By: Mick Ó Seasnáin
upon the secret shores of Linwood
sails roll upon the swell
and kites dance in lake-kissed winds
to the silvery church knell
upon the secret shores of Linwood
storm-petrels glide here and there
like rafts without sand anchors
and dreams as laissez-faire
upon the secret shores of Linwood
bicycles drift along the coast
past the ice cream shop that time forgot
as the tetherball whips ‘round the post
upon the secret shores of Linwood
treasures abound in shells to hunt
and children build their castles
of Erie’s gilded lakefront
upon the secret shores of Linwood
laughter echoes in honeyed airs
as siblings bury one another
and parents whisper thankful prayers
upon the secret shores of Linwood
people swim and splash and dive,
making s’mores with driftwood fires
tasting what it is to be alive
upon the secret shores of Linwood
monarchs tickle the heavens so vast
as orange sunsets that kiss the waves
while kayaks paddle past
upon the secret shores of Linwood
stars reminisce in the darkening sky
’bout carefree days of childish play
and memories that never die
Mick Ó Seasnáin has continually attempted to farm his quarter acre lot in the small town of Wooster, Ohio while catering to the diverse and often unanticipated needs of his tripod-ish dog and three rowdy children. His wife tolerates his creative habits and occasionally enables his binges of writing and photography. Find more of his work at https://tinyurl.com/MickOSeasnain.
Check out a video of the poem at https://tinyurl.com/SecretShores
"I believe that poems often happen to people more so than people create poems. We hear something, see something, or experience something that won't leave us until we put it to words. That's what it is to write poetry - it's a compulsion.
The "The Secret Shores of Linwood" happened much like this - I found myself repeating the phrase after traveling there. We spent a weekend with some dear friends who had just lost a sibling, and they shared with us their time, their memories in a place where they spent a great deal of their childhood.
As I listened to the waves and felt the same sand that that lost boy would have felt time and time again, I watched as my own children played and splashed on the shore. It felt very much like the grief and the joy were lapping the sand like the ebb and flow of the tides, and I could not help but wonder how many stories happened right there. How many other families have spent countless afternoons in that very spot? How many people find comfort when they return there, to Linwood, to the memories?
So many secrets that we'll never know... that's just how it happened, a phrase that felt very much like a wave lapped at me until I wrote it down. I had to read it again and again before I understood what the poem wanted to be. It was reaching out to those families who have lost what can never be regained, and it is a promise that the memories will still be there, right where we first found them.
So... I don't always talk about my creative process. It's not always something within my control, but it has everything to do with listening and living in the moment, much like this poem"
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