Sitting on the clotted earth.
Face touching the warm air
hands touching the bouncy grass
feet touching the flowing water.
Pouring over stones gurgling in response.
Fish go "sploosh"
Stones go "plop"
Rippes from the wind
Shining and sparkling, the colours of the wood.
Stones, water, reeds, grass, flowers, trees, sky, clouds,
and all throughout animals hide.
Lay back on the cushioning soil.
Close your eyes.
Smell and listen and drift off to sleep.
It is addictive.
You stand, looking out past the sand,
ignoring the scattered people, your whole sould gripped by it.
Pushing, rolling, full of energy, full of power.
The need overcomes you and you run to the sea.
Coldness hits you but little quenches your desire.
Waves buffet you, but you, a weak human, fight through them.
Shouts seem muffled out here.
It is peaceful.
You wait, through the cold, waiting for a gift.
Looking out, you sense what the sea is doing.
You hear the muffled roar of a wave behind you but you plunge outwards, full of yearning, desperate not to miss.
You are lifted and dropped but still you plunge out.
Then you feel the strength, pulling at your limbs.
Your arms work furiously, you are frantic, and then you are at the top, power surging behind you.
You tip forwards and orgasmic delight explodes inside you as you fall, rushing ahead.
Frothing foam urges you onwards, and you thrust left and right, your mind ringing with pleasure and satisfaction.
Satisfaction?
No, not quite.
You spin and stand, and lunge out once more to catch the real wave you know will come.
Floating
Moving without touching anything
Twisting and spinning
stable wherever you rest
Peace: a dull rumble the only sound.
Feeling a gentle pressure,
holding and protecting you.
Speed as you glide, feeling the drag on your skin.
Away from the noise, the weather, the pain and the stress of harsh life.
Underwater
is where I want to be.
One person alone
Happily away from people,
but still with life all around.
The breeze causing a quiet hiss.
The sun providing warmth and energy.
Limbs spread, touching, holding, almost combining with the surroundings.
Strength, not gentle but slow, trickles all around.
Up, where the world seems small and problems insignificant.
Up a tree
is where I want to be.
By Joey.
I read this poem to some friends on top of a garage where we used to hang out for a while. They couldn't help laughing at the unintentional innuendo in the second poem. I think surfing was the closest I had come to sex.