Saturday, June 14, 2014


I knew then as I know now,

seaweed washed ashore can't ever go back.

An uprooted entity set adrift in the vast ocean...

I feel like seaweed. 

I too uprooted from the comfort of my personal madness,

and unceremoniously set adrift in the unknown realm of sanity.

With, as it is with seaweed,

no chance, no possibility,

no hope, no prayer,

of ever going back to where I came from.

We are both going to wash ashore on some beach and become something new.

After living and growing submerged in the aquatic world of liquid and salt,

the surface must be a frightening place,

as is sanity a scary thought after centuries of existing between the cracks of madness.

May 23, 1990 (c) PR


  1. Seaweed torn from the great forests of kelp in the ocean by the relentless sea. Swept ever forward to be left naked and gasping on the beach. Where it waits patiently.

    A small hand grasps it's long semi-opaque tail and shrieks "It's the whip of Neptune! You can still see the foam from the manes of the kelpies he was driving."

    Seaweed transformed.

    1. I find it funny that this poem is still relevant today as when I wrote it in 1990. The original imagery used to describe a healing step in therapy. When I was no longer comfortable in the past but still unsure of where I stood in the future.