Sea songs

The Oracle gave me a disjointed poem so I loaded more words, carried on and decided they were separate poems. When the fifth poem brought me back to the beginning again, I stopped. She always knows.

Sea songs


I soar into beauty
leave behind those
who have less than this
the heaving waves
that swallow those in the troughs.


It is a lie
the ache will not stop
music fill air cool with summer winds
blow the pain
into the great grinding wastes
out of sight.


The singing leaves a sticky taste
the too pink dress
glittering with too many diamonds.

Her mother should have stopped her
they say
as if she would have been satisfied
with bird-feathered evenings
the honey-sun dripping into the purple horizon
her hair blowing in the soft wind.


The swimmer
colour of peaches and evening skies
becomes the red woman of my dreams
the one who watches for those
who fall among the trees
bare and hungry with winter
gathering their misery.


I am still me
though mists confuse the boundaries
and I must shout to be heard

my cry rings out
strong as the black rock
beaten by the swell spray
the heaving waves of the


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.

19 thoughts on “Sea songs”

  1. This is dream-story, fragments that connect.

    It’s funny that we both had to work to get our poems today. And mine is a dream-story, too, though garden instead of sea. I had rocks at first, but cut that part, obviously because you used them. ๐Ÿ™‚

    1. Wow! I’ve just gone to your poem and I see a Redon I don’t know and it’s the red woman of my poem! Now I know what she did with the misery of all those tired and hungry people she gathered. You wrote it!

      1. The Oracle know everything!

        I think Wikimedia just keeps adding things–or maybe the Oracle is doing it. I searched for Redon and trees and found this one.

  2. I had a vivid dream last night that completely disappeared when I woke up. But I think this has the essence of it–it seems so familiar. Like an echo of those lost images. (K)

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