Whiplash

A poem

Would you rather be in the waves? Or the bird high in the sky? Photo by me.

Salty, 
with lies I tell myself,
I hover where the sea meets the sand,
curling toes at the water line.
I am enchanted 
by the resplendent mystery of the sea.
The blue glass is greener there.
Light reflects like
warm little diamonds.
They shatter
my dark mask and shell.

The pink-crested waves lure me in
with their overflowing rush,
a blanket of froth covering me.
I've lost control.
I'm dangling on a line
from the sky 
to the tide.
Land isn't where I belong.
Sandy dreams slip through my fingers.

The waves are madness.
My neck is recklessly jerked,
bent unnaturally.
Will it align 
my head and my heart?
They are crooked,
like my smile.
There is never coherence, 
only a hopeless duel.
Poseidon is always there
watching my every sound.

You can never get enough
of something that almost works.
I no longer want to float,
I'd rather be thrown.
I see March lightning
in the chaotic trough.
I've changed my mind-
tether my feet to the ground.
I need to feel the gravity of the moon
and see the irreverent sun is
right-side-up.

The seagull watches the clouds
billow and blur,
balloon and shrink,
flying high over the violent water
(a sparkling kineograph of disappearing days).
She's feeling lucky
she sees the big picture and
has wings not strings
and never has to endure
the whiplash
of the rise and fall.

I look at the narrow line
where the sky meets the sea
and wonder
will I ever be free?
Maybe it is in
the harmony
of the sun and the moon?
Or on the other side?
With the cloud riders,
soaring high in the sky?

The pelican squawks to me,
"You can go now... 
simply rise above..."
I weep ocean-size tears
and sigh,
"I am not a bird,
but a marionette
pulled from high-above strings, 
severed,
stolen by the sea,
in this multidimensional dream."

I long to sail close to the wind
but it's always a wild ride.
When I've capsized and
I'm fully submerged,
blind and drunk,
asleep and dreaming,
I'm snapped from my reverie.
It's retrograde,
the push and pull of 
an ice-cold reality.
I'm bending....
I'm not this elastic anymore!
The deluge of water 
smothers my scream.

I think to myself:
It's just us,
my dissonant head and burning heart
barely afloat.
Where will I be found?
Does my frailty reveal
it's not the act of being on my feet,
or flailing in the sea,
but the wanting of both-
the indecision,
the whiplash
of the back and forth,
that is truly killing me?

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Rip Current. Photo by me.