leaden grail
Belly down on the hard plane of my stand-up paddle board,
I let my hands trail in the cool water below me,
a drifting turtle.
Here I am, unseen and unknown by all except the sky
I feel
the compulsion to write a poem.
"Belly down on the-
I wonder how many artists have laid in this exact spot
and noted the sun winking through the clouds, bouncing off of the waves
the serenity reminiscent of a loved one
and thought, "I'm Shakespeare!"
How many of my profound epiphanies
have been realised by millions before me
expressed in a thousand more eloquent ways?
How many have untangled this mess of convoluted observations
and weaved them into a tapestry of expression
asking, "Do you understand? Can you hear me?"
Must be infinite; I hear them all the time.
How many times has this poem already been written?
Someone dug this hole already.
I can see where they left their torches behind,
extinguished, but still warm to the touch
little black stumps scraped against stone walls to form
primitive stick figures
Who else has seen flowers unfurl in your eyes?
Compared love to stars,
found solace in your embrace
clasped your torso to theirs and thought,
"This one right here."
Suddenly these inexplainable thoughts feel a little less alienating
and I still want to write my poem.
molten gull