Sunday, March 23, 2014


In a boat I sailed through the ocean
my hand just above it's surface,
as time sailed on so did the boat
and my hand became the hand of a clock.

Not moving yet in perpetual motion
my hand viewed the world in the ocean below.
The steady stream still streamed on
and the shadow of my hand was all that I owned.

I imagined past poets and artists,
those who described the ripples as they touched them.
And as those ripples were passed out, they had been pierced
with the perception of a mind who had hands and eyes to feel.
And those minds painted its shades of blue,
described the little lick where the sea had been skimmed,
and immortalized that moment where the moment had been felt.

And those little blue moments forever behind,
have been blown up bigger than those moment in our minds,
as our inward eye plants them forever in our view,
I get to get the feeling of what they must have felt,
as I keep my hand raised just above,
never feeling it for myself.

and I will blink,
and the blue blur will be passing under my hand
and I will sink my hand in to it for the very first time
And although the bit of blue that I will dip into will pass,
 it will always last,

even after I do;

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