Washed upon the shore, battered and waterlogged, sad and lonely it sat, water lapping at its side
Tugging it back out to the sea, calling it to sail the oceans once more
It resisted the call, not wanting to sail
But one stormy day it was pulled back out to the ocean
And so the cycle began again, it washed ashore once more only to be swept back out and deposited upon another distant shore
It holds many tale of numerous shores and of countless beaches but the foremost is one of sorrow
For alas someone came, drug it up beyond the reach of the comforting ocean only to use it as a bench
And it has sat there patiently, in sorrow, waiting to be taken by the ocean once more
As you may be able to tell, I lived on the coast while in high school. The beach was my happy place. Really, I grew up constantly going to the coast. It wasn't a typical weekend unless we were heading out to the beach with family friends, either skipping church or leaving immediately after. I learned early on that the coast is a beautiful thing filled with driftwood, sand/rocks, tide pools and danger.
So, even before high school and this poetry project, I had been steeped in coastal beach wonders and mysteries. It only makes sense that a lot of my angsty poetry would center around the Oregon coastline and the potential tales surrounding it. But, man, can I just say, I get this combo of feelings as I read this poem (and most of the rest of them): pride and a crawling sense of embarrassment. Like I get that I probably thought I was so profound, and maybe it actually is...in some ways. But, yikes, I feel embarrassed for and by my previous self.
Taking myself out of it for a minute, it's actually a decently cool story. Thinking about what happened to all that driftwood you see piled above the waves before it came to be there. What adventures did it have, where has it been?
Okay, I'm back in it now, couldn't keep myself out for long. Probably could have tried to use some more descriptive words, mix it up a bit more. Also, I might have spent some more time on being less wordy...more direct? IDK. I think that back then I thought that poetry was specific and that I just wasn't good at it unless it was free verse...and that apparently had to be super wordy and not at all delicate. This was during the more hate portion of my love/hate relationship with writing, though somehow I do think I enjoyed writing poetry. As long as I was able to ignore what was considered "proper" poetry. I just know that my present self would do it differently as I am, overall, a very different person today. But maybe I wouldn't have written it at all, so there is that.
Enjoy, and maybe share your poetry or thoughts?