In a lifeboat all alone at sea
the mariner stopped paddling
against the current stream
and waited for a sign
an island could be near.
He longed to see a coconut tree
or mountain, to break the monotony
of endless lines of nothingness
on the horizon.
But, he knew he had to do better
than wait for an island to pop up
like a puppet on strings.
What if he drifted past his last hope island
that passed by in the stream, just below the
horizon and he missed it?
Surely he could read the early warning signs!
So he thought, about what they could be.
An island nearby would change the wave pattern
by refraction, so he watched the waves intently
to look for any changes.
An island would change the cloud or sea mist pattern at dawn,
do he took careful note of the clouds.
Perhaps the birds that roosted on the island,
made foraging flights over the surrounding sea
would fly over head as a sign.
He watched for birds.
He looked for flotsam and jetsam,
when the sea was calm,
that could have floated off
a nearby island at high tide.
He had a plan to make the little things work
to proactively find an island.
Rather than to sit back and wait passively
to maybe bump headlong
into an island and to be
washed ashore, and saved.
All alert, and on the ball,
he waited for a sign,
any sign an island was near,
that he could paddle towards
and find his island in the stream.
-
Author:
John Richard Anderson (Pseudonym) (
Offline) - Published: September 17th, 2021 00:04
- Comment from author about the poem: “Out of all the things you could not have, there were some that you could have, and one of those was to know when you were happy, and to enjoy all of it while it was there and it was good.” Ernest Hemingway, Islands in the Stream
- Category: Unclassified
- Views: 16
- User favorite of this poem: Violet bluebell( used to be yellow rose).
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Comments2
a wonderful interpretation and dedication, to one of my favourite books of the Great: Hemingway..
that chapter, where they tell him, his tiny ship sailed home with a carcass of that mammoth catch
is so symbolic of life, all that striving and ambition of our lives, is eventually eaten away by time and all we're left
is that memory carcass, that knowledge
we Too, once hunted and chased dreams
we Too, once lived
like every breadth: was a gift...
(thanks for sharing, dear poet)
Thanks very much. Cheers
Lovely poem ... such nice words and expression
Thanks and Best Wishes
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