the ocean and the subconscious

bits of shell crinkle

the ocean—

for so many, so primal,

for me? not so much,

for me, that visceral engagement

that draws to the mother,

to the most basic and impressive,

all of that to me is abstract, intellectual,

I can cry at the drop of a moment,

I can be shaken by the mundane,

but the mundane that I feel a connection to,

a connection with,

the mountains, to me, feel like coming home,

the ocean, to me, feels like visiting a place

that is more a stranger,

a stranger I’d love to know well,

but that is not quite yet close to me,

here I feel as my consciousness,

all settled in itself and able to deny

the currents below that I can’t even see,

the ocean like my subconscious,

all full of story and truth

I need to let rise into my understanding,

as we walk along the beach,

we savor watching the pelicans fly along the water

till they spot a meal and dive, 

kerplunk,

a white splash where one hits and eats,

bits of shell underfoot crinkle as we walk along the shoreline

and hint of communities below the surface

who thrive and only release their shells when they are no longer viable,

rather like the dreams that surface at night

and hint of the worlds below the surety of my conscious self.

by Henry H. Walker

May 6, ‘17