The Island

Still my boat drifts

Slowly drifting towards that wretched island,
My oar snapped long ago,
My spirit flew off with the sea wind.
I once thought the waves could not erode my will,
But like the sandy grains that were boulders,
It robbed us of what we were, through time,
Spitting salt in my tired dry eyes.

My silence is not for them,
The tourists who come and go,
Who wave with plastic smiles.

I see them from my boat,
Littering the beach, they wear different faces,
But they are carbon copies of the ones before,
Who said their goodbyes, with cold stares,
And dry handkerchiefs,
held loosely between dirty hands and broken fingernails.
I abandoned that post, that friendly prison,
For I wanted more than they accepted, what was given,
I wanted to be special, I wanted to be different, the exception.

How foolish of me not to plan ahead,
The stirrings will envelop you,
Is what the coarse men said,
But I was foolish, I am naive,
I believed her sweet voice, like melody,
That echoed in my head late summer nights,
lying bare in my bed.
I believed she would protect me from creatures,
above and below.
I had faith her floral essence would have led,
My boat and I to where she rests,
A land where I would be more than just a simple guest.

If only I had known, that the stirrings were more,
Than a simple tale, some basic lore,
Rather they came when I thought myself most mature,
An impossible force of human nature.

Still my boat drifts,
I have tried to steer it to hardened cliffs,
A final resort, to avoid the filthy people and beaches,
The oh-so perfect tranquil shore.
But alas, it seems, I will rejoin my fellow men,
Who have settled for second best,
Huddled together on an island that is really a rotted nest.

I wonder if they stare plainly at the palm trees,
Simply because they are lame,
Or is it their secret knowing, to which they fail to comprehend,
That the tree, with some rope, could finally help them reach their
Miserable, second best end.


Brian Culley