20 Lines A Day

A Community of Writers and Photographers


Sea King

Massive wave hills were breaking further out than I had ever seen.
I told myself and my friend that I would stay close-by shore,
And go no further, no more.

Slipping into the icy froth of the rip express lane,
Passing familiar rocky point,
I sat on my board, just gliding seaward like floating royalty in a river coronation,
Absorbing solar praise,
Robed regally in wet fur seal like suit,
Laughingly shouting back to my friend enjoying the shore-break surfing:
“Check this out!”
Forgetting to embrace shoreline wisdom.

My mistake apparent within seconds,
I am no king of the sea.
Today the familiar merry go round rip
joyfully ridden back to wave riding position
Bulged uncharacteristically and pulled me near to panic,
An unstoppable river, impossible to defy.
I was riding a water chairlift out to liquid white mountains.

In a salty blink, I whispered, “Save me!”
Doubt gushed, poured and exited out.
I saw daughter, wife, scenes of life.
I heard a royal blue voice call out: “Keep going, yes further out.”
Each shivering stroke showed feeble faith
As the sets rising green and tall drew terrifyingly near.

A precious wave approached from an unexpected angle,
Birthing hope within—to catch it would be certain escape.
It lifted me up, throwing me down, carrying me in.
I rode that surfboard like a rapid-rafting baboon,
Arriving to the shore,
Whispering appreciation to the real Sea King.

By Jonathan


White Showers

School children wait, anxious for that first flake to fall-

“The weatherman said…” cried a child under her breath.

Workers  share the same anxiousness, hoping the snow waits-

until they are home by the fireside with their lover.

Snow plow operators can’t wait, they have to be ready,

start their engines when that first flake falls.

 

And it is so beautiful as it coats everything in white,

Children rejoice as they play in the frozen fluff.

Parents who can, relax and watch the joy on their faces.

Then drivers notice that the snow is turning to slush.

Such beauty becomes an ugly grey mess, and yet, next time,

We, for some reason, go through the same routine.

 


4 Comments

Street corners

Prostitute Approaching Car on City Street

sounds of revelry 
spatters
the night
split skirts
ride high on corners
trading skin for money

eyes of youth through
windows stare to lie on backs
open legs - knees bent

MISCHIEF

 ~ but never kiss

the lowly have it tougher
battering or death, risks
lined up on the street 
calling 'honey what you want'

are they empty

remembering

the little girls they were
and how they sell themselves
exhibiting their wares
but who am I to judge

the top girls don't have corners 
there's no mayhem in their world
unlike the street lamp hussling
tease and flaunt their 'goods'

they do 'a job', as I do mine
and who am I to say
this is how they live their life
from day ..to day..to day

©jmtacken Sep 2013


1 Comment

Make Connections

I long to write the words

That might just change a life.

I hope for beauty,

Eloquence, poetry

With every letter I place on a page.

I want to write with abandon

And connect with people

Around the world.

I want my words

To bring tears to eyes

And paint pictures in minds.

I want love to live in every poem, to

Reach across the seas and back

To touch a million lives.

I’m left floundering

Wondering if it’s enough

As I write from

This messy human place.

I want to tell the stories

We all want to read,

Instead I write the

Only stories I know

The simple, the plain

The unassuming beauty of a sunset

The quiet pain of a broken heart,

Happy to reach even one other soul.

It’s what we all want isn’t it

One way or another

To reach, to connect with

Another human being.

To prove to ourselves that we aren’t alone

Moving through this world.


c u r r e n t

thCATFL0QD

i

walk

these

city streets
leaving

a

q u i e t

reply

in this
discordant
cavernous

world

…..and

……floating

….smooth

…in

my

c u r r e n t

hushed

scribbling

scattered

seed

here
and
there

m u s i c

at my

ear

sowing

d r e a m ing

hoping

an

echo

m e m o r y

return

of

b e a u t y

might

will

r e m a i n

r e m e m b e r

r e s i d e

where
there
was
none
.
.
.

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