Wave Waiting

 

shooting breeze in lunar seas of mined ores untested cans.

hanging ten on fresh waxed boards of fleeting joy.

Swift flow the memories of faster time's endlessness

Forgotten as complacency slips in to ease the fears

The ever-present effervescent sense of being alone

That permeates in secret growth of aged unreason.

Will that Big One ever  rise to carry my screaming self

Toward that sun drenched sand of yore.

Or does my moon no longer heed my selfish wishes.

As I still hear the lunar ticks of time's unending.

Reviews

[Rosalie Kempthorne]

I liked this. The writing is strong and pacey, dense (in a good way) and full of feeling. I felt as if this poem contained a lot. I'm no kind of surfing person, but I got a feel for it from reading this poem, and felt as if it contained veins of greater depth, something a little bit sad and desperate. Good stuff.

[Deandra Dawn]

This was very easy to read and follow and I loved the word choices. Great job.

[Corset]

Isn't that called "hanging ten" or some such thing in wave talk? The curl of the wave at one's back roaring in your ears? paddling out to the big open, nothing around you but sun and water (and sharks lol) brave soul are surfers. This was really beautiful Donald.