Dawn Tide

The ocean speaks in tongues of salt and foam,
its voice the rhythm of eternal time,
calling all wanderers to find their home
in waves that rise and fall in perfect rhyme.

I stand at dawn upon the empty shore,
watching the sun birth gold from gray-blue deep,
and hear what ancient sailors heard before—
the secrets that the ocean vows to keep.

Each wave that breaks upon the sand speaks truth
of distances beyond what eyes can see,
of storms and calms, of age and endless youth,
of what it means to truly be set free.

The tide comes in with messages from far,
from places where the water meets the sky,
from depths where dwell the creatures strange and rare,
from worlds where mermaids swim and seabirds fly.

The Lighthouse Keeper's Song

I tend the light that guides the ships at night,
alone upon this rock where waters crash,
and watch the beam cut through the fog so white,
a blade of hope against the tempest's lash.

The ocean is my only company,
its moods my weather and my daily bread,
sometimes it whispers soft as poetry,
sometimes it roars and fills my heart with dread.

But I have learned its language over years,
can read the swells and know what storm will come,
can face the wildest weather without fears,
for here between the sea and sky I'm home.

At night I stand and watch the stars wheel round,
reflected in the mirror of the sea,
and in that doubled beauty I have found
a truth about infinity and me.

Coral Garden

Beneath the surface where the sunlight fades
to blue-green twilight soft and strange,
there grows a garden of coral glades
where colors shift and shadows change.

Here fish like jewels dart and play
through forests built of stone alive,
and currents sway the fronds all day
in this silent world where merfolk thrive.

I dive down deep to see this place,
to float among the branching trees of red,
to watch the gentle sea turtles trace
their ancient paths with wisdom in each tread.

And there I understand at last
that beauty exists beyond our sight,
that wonders from the distant past
still grow in depths away from light.

Storm's Coming

The seagulls know before we do,
they flee inland with raucous cries,
and clouds pile up in walls of blue-black hue
that eat the bright horizon's line.

The ocean swells with restless power,
its surface choppy, dark and wild,
we have perhaps a single hour
before the storm breaks undefiled.

I watch it coming with respect,
this fury that no man can tame,
this force that teaches us to genuflect
before the ocean's ancient claim.

And when it hits with wind and rain,
with waves that tower overhead,
I feel alive despite the pain,
reminded that I'm not yet dead.

Sailor's Lament

I've sailed these waters forty years,
seen islands bloom from empty blue,
faced down my deepest, darkest fears
and lived when others perished too.

The ocean is a jealous lover,
demanding all and giving much,
there is no leaving, no recover
once you've felt her salt-wind touch.

I've tried to live on solid ground,
to make a home on stable earth,
but always felt I'd run aground,
marooned from my true place of birth.

So back I go to rolling deck,
to stars that navigate the night,
I am at once both king and wreck,
a sailor bound to endless flight.

Moonpath

When the full moon rises from the sea,
it lays a silver path across the waves,
a road that calls to you and me
to walk toward the light that saves.

The old ones say that lovers true
can walk that path to reach the moon,
can leave behind the world they knew
and find a palace made of June.

I've never tried though often stood
and watched that silver highway gleam,
wondered if I ever could
step from the real into the dream.

But maybe it's enough to see,
to know such beauty can exist,
that somewhere between you and me
magic swims through moonlit mist.

The Last Whale

I saw her breach at sunset time,
a creature massive, dark and wise,
her song a deep and ancient rhyme
that echoed underneath the skies.

They say she is the last one left,
her kind now hunted to the edge,
the ocean has been left bereft
of giants swimming ridge to ridge.

She sang but there was no reply,
no answering call across the deep,
and something in her lonesome cry
was enough to make the hard heart weep.

What have we done to this great sea,
what treasures have we thrown away,
when will we finally see
that we destroy more every day?

Coming Home

After years away on distant seas,
I finally sail back to native shore,
and feel the weight lift with the breeze
that blows from lands I knew before.

The lighthouse stands where it always stood,
the cliffs rise white against the blue,
the village nestled in the wood
waits with open arms for you.

But I am changed by what I've seen,
by storms and calms and foreign ports,
no longer quite the boy I'd been
before I learned what distance taught.

Still, the ocean whispers "rest,"
and I drop anchor in the bay,
knowing home is always best
at the ending of the day.