The Island


United States
33° 48' 59.5404" N, 118° 2' 10.2264" W

Each summer I would go-
Could it be that I’ve
Gone there every year? You would

Think it would get tiresome-
Roaming those sand covered shores,
Barefoot and wandering

That endless sky,
The wind rustling my hair,
Tasting salt in the air.

I’d play with my sister in
The crashing waves and shocking cold.
With no other thoughts than “today”.

The buffalo grazing,
They have not a care in the world.
My sister’s camera snaps,

Capturing the evidence,
Of the islands great mystery.
Forever young in those moments.

Skipping through the hovering dust,
The taste of dripping ice cream cones,
Tire swings swaying in the breeze.

The island speaks to me, and I to it.
Together we are one,
Basking under the setting sun.

No longer do the palm trees wave alone.
My legs the winding shores,
My mind no longer my own.

But I did not care,
My heart beats rhythmically,
Like the constant crashing waves.

My hair billows out across my shoulders.
Just as the palm trees move,
Manipulated by the whisks of wind.

Sailors tether themselves to my fingers,
Rowing their boats to shore.
I clutch their ships, pulling them under my arms to safety.

I was the island, and the visitor.
Treasuring each second,
Bathing in the oceans warmth,

Fish nipping at my toes,
Weaving through my seaweed lashes,
Hiding in the pores of my skin.

The laughs of vacationers,
The call of the seagull and the live band,
Echo from my mouth.

At peaceful times, silence surrounds me.
I shut my eyes and the light goes out,
Unwinding after a long day.

The island still awake, yet my mind slowly coming back,
Back to myself.
Separate, but still connected, I open my eyes,

And awaken to a new day
Of sadness and goodbyes.
The day I must sail home.

You’ve been up in the clouds. Said my mother
Something like that, I reply
As I loll in the rising sun

It’s time to go home. She said
I know, I sigh
I stretch my unfamiliar body

Back to reality, said my mother
And why do you look so tired?
I guess I’m still on Island time.
I wish we could stay forever, I whispered.


Mafi Grey

I loved it, great work. The best poets are story tellers.


"I was the island, and the visitor."
A solipsism, I like how this works throughout the poem

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