Taming This Tyke's Voice Since 2007

In the Promise Of Your Grip


He is a vessel that wouldn’t fit

In search for a harbor.

A feather drifting, drifting

Drifting in the wind.

A fallen leaf

Carried by uncertain flows

Waiting for a rescue.

He is a vessel that wouldn’t fit

looking for a harbor to cast his anchor.

A seedling uprooted by a storm

Drifting, drifting in raging rivers

Waiting for the waters to calm.

Hoping for a riverbank

To rest his roots to grow.

He is a vessel that wouldn’t fit

Finding a wharf to anchor his life

Of voyages.

A cosmic dust drifting

Drifting in the space

Drifting longing for a place

To belong.


A fine thread waiting, waiting

Waitng for the loom to weave him

Into the tapestry of the sail

To propel this waif of a vessel



He is a vessel that wouldn’t fit




Wishing to find a solid ground

among the unsteady sands

In the promise of your grip

To hold fast this vessel

To moor.



2 responses

  1. Suzanne

    Like the poem and the photos. I’ve felt like that before.

    PM00000040000003530 10, 2007 at 12:00 pm09

  2. dear jeques,

    the fluidity of your words and the crispness of your imagery brings me peace. the silent overtures of wishing, hoping and waiting is like a sad melody that strums the emotions and memories of past, present and future.

    a lovely poem indeed.

    all the best to you.

    AM00000010000002030 10, 2007 at 12:00 am11

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