Loud voices raised, competing for solid ground,

Eternal bass notes to stave off dissonant harmony,

Waves roll and thunder sweeping drowning down,

Breaking up vassal vessels, no safe harbour found.

A two hundred year storm brewed, unleashed

By might, swirled by siren voices of power and reason,

Lucky ones learnt to surf the waves, others dropped

Deep into fathomless, silent trenches.

But we are rising, still buffeted but finding voices,

Lungs emptying, ears unplugging, imaginations sparking.

Telling tales in tradewinds, jumping from debris to debris,

Drifting along swift currents with tongues of fire.

Pursued

Nine words implanted deeply, spinning sometimes,
Or being spun; throwing off a guttural language,
Beyond annunciation? Or just a turning towards Something
Perilous but searching, perhaps smiling? I hope.