I wrote this poem in New England. We stayed a couple of nights in Kennebunkport. Our hotel was close to the beach. One morning I arose at dawn and walked to the ocean. After an hour of drinking in the seaside beauty and the solitude, I wrote this poem. Its memory is still vivid and its message as relevant to me as then. 

 

Solitude’s Sweet Cup

Just a breath from dawn,

for the space

of one hour,

I walked

alone on the beach.

Angels, awash in morning glow,

filled solitude’s cup brimming full.

Potent stream sloshed my hands and face

as I tipped the cup up and up,

higher and higher,

gulping oceans and oceans of alone.

The waves rolled and cleansed

crowded corners into clean space.

Busy spider’s cobwebs

diluted in the deluge.

Multitudes’ meaningless melted.

The yellow sun

opened her radiant arms

just for me;

I ascended her golden

glistening wake to morning

top. At its peak, I sported

with slow-flapping herons

gliding on wing. The wind blew

us where it willed.

I laughed… and cried… and remembered

dawn’s Artist knows me.

Responsibility ended

solitude’s sweet cup.

As I left the beach that morning,

I turned to see

an empty cup on the shore

and fading footsteps

ascending to the Son.

*********************

At dusk, I returned to the same beach and wrote this poem.

Vision

Smooth black rocks

mottle the sandy shore of taupe.

Wet sand squeezes between my toes,

liberates my feet.

Downshifting,

I regulate myself to sea rhythm.

The sun slips lower and lower,

spilling liquid gold

on the horizon,

before the sea swallows her.

How extravagant

to be engulfed by the sea.

Ambling on the shore,

I deliberately drink seawater;

it is medicine. The city has made me

sick, lavished her leanness on me.

I barely scan the sand below

my feet for sea treasures.

I must concentrate my vision

on the the wider

wisdom of the rolling waves.