Sometimes, we all feel like we have lost "ourselves".  That is the basis of this poem, which was inspired by the notecard image shown, of a young woman in despair in the forest.  (March, 1981, Lake Tahoe)





My Castaway


Whither will this slide all end?

whence will weatherstorms arise

whereupon my spirit flies

with my I — my I — my Castaway?


Why  is time always sifting

with sorrows marching, misting

wishing for the fargone force

of my I — my I — my Castaway?


Washed in waves of winter tides

weaving water-webs on eyes

watching visions vaporize

of my I — my I — my Castaway


Wistful sighs want far-aways

woeful whys enwrap my days

wheatchaff-wound in stifled cries

for my I — my I — my Castaway


Wand'ring through each waning day

whisp'ring now to shadows all

waiting for the echoing call

of my I — my I — my Castaway


Winding past familiar mess

windsong's chill and damp caress

whipping leaves that dance the cry

of my I — my I — my Castaway


Weighed by wilted memories

wading on through waist-high weeds

waif in search in planting-seeds

for my  I — my I — my Castaway





Copyright 1981 2005, Ron Pierce