In the Arms of the Deep

     We are the secret radical hopers

gathering dreams in our nets and letting them go

in the same liminal moment.

 

Our ship has rudder and sails

but they are useless when the sea is stacked

so tall against us.  Still, we must move on.

 

Love comes in with the tide

but we, the explorers, cannot predict when

or from where it flows, not by moon-clock,

not by the hidden language of our bodies or stars,

 

but by its own curious compulsions.

Sometimes we are lifted light as foam on

the crest of life.  Sometimes we are night’s own anchor.

Sometimes we are lost at sea, praying like a jellyfish on the strand,

crying out for saltwater solace in the arms of the deep.

 

J. Pratt-Walter, (c) 2020

Message to the World NaPoWriMo #4

In the swing of my arms I know

I belong here.  My spirit is alive right here.

My childhood home, the old downtown:

Camas, Washington; Fern Prairie,

Ireland District, our woods –

we can never leave

each other.

Music and art bloom in us like

so many tulips, constellations of fireflies,

a dazzle of autumn leaves.  We construct home

with our arts.

I feel my lungs threshing oxygen

from the precious air.

My heart rocks the cage of my chest –

I look homeward and see forever.

Let us dare to keep on like this.

Friends, this is my real life! It is sacred.

No matter what,

I send my message to the world.

J. Pratt-Walter, 4/4/2020