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Winter Nights at the Jersey Shore
Folder:
the sea inside of me
The winds like mournful voices lowly call without reaping summer romance.
Full moon bright enough to stir luminescence of seas glassy surface.
Color the nightly ocean, a deepest black
Sand and sea appeal they are relics of summer.
Night seems hidden, minimized by attributes of some forgotten dance.
The wind calls, to the stars above, as breakers crash with thunderous intervals.
Occasional seagull's squeal their protests, and provide an
uncomfortable melody.
Say, the seagulls about summer, on cold, cold nights
"It's like looking, for a needle in a haystack!"
"It's like looking, for a needle in a haystack!"
Falling stars are the only sparks that fly.
Winds and sea are restless, stormy entourages, while sea walls suffer at the battered shore.
The gaze of the moon is ever west, in dreams of distant warmth.
Colder weather sidled up with a blatant reality.
Winters hard footsteps, drift over the sand, cold shadows are cast upon sea and land.
Northeasterly winds stalk away catlike, across the frozen night as summer's song fades, under winters reign.
This is the chill that I feel during season of death and waiting. I hear the call of new life from underground chambers that rant and rave quietly waiting for the sun to get a little closer. All they want, and I, is to catch it.
Lovely, cold words spoken by sensitive poet.