Swimming in Seaweed

The ocean beckoned

in rolling wave

of rippled tongue,

foaming at the mouth

to the parch

of a hungry shore.

"Too cold," he said,

from the mouth of Jersey,

"not fit for swimming...

those oceans of the Pacific."

Hah.. I thought, while

stepping into my

shrunken shadow,

as the curling nip

of a dappled lick

lapped my toes.

A cool, clear stride into

the shallow, with the

burnish of orange plaited

bamboo, and nippled puck

of green flapping appendage

lurked as a scrimshaw

pattern etched on bone.

I plucked the vilified tangles

of eww, and waved the slimy

waxen fronds overhead

to a voo-doo beat

of the drums

of sacred drone.

Then gliding as a feckless

and freckled purpose,

kicking in twisted

dance, waves frolicked...

then lifted me to

greater heights of jump

than could be

rendered on the grainy patch

of a sun kissed beach.