He's been to the most bottom of the sea
where long interred treasures have swept away
where seething green-grey dinosaurs once trekked,
where mermaids wearing wreaths demur to go
No pewter nets to tie him down captive,
or to liberate from captivity
Aquamarine undercurrents pound him
He often sees things others do not; it's
not as enjoyable as one might think
His sensitivity colors his days;
like a memory of an early love
Colors fade at brink of evening light
But in a billion platinum years
we will all be forgotten anyway
Up there, too busy are they with their horns
of plenty, made of plums and mascarpone
An alternative would be to be lured,
caught on an invisible fishing line,
a certain final dead end of dove grey
Better alive and touring the country,
as if on vacation in Tuscany,
where faint sun rays filter from adobe
reflections miles above; visit the old
ships sepia museums, the year-round
global fish aquarium, swim freely
without red and yellow traffic signals
Grin if you like, but hold tight to your mask
Not a perfect place, but serves it's purpose,
protection of his pained alter ego
allows him to swim in his privacy,
suffer in his extreme desperation
So pray for him who is alone, for when
he has spent all his air, he surfaces
Wishing on a fishing bone brings him back
safely to sea level, drifting upward
Landing on a hidden, white sandy beach
he makes a bed of chestnut leaves and bark
Under a pale blue moon he is content
to look at stars in a blackberry sky;
coconuts quench his thirst; in the distance,
an occasional cruise ship passes by
Anytime he can return diving deep,
plunging into murky falcon brown silt
Minimal, invisible oxygen,
allows him to swim brief hours of time,
Imagine, a man's inability
to relate because he is different,
with plaid chemicals streaming through his brain
He's a good man when you get to know him -
he's someone you know, your neighbor, a friend,
a family member down on his luck
He's King Neptune on his fawn toadstool throne
Salacia is his radiant queen
at his side aboard a glacial white wave
Legend has it he's our ailing brother
traveling life's road in baby breath's time
We are writing blank verse today at dversepoets.com - poetry that doesn't rhyme. Writing poetry is not simply a matter of how a piece looks on the page or it's rhyming; it is about how it sounds and beats, as in music; the basis of how a poem sounds is found in its rhythm(s). I tried for iambic pentameter and wrote a blank verse of man's struggle with living on the edge which is open to individual interpretation....
