Whitecap Spirit
by Odin Roark

Life's experience,
like calm's paradox, chaos,
never rests,
nurturing unpredictability,
reality’s innate genetic domain.

Even so…

Practice the wave we must.
Surf it, we try,
Man’s balance ever shredding the curl
into endless marbled breakers.

"Take your best shot,"
personification infused with risk-essential choices.

Some smile,
other’s thump their chests
unaware the unknown invites challenge.

And still others…

Understand the history before us
is the perpetuity of happenstance,
repeating ancient mistakes,
undulating with courageous failure,
even though wisdom's veritable ocean of waves,
wavelets and gentle ripples
witness sadness,
awaiting man’s timeless message
to become a lesson learned.

How easy to remains unaware.

So many eyes blinded
by learning’s stinging sensations of spray,
causing some to turn their mortality the other way,
struggling personas identifying with gravity
constricting freedom's imagination to leap,
to ride unpredictable breakers,
and like a bloated sow's intestine,
stuffed of indigestion's acid burn and gases,
many continue masticating their ignorance,
thinking all one’s destructive tsunamis can be mastered.

Unrealistic dreams roil and shift like tectonic plates
building momentum until releasing explosive pressures.

Such events become an experience
providing death's final wavecap,
dragging the unfortunate into its undertow,
drowning forever partnerships with other persons
oblivious of nature's always available perfection.

So why…

Certain persons choose madness
of uncreative kind,
willing to tumble beneath the current
daring the air above them to disappear.

Eventually…

Such beings become mere flotsam of spirit,
molecular matter drifting to shore,
still in denial of erosion's rightness,
the cosmic endless rebirthing of existence.

For the fortunate…

Quiet tides gently massage mankind,
reminding all of history's attrition as necessary,
forever sliding effortlessly back to the deep,
cradling exhausted effort as only nature knows how.

Far out to sea, moonlight edges antiquity's raised arms,
knowing its homage is aware of time's compassion
and its whitecap spirit.