Barefoot Poetry

SS Matthews

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On the Rocks

This is where I find her,
Where rocks tip truth into sea.
This where my mind knows
Not to accept what it sees.

Pushing my life to the edge of the storm,
I come to the ocean a lie.
But dreaming may mend this image of self
Where ego concedes with a sigh.

And then the gale comes
In thundering waves
Assailing these firm jetty stones.
And when she arrives
Reality dies
Wistfully walking in squalls.

This is when I see her,
Long hair, long dress, long limbs
All white in dusk,
All grace in movement.
Eyes closed, she whirls,
Hair flying, she leaps stone to stone,
Dress flowing pirouettes the illusion
Of limbs beckoning to me.

So I come,
Whenever the wind rides fierce water,
dragging darkness and uncertainty behind.

I come to the ocean to dance.

poetry by SS Matthews


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The Lighter Side of Blind

The only thing worse than being blind is having sight but no vision- Helen Keller
Hellen Keller

Vision might be described as the ability to see what lies before you, rather than what you wish was there. Vision might also be described as the ability to recreate the world as you go. Come explore Feverish Dreams, images of what may or may not exist, depending on your vision. Available at Amazon May 2014 by SS Matthews

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Fever of Dreams

Our truest life is when we are in dreams awake-Henry David Thoreau

We are taught to pursue our dreams, those things we may envision, but sometimes what we dream takes us down different roads indeed! SS Matthews

Feverish Dreams
Available today at Amazon
Poetry from the hidden side of mind by SS Matthews.

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A Postcard to Whom I Thought I’d Be

vicky 001

These days shine softly after 50 years of rain-
sweat and blood, long dried into a callous hide,
is a chrysalis shed in this season.

Two bold tikes, two and four,
instruct in re-discovery;
Wet each other’s feet with glee,
as in turn attempting to ‘pee’
down the narrow neck of a crab hole.

Swooping seabirds’ surprise attack
upon poorly protected paper sacks
of crinkle-cut potatoes.

A simple display in grace
by seagulls hung like kites.
In the breeze, with effortless ease,
they flow-

The press of Atlantic tide;
a subtle but genuine force.
No castle built of shell and dream
may long withstand its relentless advance.

How soothing winds
with persistence rearrange
textures in sand, surf
and imagination.

Two small boys and I, their guide,
eagerly share near-perfect balance
on a shifting, ever-changing expanse.

To the North is a backbone of jetty,
away South, a centipede pier;
direction, once was an issue for me, for them-
it matters only that I am here.

SS Matthews 2005

Canaveral Pier


Castles of Sand

October Swell 038

I would lend my will
To the world
To awaken.

Impatient flares define horizons
Caught beneath its rising eye
Who waits the sun to turn?

Morning burns, reminding
I am that which I behold.

Gulls, ruffle to the wind and rise
In silhouette-
Black rags flung across sweeping skies.

More blaze before blue
Depth beyond endurance
The clarity is- unbearable.

Disrobed of darkness
Pleasure seekers come to track the dunes.

Footprints in haste
Heavy with intent, imprint
Efforts etched
And then eclipsed
By the stroke of ephemeral tide.

Tourists play cast-away
Bending bikini bottoms
Milk-white into tanning rays.

Combing the shifting shoreline
Collecting shells; sea-slick and sculpted
Searching for elusive pieces
Of fossilized dreams.

Or mementoes of moments spent
Beyond the bounds of normalcy

Outside the realm of tedious time
Children on reprieve
From citadels of learning, descend.

Unburdened, they create castles built of sand.
Structures shaped of make-believe
To stand the test of tides.

rainbows 013

Poetry and Photography by SS Matthews