The Ocean


Iím not going to make it!

I wonít last the night!

I donít feel that I have got

what it takes to stay upright.


I feel as though my boat is

leaning ever further towards the trough,

and the crests are coming faster

than my oars can alter off.


The oceanís getting higherÖ

Oh, it is so high!

My boat is sitting lower

beneath the darkening sky.


My body aches a million pains.

My hands are cracked and sore.

My face is chapped, and my toes are numb,

and I only have one oar.


The struggle begins to take its toll,

and my mind begins to cloud.

I no longer hear my thoughts

for the roaring windís too loud.


The situation has such presence,

and the dangerís oh so clear.

My thoughts go blankÖ

time stands stillÖ and I no longer fear.


I grab my oar, I dig it deep,

and I pull with all my might.

I feel as though Iím dreaming

as I row throughout the night.


I no longer hear the wind,

nor feel the cold nor rain.

I no longer note the sea

nor waves nor feel the pain.


Thereís only one thing that my mind

will allow myself to see.

Itís not the waves, nor rain, nor clouds,

nor boat nor even me.


There is but only one deep, dark patch

of this colorless sea

where next I shall thrust my oar

which enters my reality.


To most the ocean is a place

to swim or sail or sun,

or, perhaps, to fish or surf or ski,

or maybe some other fun.


This vast expanse, of which I speak,

is where the seagulls soar.

Itís where the summer hoards do crowdÖ

and itís where I dip my oar.

October 8, 1987


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