https://www.pinterest.com/pin/288863763577113472/
The Little Deaths
·
Once these deaths
Did not feel little,
But more
Like explosions
Unpredictable
And fickle
Fires in the
Night of summer
Fading quickly
To a memory
Of what it craves
Never finding ground
Before it passes
Still thirsting
Wanting more.
·
Now it holds me
Like the ocean
Floating in
Arms enveloping
With slow grace
The motion
Of waves
Washing me smooth.
I have nothing left
Within me,
Except that
Hidden speck
Of polished flotsam
Slowly lifted
By the tides
Before crashing
Breathless
On the shore
-Lona Gynt July 2019. All Rights Reserved
·
Posted for dVerse Open Link Night Hosted by Linda. Here is da Link
The ocean is a good metaphor for our ever-changing selves. (K)
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Thank you Kerfe. The ocean is a great leveler.
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I love the flow of your words.
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This was a captivating read Lona. — bless those small desths. Thank you for sharing it for OLN,
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Always appreciate you reading Rob. be well 🙂
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Lona, I think your mom would be proud of you, for writing this poem. Too often, we refuse to accept that we have bodily needs, which we deny ourselves, the holistic release.
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Thank Theresa… the admonition to not tell Mom was a winking little joke. In reality, I think my Mom would like this poem too.
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The joke worked, Lona.
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I was thinking of the Shakespearean meaning of “little death” when I read this. I don’t know if you meant it as metaphor for that but I think it is apt. Beautiful imagery you used here!
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Thank you. I was thinking of the French Entendre, but I think it is an idiom in wide use in Elizabethan England as well.
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Beautifully written Lona. I love the way the sea carried you away after those ‘little deaths’ 🙂💕
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Thank you Christine. I am so grateful.
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“That little speck of polished flotsam” – Amazing how the sea can take what once was rough and even ugly and transform it into something polished and beautiful.
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Thank you, the polishing might be the most meaningful part of the journey.
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This is a beautiful reflection of oneself. Keep that fire burning in you. I specially love:
Hidden speck
Of polished flotsam
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Thank you Grace, I think you have really encompassed the essential center of this poem for me
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Like explosions
Unpredictable
And fickle
Fires in the
Night of summer
Fading quickly
To a memory
I’m reeling from this poem….so much here. The words I quoted above remind me of the fireflies on a hot Iowa summer night….we don’t have them in Boston. But then I think of how each one of us dies a little each day. We live….yes we do….but there are a myriad of little deaths in each one of us every day….until we are but a polished flotsam…what another wonderful line. It’s as if we live as a piece of sea glass….being churned….and changed. So much to think about here….
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Thank you Lillian. Your richly descriptive dance with this poem is joyfully received. We are worn and churned and polished all the time, we are beautiful.
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