Off Shore Accounts
by Michael S. True
Thursday, October 16, 2014
Rated "PG13" by the Author.
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Standing at the sailboat's rail,
Water churning white,
Marking a road that exists only
In a world of longitudes and latitudes.
A distant storm waters a garden of
Sharks, stingrays, and electric eels.
Here in the center of this undulating liquid
There would appear to be no hate,
No threat of violence,
No ebola scare,
No hint of man-made disasters,
At least not today.
The mainland may be a mere memory by now,
The accompanying dirt and dust a distant hint
Of mountainous trials and tribulations.
Here in the midst of this lapis plain,
A modicum of hope would seem to exist;
A fleeting sense of self-indulgent solitude.
Yet, in these times of global unrest
The trailing wake holds no promise of safety,
Nor the certainty of purpose.
And you, suspended like a feather in mid air
May become wary of the water's surface,
Eyes drilling down, hoping for something solid,
Some bedrock of familiarity,
Some sense of tropical isle security,
Where none ever truly existed.
You may find yourself surrounded
By that endless emerald desert
With its schooling predators
Lurking just below the briny waves.
You may find yourself mesmerized,
Succumbing to a sinking feeling,
Visualizing a single coin dropped from your pocket,
Suddenly engulfed in an unfathomable sea.
Now spinning, now tumbling, now falling in slow motion.
One one thousand, two one thousand
Three one thousand, four one thousand…
Deeper and deeper,
Fifteen one thousand, sixteen one thousand…
Deeper, and deeper still,
Thirty-two one thousand, thirty-three one thousand…
This the unnerving fate fixed by mass and gravity,
The frigid darkness forever waiting, waiting...
Sixty-five one thousand, sixty-six one thousand…
A lesson to all who reason, who idly speculate
That some aquatic deity
Might somehow come to keep you safe,
Might intervene on your behalf,
To protect your financially divested precious hide.
Ninety- seven one thousand, ninety- eight one thousand…
That these same oceans
Would do well to provide an impenetrable barrier,
A place to escape the pestilence of poverty,
The retribution of abused and resentful souls,
The ravages of war,
The convulsions of a dying planet,
And ultimately the end of the world as we know it.
But be aware
All you would-be pirates and scallywags!
Despite the tranquil isolation,
Despite all of the vacation post cards
With their glossy pictures of pristine beaches
And sleek white sailing yachts,
One day, one day soon, the waters will rise
They will wash over you
And your bloated carcass will sink.
And when you drown
It will be inconsequential
As to whether the denizens of the deep
Will have stripped your bones clean
Before you hit bottom.
Michael S. True
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|Reviewed by Odin Roark
|Got that right. If only we would see ourselves as we are: miniscule. But, media as it is, politicians as they are, world leaders as they wished they were, all is a bloated carcass waiting to happen...as you so eloquently wordsmithed it.|
|Reviewed by John Domino
|GREAT getaway-from-it-all poetic song Michael! I go out on our boat every Thursday and I love every minute. Just don't take a radio or anything with noise in it. AMEN!|
|Reviewed by Amber Moonstone
|Wow, such depth of emotion as I read your poem. You brought me down into the depth of that ocean both idyllic and complicated!
Peace, love and light,
|Reviewed by Jansen Estrup
|Makes my knees a bit rubbery, Michael. And my view of the future. Excellent.|