by wind alone driven.’ To no one in particular. Save myself.

All those I sailed with are gone beyond, only I remain to tell them why and what for is life glorious. But then surely the must by now know or else my deepest intuition is a fraud. And whether cometh the dreams sailing me away?

In the hours after my son, the only one, left me a ruin, rubble, no past no future I wrote; “Thank you God for allowing me to sail a teardrop across the palm of your hand.” To which the priest said ‘heresy.’ Then the mother became one – a priest I mean – and I fled.

To be a tree bathed in star light alone upon the high mountain desert dancing.

“A writer writes not because he is educated but because he is driven by the need to communicate. Behind the need to communicate is the need to share. Behind the need to share is the need to be understood. The writer wants to be understood much more than he wants to be respected or praised or even loved. And that perhaps, is what makes him different from others.” - Leo Rosten (born 11 April 1908)

130411 01:55 the sea oh the sea

© 2013 by Jack Spratt – All Rights Reserved