Sea foam

For the dverse prompt.

meadow after the storm

There is a lull in the wind and the flower heads float

still and luminous in the afterglow of sunset.

The world is cloud and meadow

at least this world is

and the things that walk between.

Nothing flies now except bats. Too early for owls

but the clouds sail slow and ponderous as over-laden carracks

uncertain whether they will weep their rain

or hold it back for another day.

There are too many things that call for tears.

I try not to look at the clouds. Memories,

they carry them, their holds full

and if we open too many boxes

the wrong ones are bound to pop out.

Packing and moving is a way to outrun them

but everywhere the flowers grow the same

their white lacy heads still in the dusk

sea foam from an ocean of the past.

Published by

Jane Dougherty

I used to do lots of things I didn't much enjoy. Now I am officially a writer. It's what I always wanted to be.

61 thoughts on “Sea foam”

  1. This is incredibly gorgeous writing, Jane! I especially love;

    “Packing and moving is a way to outrun them
    but everywhere the flowers grow the same
    their white lacy heads still in the dusk
    sea foam from an ocean of the past.”

    Inspired 💝

  2. A wonderful analogy, clouds as carracks, lumbering, slow overladen with grain, slaves and memories. And I like how focus shifts to reality, full circle, by the closing.

    1. Thank you, Ron! I can understand how earlier people obsessed about the sky and natural phenomena. We invest them with our own fears and wishes, always keeping an eye on what they’re about.

  3. Whoa. This is beautifully poignant and very honest. Memories can be awful things; they appear at the wrong moment and we think of those moments that just won’t disappear entirely. It’s an emotional process. We can either confront those memories or continue to obstruct them. The things we’ve said, the things others said to us, what we may have witnessed, what we may have experienced–we want to avoid looking at the bad ones, and it’s evocatively haunting the way you describe this in essence in your piece.

    I also loved these lines the most in this poem:

    “There are too many things that call for tears.
    I try not to look at the clouds. Memories,
    they carry them, their holds full…”

    Beautifully written as always!

  4. This is beautifully written Jane, specially about that part of the clouds, boxes, packing and moving them. Poignant, with the past ever lurking underneath.

    1. Nowhere is perfect, and most people would say this house in uninhabitable, but there’s a sense of rightness about it that makes me forgive the discomfort. The hunters are on the defensive. The tide is turning against them and the legislators who don’t act upon it will regret it at election time.

  5. This definitely felt different from your usual poems, but still you, if you know what I mean. Beautiful images, Jane, and you’ve really caught that slightly wistful time when the light changes.

      1. So inspired
        By Your Free
        Verses Poetry
        Measured
        NoW iN
        Volume
        Of Breath
        Ocean Dances
        Sings Free ‘i am’
        ‘Funny’ How Humans
        Anthropomorphise
        Projecting Human
        Frailties Like
        Narcissism
        Of Requiring
        Worship From
        Others As Trump
        Does Attempting to
        Fill and Feel Up The
        Emptiness Within That
        Is Devoid of Love Complete
        Psychopaths the Same As
        Trump Who Attempts
        To Void The
        Freedom to
        Vote By
        Mail For
        Those Otherwise
        Vulnerable Risking
        Their Life to Vote in
        Person as His Sick
        Psychopathy Finds
        Diseased Joy of others
        He Cares not
        For Dying
        On 5th
        Avenue
        By The Jim
        Jones Kool
        Aid Trigger He
        Continues To Pull
        In Fully Automatic
        Way of Pandemic
        Failures From
        Psychopathic
        And Or Minion Souls continuing To Slowly Suffocate Souls Devoid
        Of the
        Empathy
        Sympathy
        Compassion
        Of Love Is it
        Any Wonder
        That
        Humans
        Project These
        Frailties on The
        Rest of (GoD) Nature
        Of Course Not As Trump
        Authors in Forests of Facepalms Paint God’s
        (Nature’s) Face in a Book
        Practiced
        As A
        Zombie
        Apocalypse
        Eating the
        Rest of
        God’s
        Face
        Nature on
        Our Earth
        Indeed the Arming
        Of Karma As We Digest
        Our own Face of (God)
        Nature’s
        Love
        Never
        TaKinG
        More Than
        Giving in God’s
        Love (Nature) Balance
        The Bible IS A Book to
        Serve Human as Practiced
        Now indeed a Recipe Book
        To
        Cook Us
        In Hell
        Now
        Away
        From
        Love This
        Is Same Support
        For ‘Trump God’
        Of the ‘Old Patriarchal
        Toxic Human Testament’
        The Viral Trump God Indeed
        With All Minions Marching
        In
        Line
        One
        By one
        For the
        Next
        Trump
        Colored Cup
        Of Kool Aid
        Never
        Flavored
        By True Love
        Caring For anyone
        Now But The Trump
        God’s ‘Colors’ Still 🤢 YUCK

      2. Any human sentiment
        attributed to Trump
        is anthropomorphism.
        He and the branch of the species like him
        are outside humanity.
        They are outside the humanity
        that painted the Sistine Chapel
        that built the great Gothic cathedrals
        that smuggled Jews out of Nazi Europe
        that wrote the great operas.
        They have nothing of Mozart or Tolstoy nothing of the freedom fighters,
        resistants, martyrs.
        They suck the sugar
        from the bottom of the barrel
        from well-washed fingers
        nails manicured and painted
        and their eyes see only the pink
        of Disney sunsets
        the false glitter of painted façades.

      3. We glorify the empty
        the solitary
        the pristine the virgin
        and we want to go there
        to touch
        to bring back a piece.
        So it isn’t pristine anymore.
        Not for the next ones anyway,
        and we don’t care about them,
        do we?

  6. This was enchanting. Now when it rains I will think the clouds are weeping! And the thought of their holds packed with memories which can pop out unannounced is so imaginative. All in all, a wonderful write!

  7. Jane,
    Your poem spoke to me today. These lines captured my feelings.
    ‘but the clouds sail slow and ponderous as over-laden carracks
    uncertain whether they will weep their rain
    or hold it back for another day.’

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