Untitled When I'm Tranquil, I can smell my skin fresh from a salty day at the beach. Wind racing silently, I absorb the transluscant glaze I call air, and it breathes me. My timeless eyes search the infinate grains of sand and shell, and patiently, I find it to be an abnormal paradox; so many, yet so few. How is that so? Why do I still confuse myself with wondering words -all irrelevant- while I can doze on summer afternoons with the ocean in Cantabile behind me? It's irritatingly perfect sometimes, yet I'd care not to give it up so soon. So I question life with endless metaphors... A wave crashing into strides of violence and calming, retreating hurridly in fear or courage. What parody, when I identify the crevasses of my skin as flawless, crystalline and stunning as a blue diamond uncut. I opt to ponder longer on life, wind and towering waves.
Caroline Seagle's Questions:
1. Again, I couldn't find an appropriate title for this poem. I was
wondering if you maybe had any suggestions?
2. This poem could be a little too much. I find sometimes while writing I get a little carried away, which can be a bad thing. Is there anything that doesn't seem to fit or make sense?
3. Should I be more clear with the basic meaning of the poem? It's supposed to explain how I felt on that particular day. I found it hard to express that.