The Sea Has Many Moods

poetry in progress the sea has many moods you need more than one canvas to paint them all and an imagination cresting like waves sweeping onto shores the sea has many moods it presents dawn with streaks of luminous hope and slowly breaks through the menacing bleakness of night to give us a new day - a fresh new born, his eyes gleaming like angel and that first cry which opens to us a new terrace for love - a chill that slowly builds into a warmth between us knowing that it is a blessing from beyond - tears or cheers the sea has many moods you need to see them all to portray them on your canvas there is a hint of melancholy especially after a tempest when the beach is strewn with all things from the bowels of the sea; old coins, broken porcelains, dead little turtles, wine bottles that have crossed continents, one shoe, slipper, sandal like partners lost in war, and shells of all kinds, some shining with a strain of hynotism you wish they have not been torn by the force of the sea bits and pieces of everything here and there to remind us of how life can be as turbulent when the mighty tide works against us the sea has many moods you have to live by one to experience them all the cheers that brighten up the day when every beach feels like a fresh new summer, another mediterranean the waves gallop like horses on an an emerald to take us to their adventures of mermaids in love, of palace made of beautiful corals, of gold and diamonds in sunken ships, of romances, of aliens, of finding a new angle to life, so that the past is just another wave disappearing on the beach to recharge the self that has been left to vegetate and muffled in the race for survival the sea has many moods you need more than one canvas to paint them all the tide turns low on some days enabling walks on seabed, and to the next shore, before inch by inch, the tide starts coming in water swirling like a man sipping and blowing onto his tea, inch by inch like a hungry animal, the sea starts to swallow up old territories as its own, and in such haste, rage and chagrin, one hour is all it needs to take it all in there are those who, lost in their fun, forget about the tide and are trapped and swept away forever remaining on the chiling and heartwrenching lost-at-sea list walking the seabed is a walk through the backstage of a theatre you see all the theatrics of the sea anemones in a range of red stick their heads out on the sand like a vulgar thing and here and there are broken corals after having served as colourful dancers swaying gracefully and serenading fishes now with faded lustre they surrender to their fate on the sand, a mound here and there in the rhythm of the waves as you walk, a pensive mood envelops you, a peace and a quiet you dont savour on ordinary days by the beach the wind feels like God caressing and whispering to you his story of creation, his joy when everything is over so that you can walk on a seabed to take it all in the sea may be rough but it too, affords a time and a space when it bares all to help you meditate on its enlightened side, something it does not unveil to us unless the tide takes an all about turn to the sea it is a blessing for those who happen to chance upon it and take it to its full advantage the sea has many moods you have to live by one to see them all there are one thousand and one creatures who are ever ready to share with you their fun tenants of the white sand, sea, and breeze and an occasional full moon, oh no two moons the plovers and starfishes are friends coral fishes sprint to and fro under a branch waiting for the tide to ferry them out mudskippers hop on the tail of the waves like clowns at a circus, a head so huge and two short fins one wonders how they anchor themselves so well at sea little crabs run the lightness of breeze and here and there little holes that gently remind me of the tenants with claws they are all so round these crabs of orange, brown, green, yellow must have been well trained by the divinity of their task a conical shell is a soul in medtiation an ear listening to its own sacred calling seaweeds paint some parts a bright green while an outcast the jellyfish is always a sorry affair, sprawled and helpless its see-through mass of shrunken body transmit a fetid scent no one would love to have children are told not to play around with them as the toxins in the soft textured creature can be just the opposite of its appearance starfishes like the setting sun over the hill that turn the whole like the poet swept with a hope for that one poem that would land on the print to meet all the sea has many moods you have live by her to see them all