Sea Song

 Once in awhile words insist on dropping by, to settle on the mind and demand a page, an audience of one, an ear to come alive or simply to fade away quietly in the background before sleep. This is one such poem, emerging from years of dormancy, tentatively peering over the edge of the soup bowl of rural life.

Sea Song          (Eng)                                                    recorded                        01-10-16 ns

This is a love song—yes a love song—this- is- a love song—swirling—swilling song—a sea song—rising from a dark ocean—floating to shore.

This is a one ear to the sand song—sea foam surging—washing fears and sloshing tears—rolling—lolling about before retreating in the wondrous beyond.

This is a sad song sneering at the sun—this is a sun song shining through the trees—winking—wicked—teasing—pleasing sun.

This is an offer—this is the power of peace over pain—like the open hand—the quiet gaze—an offer—an offer of self—free of fertility, of futility—in the open fields of racing minds.

This is a sound song—another dawn song—a concert of strange winds when the mind awakens and the waves overlap—billowing waves lap and lick bare legs—slap sleepy flesh—this morning of a fresh day.

Now is the symphony of time to erase the traces of writhing dreams of long yesterday—this is the song of silence sinking into sea—softly—softly.

Chant de la Mer   (Fr)

Ça c’est une chanson d’amour—eh oui chanson d’amour—c’est un chant tourbillonant au long des courants de la mer—surgissant des profondeurs de l’océan.

C’est la chanson du sable à l’oreille—des vagues qui lavent les frayeurs et les larmes—roulant tout autour avant de s’effacer dans le lointain mystérieux.

Ça c’est une chanson triste—se moquant du soleil—c’est le chant d’un soleil scintillant entre les branches.

C’est une offre—cette force paisible qui atténue la douleur de vivre—comme la main ouverte, le regard tranquille—une offre du soi-même—un geste sans fertilité sans futilité dans cette course aux âmes fécondes.

C’est un concert des sons étranges d’une nouvelle aube—quand le vent se réveille et les vagues se rencontrent—les vagues se chahutent—les vagues léchent la plage—léchent les jambes nues et giflent la chaire indolente.

C’est le matin de nouveau—le jour naissant qui efface les traces de rêves agonisants de jours passés—c’est la symphonie du temps—c’est le silence qui se submerge sous l’océan—doucement—doucement.

the following link takes this to the audio part of the experience. in English, the French version to follow.

https://soundcloud.com/dagga-punishment/sea-song-by-nadine-sellers

Word Dust

Out of a winter's slumber comes an attempt to awaken the rocks, so far, the sky has not blinked, only a pitiful sneeze has shaken the dust off the keyboard..the sun is calling, and i shall return with stories and french accents. happy tulips all!

Mots Poussiereux (Fr.)

Dans les entrailles du theatre

Parmi les costumes poussiereux

Git le ventre vide d' un artiste

Sans coeur sans honeur

Sans soupir sans odeur

Un etre compose

Se decompose

Se repose

En prose.

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Word Dust. (Eng.)

 

Within the entrails of the theater

Among dusty costumes

Lies an artiste’s empty belly 

With neither heart nor honor

With no sigh or odor

A mere being

Decomposes

At repose

In prose.

Woman in Wind.

it is the wind which holds her up, the wind which throws her down, 
and the storm which holds her to ground.

if the wind should ever stop, the calm could keep her still in the hollow space between wars and scuffles. there on the floor of her humble home, ground floor to dreams, 

first step to self realization, above all means.

there, in the fields of parenting, where man and dog watch her step,
ready to circle and catch her tears before they dry.

it is the wind that keeps her upright against small shame and illusion, against expectation that mars the day.

it is the tornadic event which scars her mind and ravages her body in the years of holding walls and people together..

if the wind should ever slow to a gentle breeze, she would cry the lonely belly of a muddy creek all the way to the river.

she would be lost holding the topography of her past in the wet crinkles of a map on her tired lap.

she would breathe, she would mistrust the peace that hangs in the air about the woods, asking the trees for solace.

and when her camera had captured what the eye can't see, she would perceive the love that awaits in all those who care.
 her health anew.                                      
 her faith intact.

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communing with women who find the common path, in all elements, with all temperaments.

nadine sellers 05-22-13.